Autumn Birds in Miami

My Meditation

When I walk into my studio I have to control my self-diagnosed ADD. The stimulation is a little overwhelming and as I leave the calm of my house and walk into the studio, zen is replaced by wild colors in a couple of rooms of creative possibilities. My living space is more suitable for calm and peaceful meditation. For me, my working space is more conducive to meditation itself! I open the door and consider... should I paint today? Make mobiles? Finish up yesterday's project or start a new one? Oh my, so many choices. I could drop the whole painting thing for a day and dye some cloth...but then, I have this idea for a series of little paintings... In any event, whatever I decide to do, once I'm actually doing it, the calm returns and I'm immersed in my project as visions of Kahlo's workplace, which I visited while in Mexico pass through my mind. Then I hop over to Japan and my mind wanders over there for a while. In fact, my mind wanders to Japan a lot.

Los Angeles based psychologist Robert Maurer, who studies creativity, compares crafting to another practice with proven health benefits: meditation. "When the midbrain is engaged by the repetitive movement involved in many crafts, the temporal lobe is unable to focus on worry or stress," he says. "The cortex -which controls conscious thought - becomes quiet and peaceful" he adds. "Then concentrating on a pattern you're required to be so present in the moment that you can't worry about the future."

So I guess I'm on the right track and my choices are many - it just has to depend on my mood. Here are some meditations I've done lately.

On the Street Where I Lived

I was born in Buenos Aires on a hot February day on the bed where I was probably conceived. I walked by that house yesterday on the same sidewalk where I rode my tricycle…then my bike. Where I used to play with my friend Jose Manuel. I could almost see him at the door just like when he used to come over to invite me to join him on a new adventure.

I remember his mother just as well as I remember mine. I probably ate as many meals there. Mrs. Lemos was a strong influence on me in those days and I adored her. She was a wonderful cook and home keeper. She made a red beet salad that I can almost taste and I always wished it was part of lunch. Sometimes it was. The table was always perfectly set and lovely. Her house was peaceful and cool in the summer. She used to lower the shades and the whole house was dark and comforting. Like all houses, it had its own smell. And I loved it. I can see her making her delicious “Zapallos en almibar” which is a typical Argentine desert of candied squash and preserving them in large glass jars. My mouth watered and I couldn’t wait for her to offer me some which of course she always did.

Jose Manuel (aka Pepito) and I would take a break from our outdoor activities and just hang out in the living room of his house or mine (mostly his cause I preferred it that way) and plan the rest of the day in a few hours of shady, cool peace. Then we’d go out and run around hosing each other or playing in the sprinkler in the garden before we started our afternoon game of bike polo with the rest of the neighborhood kids. I spent a lot of time outdoors and was only instructed to be home when it got dark outside. We were in and out of each other’s houses all day long. Maria Isabel was a little older and only occasionally joined in our games and plans. I admired her greatly and thought she was wise and sophisticated.

We had a gang of sorts us kids. We lived and played on a couple of blocks of our road and “the mean kids” lived a couple of blocks away. We’d plan strategy of what we’d do and say when we saw them outside. We never became friends despite the fact that bike polo needed their participation, We thought we were definitely better and maybe we were cause we certainly played a lot. Pepito couldn’t have a pet because his sister was allergic to them so he loved coming over to play with my dogs.

Before Pepito I had a girlfriend for a while whose Dad was a construction worker in a house across the street. He’d bring his daughter to work and she and I became friends. The friendship probably lasted till he finished his work in the construction site. It was brief but intense. I think my parents were a little concerned about that friendship mostly because they knew it was going to be short-lived. Her home was far away and we were very young, probably around 4 or 5 years old. I don’t remember her name but I called her “la amiga de mi” which is incorrect Spanish literally translated to “the friend of me”…bad English too!

There were azaleas in the spring and amazing yellow flowers that we used to pick from some neighbor’s yard to give to our mothers. Sometimes we ventured around the block where we were not allowed to go and as we grew we even crossed Libertador (which is a big busy road) to see the widest river in the world the Rio de la Plata or River Plate also the name of my favorite football team. We had television at one point but never watched it. The grownups watched more than we did.

Yesterday I stopped in front of the house where I was born and looked at my parents’ bedroom window and those images of my early days passed right before my eyes. I imagined that the room at 2AM would have been softly lit. My sisters’ windows would have been lit as well as they knew a baby was being born in the house. My mother was 42 years old and had been quite shocked that she was pregnant again. My brother at 19 and my sisters at 10 and 11 years old were delighted to welcome a new little member of the family.

Standing infront of the house yesterday I felt enormous happiness as I saw the little girl I was and thankful for those first years of her life in that house, on that street, at that time. When I was 11 my family moved to New York only to return 5 years later to a new home in the city of Buenos Aires. I never saw Mrs Lemos, Pepito and Maria Isabel again. They live in my memories and yesterday they were very much alive.

Hunting in the Night

I was sitting up in bed watching a movie on TV when out of nowhere, something touched my cheek, sprung on the sheets and made a fast head dive under the bed. Never got a chance to see what it was but I didn't need to...I was out of there and scared to death! My two cats kept guard while I proceeded to move the bed left, then right, then out to the middle of the room as I rolled the area rug and moved out the dresser I turned my otherwise peaceful sleeping abode into a hot mess. Furniture, bottles of perfume, picture frames and whatever else was on any surface had now spilled to the floor while I tried to figure out what exactly it was that I was looking for.

It took a while and the cats managed to coax the creature out of his hiding spot. It was a little frog! I dropped the tupperware on the poor creature and grabbed a magazine to ensure he stayed in there. At this point, the cats were meowing, the dog was now interested and very excitedly barking and my calm and comforting room was in shambles. I turned off the alarm, opened the door and dropped the poor little frog out into the night. It would take him a while to recover from the trauma but at least he was alive. I had to go get a glass of water and calm myself as well. The cats didn't see my maneuver and were walking around trying to find the elusive frog. The dog grumbled and went back to sleep.

So I didn't kiss the frog but he certainly kissed me. It wasn't that unpleasant on my cheek. No slimy feeling, just the element of surprise. I didn't turn into a frog and he didn't turn into a prince. Pity.

Blonde Ambition

(This is an article I wrote about Eva Peron. Today, July 26th is the anniversary of her death so I thought I'd post it.)

Evita had passed into “immortality” and I hadn’t even found out. I boarded the school bus as I straightened my tie with one hand and held on to my book bag with the other. A wisp of a girl, trying to get myself together in time to avoid being scolded by the monitor who was adamant about proper attire. Heaven forbid that our socks drooped or our hair was untidy. Proper British girls behaved and dressed accordingly. Not a word of Spanish was spoken on that bus. Our bilingual education demanded only English in the morning and Spanish in the afternoon.

Like any other morning I sat next to my friend who was quietly finishing her homework. When we arrived at school that morning there were teachers on the street frantically waving their arms in the air and instructing the drivers to take the children back home. The traffic was chaotic as everyone turned right back to leave the school in a hurry. Evita had died at 8:25 the previous night and the news had not traveled fast enough to let parents know that schools would be closed the next day and for several days after that. School officials were afraid that her death would bring the political unrest that was brewing and was evident in the city. Children needed to be returned to their safe homes. The ride back was somber and we all felt in danger somehow although there was no visible sign of violence. But then, it was my first taste of how events unfold in my country. The most gruesome things can happen in a cloak of civility.

The exact time of her death was broadcast by radio for years after that and I believe that there is not one Argentine alive who does not know that seemingly trivial detail. Every television and radio station interrupted normal broadcasting at that hour with the somber announcement “at 8.25 Eva Duarte de Peron, spiritual leader of our nation has passed into immortality.” In the weeks and months that followed, Argentine schoolchildren in public schools wore black armbands on their white school uniforms and had to draw a black stripe on each one of the pages of their workbooks in her memory. At precisely 8.25 pm the country remembered, and it was paralyzed. Nobody could escape it.

Eva’s worst fear was to be forgotten but she should not have worried. Peron summoned Dr. Ara, a Spanish pathologist who was commissioned to preserve her lifeless body forever. After the funeral the good doctor was able to continue perfecting his still life creation and took two additional years to fine-tune his macabre work. She was his masterpiece and there were malicious rumors that he had fallen deeply in love with her. He demanded to be left alone with Evita - his duties were performed in splendid isolation surrounded by strict security.

She lay in state at the Ministry of Labor while four soldiers guarded her coffin. My brother-in-law was doing his military service at the time and was one of them. The young men kept fainting and being replaced because of the intensity of the atmosphere and the strong smell of the funeral flowers which covered every inch of the room. Throngs of Argentines passed by her coffin. The line that led to the viewing wound around thirty city blocks. Calla lilies are the funeral flowers of Argentina and thousands of flower shops and stands in all of the city of Buenos Aires were left bare. The delicate blossoms as well as mountains of gardenias had all been bought to place in homage of the woman who had so captivated their collective imagination.

People were devastated by her death. They did not want to let go of everything that she represented to them. There was the saintly Evita, sweet and pious who made their wishes come true piling money from her famous foundation into their meager lives and compromised living conditions. There was the glamorous Evita who blew into their lives like a cool breeze wearing strapless silk gowns, mink wraps and sparkling jewels and titillated Argentines in the same was as Jackie Kennedy’s style seduced the world many years later. Then there was Evita the earnest union leader who called herself a true “trabajadora,” worker for the people, and made heartfelt speeches wearing military tailored suits with broad shoulder pads counteracting her tiny waist and ethereal persona. As always, with her golden locks tamed tightly into her signature bun above her neck. And then there was Evita the faithful wife standing beside her man through thick and thin and the barren Evita, who was viewed as the mother of all Argentine children. In their eyes, she was a saint and many demanded that the Vatican acknowledge her and wanted above all else to have their own Santa Evita. The Vatican’s reply was negative. Her involvement with Peron who among other faults, had been married before and her own shady past, prevented her the honors that her people desperately wanted.

She was not considered a saint by everyone. My family like most Argentines was, and is divided into the Peron admirers and the Peron haters. Peron was criticized in whispers and murmurs. People were in fear of the consequences of speaking their minds and my family was no exception. I must confess that the woman captured my fantasies as well. I never tired of looking at the photographs on her book La Razon de Mi Vida, literally translated “My Mission in Life,” where she appears resplendent in sumptuous gowns and dazzling diamond jewelry. I was 8 at the time and would sneak into the library at home and sit occupying an eighth of my father’s Chesterfield chair with my spaghetti legs not yet long enough to reach the floor and furtively leafed through the book to find the photographs which showed her in her splendor. I knew that my parents hated the Perons and I rarely shared my incursions into her book with anyone, perhaps only with a friend who also found the pictures fascinating. Years later sitting in a Broadway theater I remember the murmur and my own goosebumps when Lloyd Webber’s Evita comes out to greet her people from the balcony in the same white strapless dress captured in that book from so long ago. For me it was a heart stopping moment. I remembered it so well.

Two years after her death and in what were times of unrest and unhappiness in my country, father decided to move our family to New York. It was walking to school in Forest Hills that I heard that there had been a coup d’etat in Argentina and Peron was on his way to his first stop of exile in Panama. He later traveled to Spain, a country which owed him much and whose own dictator granted him asylum. He lived in a sumptuous villa known as Puerta de Hierro, Iron Gate with his new wife Isabel, an Argentine chorus girl whom he met in Panama. They were visited daily by union leaders and politicians from Argentina eager to make nice with a man who could support their causes and help them to get elected back home with his endorsement. Every president since then, including the present one, has called himself a “Peronista” in the hope of furthering their political careers. His power had not gone into exile with him.

In 1974 Peron returned to Argentina and as luck would have it, bought the house next to my parents in law. The new Mrs. Peron had made a house hunting trip a few months prior and had visited the sumptuous white Mediterranean house with the lush and peaceful garden. The homeowner, Mrs. Bauer, was a family friend and showed her around her beautiful home, the garden of which met my in-law’s garden in the back. In fact, my husband and Mrs. Bauer’s son were close friends and would spend summers jumping the fence that separated them to swim at one pool or the other. She did not recognize Mrs. Peron. The real estate agent introduced her as Maria Estela Martinez which is her maiden name and she remembered her saying that she did not have children that the house would be only for her and her husband. Mrs. Bauer asked her if she didn’t feel that her home was far too big for only two people to which she replied “we like a lot of space,” and left it at that. The next morning Mrs. Bauer found out in the newspaper that she had agreed to sell her house to General Peron. There went the neighborhood.

His arrival at Ezeiza International Airport was tumultuous and the caravan which escorted him to his new home consisted of thousands of people with horns and bombos, a native drum that is played in folk music and used for big demonstrations because of its intense sound. The quiet neighborhood which was blocks away from where the sitting president of Argentina lives and had been where he lived before he was ousted was in total chaos. When Peron finally entered the house and one would have thought that the celebration was over as people started dispersing, many remained sleeping where they could, some on the streets and others in the neighbors’ front lawns. The quiet suburban neighborhood was converted into a gypsy camp where swarms of people needed to stay to be close to their idol. When things finally got back to relative order after a few days, my father in law got a handwritten letter from Peron inviting the family to an asado at his home to thank the neighbors for their benevolent patience and goodwill with all the supporters who had created such a ruckus. My father-in-law refused politely, something which I never forgave him for – I would have loved to meet Peron but by then I had left Argentina so his attendance at the barbecue would have only given me the chance to live a vicarious encounter with the general. He did not want to be part of the circus he explained. For me, Peron has remained one of those famous dead or alive people I would like to invite to an imaginary dinner party. A true missed opportunity to do it in life.

During her husband’s exile, Evita’s beautiful corpse had no place to rest in Argentina. She was still such a strong symbol to so many people that she had to be banished and was taken to an undisclosed location in Italy and was transferred to many other mystery sites. Her body had to be kept away from Argentina until she was returned to her homeland when her husband made a comeback and given her rightful place in history. The folklore that surrounds the years the coffin was missing has filled many pages and imaginations. Her husband was voted back into office with Isabel as his vice president in 1973 and she assumed his job as president when he died. The poor soul tried hard to emulate Evita, even in her appearance. Her mousy brown hair turned blonder and she would attempt a half hearted stab at stardom, but those of us who knew Evita, knew that she was no Evita. With her presidency a joke and the country in shambles, she followed her husband’s footsteps and returned to Madrid and has not been a significant part of Argentine politics since.

I recently visited Evita at Recoleta, the Arlington of Argentina’s aristrocracy. The cemetery is located in a very privileged neighborhood and houses a city of the dead within the bustling city of Buenos Aires where only the very rich and very powerful can bury their dead. There are no ground burials there. The mausoleums resemble a very quiet city of elegant if somewhat garish structures where coffins are placed in marble slabs covered with fine old Belgian lace and can be seen through the glass or iron doors. Outside its walls are trendy restaurants and charming cafes where one can sip an espresso or have afternoon tea and watch the fashionable world go by. Most of the tourists and even some of the locals cross over to find Evita’s resting place and while the place is full of fascinating memorials to fallen heroes and the bronzes read like a who’s who of Argentina’s most significant citizens. As soon as I entered the gates, the guard at the door pointed me and other visitors towards where he knew we wanted to go before we even asked. I crossed paths along the way with a multitude of alley cats which have made a home for themselves among the rich and famous. I reached her tomb which was overflowing with the fresh flowers that her visitors leave daily. Cameras clicked away as everyone posed next to her likeness in bronze to show the folks back home. The very elaborate resting places are tended to by families who visit their dead as if they were visiting them in their apartments while outside those structures and over the wall that separates them from the city of the living, people enjoy the outdoor markets, the fine shops and restaurants and just plain being alive.

I could not help feeling sorry for Evita as I made my way out of the cemetery. A woman who prided herself to come from the people and worked for the people now sleeps forever among the aristocracy who shunned her and she despised. I cannot imagine that she’s resting in peace, but she has definitely met her objective. She has not been forgotten. I never asked my parents how that book made its way into their library. Could it be perhaps that I was not the only one in the family who was more than a little seduced by Evita’s power and charm?

Finding Balance

Most of the time I have an idea of what I'm going to be doing in my studio in the morning. I draw or paint, I write on one of my journals, I finish what I started. Today I had this sudden urge to make a mobile. The last one I made was probably 7 months ago. It was hard work and at times very frustrating. So frustrating that I would just walk away and come back to it to work on it after a few days had passed.
Found a couple of twigs that I had lying around and little by little I started constructing the main structure. I didn't plan it. I played it by ear. A bead here, a cloth bird (that I sewed for something else) there, some feathers and as I went along, I kept trying to make the whole look pleasing to my eyes. And it was looking better and better but just as I attached one more little element, the whole thing needed balancing again.

All of a sudden it hit me. To be able to accomplish what I had set out to do, I needed to have the balance. My mobile was showing me that I had to stop for a minute. Take a deep breath perhaps? Listen to music. Calm my energy and flow a little more and be less task oriented. Just enjoy the process and a little at a time, I would build that mobile with the right elements to make it dangle in my patio and give me pleasure every time I see it. And I did and it all came to pass. I left my studio in peace with myself and my surroundings.

The Art of Being On My Own

I got married straight out of my parents' home so I never lived alone. Never "kept house," never cooked or cleaned or felt responsible for the running of a home. In Argentina, my mother had a housekeeper who had been with our family forever. My Dad loved to cook and both he and my mother took turns in introducing us to wonderful food. There was no "I don't like this" before trying! No special meals made for you if you didn't like what was on the menu that night either! I learned everything that I now know about food from them. The joy of a perfectly heavenly piece of fried fish. The soundness (for lack of a better word) of a delicious "Puchero" Argentina's version of Pot of Feu...boiled dinner. Lots of veggies and a slab of bacon and garbanzo beans, a chunk of Caracu (bone marrow) and beef or chicken and sometimes both thrown in the pot.I ate my first Escargot at 5 and liked it. Nobody made mashed potatoes like my mom.

My father would dress up a simple beef cutlet or Milanesa with foie gras one day and another with anchovies and peppers. A perfectly baked chicken was a weekly routine and of course our Sunday asado which is the typical Argentine barbecue with sweetbreads and sausages and the best possible beef in the world. Sundays when we would all await in eager anticipation almost fainting from the aroma coming from the parrilla. I remember lying on the grass with my dog both of us salivating and waiting to be called to have our late lunch. After lunch...a bit of "sobremesa" which is just sitting around chatting. Soon enough, each one of us would drop into bed for an afternoon siesta. I remember the sounds in the house and in the garden on those lazy summer days. The birds chirping on the trees. An occasional bark from one of our dogs.

The only thing I ever made in those days was a cake called "Delicia"...pretty much a simple enough way to let a young girl experiment in the kitchen without much fuss. One of the most famous cooks in Argentina called Dona Petrona provided that recipe in her book. She was probably one of the first chefs to become a celebrity and have her own TV show in Buenos Aires (maybe the world?) and boss her assistant Maria around. Poor Maria did all the work...chopping, steaming, boiling, baking and acted as her gopher or sous chef! I don't remember seeing Maria's face, but I could see her shuffling stuff in the background and Petrona, an imposing presence took front and center stage.

So there I was, newly married and totally ignorant as to the mysteries of the kitchen and the rest of a house. I didn't even know how to make a proper bed! I still don't know how to wash clothes as my children will gleefully tell you. When they went off to college they knew they were on their own on that one!

Little by little and with the love and support of my husband, I learned what I needed to learn. After messing up a simple roast beef and on the verge of tears and feeling totally incompetent he simply told me that he was not interested in my homemaking abilities. He married me not Dona Petrona! The most important thing that I learned from him was to value and practice my independence. He trusted me to do well in whatever I undertook. He gave me space, time and enormous amounts of love and encouragement in everything I did. And I did these things in so many cities, in so many "new" homes and countries! Homemaking for me was building a new home from scratch every time we moved. And we moved a lot. Without knowing, Esteban taught me how to live without him.

And for the last 16 years of my life, I have lived alone. At first it was a little scary to think of all the responsibilities landing straight on my lap. Nobody to really ask. No shared decisions. No "this is your job, this is mine" type of thing. It was all mine. And in a hurry I had to learn how to do it all, including the tedious part, you know, the finances and the bills and the daily routines, and selling and buying homes and cars and being a strong presence in my kids' lives for both of us and most importantly, the loss of him. I think I should be awarded a PhD for all of this. I think I've done well.

And like he would have expected, I thrived. I have done more things that I ever expected to do and learned the ultimate lesson: how to live without him. Not alone but rather on my own.

Abu on Parenting

This Mothers Day made me think again on what a broad spectrum of skills it takes to do the job of mothering - more than any other really. So much multitasking. A job for life. There is no "statute of limitations" nor deadline when one can clock out. No turning away and looking the other way! No giving up. Never.

And it's a tough job. It's a judged job where the judges are people who parent differently, who question our "philosophy" our "methods" and "techniques" and who force us to doubt ourselves...even judge ourselves. As if only some special people know what our babies need. We're encouraged to breastfeed our little ones and then we're criticized about feeding in public (as if babies were polite enough to wait till they get home) or on how long we're supposed to continue. They, these critics, sit behind their computers and make statements about how inappropriate it is to nurse past a year. As if it pained them. They're offended by naked breastfeeding breasts but find nothing wrong with Kim Kardashian's exposed mammaries. As if breasts are supposed to be exposed in lace on billboards and ads but not in front of a baby's face. As if it were wrong somehow to give our babies what they need. Whatever kind of parenting these "experts" did themselves is what they are in one way or another justifying. If they did not breastfeed, they will say that "millions of babies are brought up on formula and thrived." If they felt that babies are "spoilt" by holding them and tending to their needs,attachment parenting will go out the window. And so it goes. Books and magazines tell us how to do it. The media criticizes us because we do it. Everybody seems entitled to give us advice from pregnancy till the kid is out of the house. And guess what! Nobody's asking the baby!

In this computer crazed world we live in, the judgement comes quick and in an avalanche. While there's never been more information at our fingertips, it's really up to us to carefully discern where this information is coming from and how it was obtained. Research papers funded by pharmaceutical companies try to push their agenda while everyone spits out statistics on this or that. And there we are, with our little baby, maybe living far from parents and friends, trying to make sense of what all the experts are telling us. And yes, we were not born "knowing" so we need these bits of info to help us in our work. And the work is constant. It's physical at first and then it's joined and intertwined with the emotional, with the spiritual. It's exhausting and of course exhilarating.

When I had my kids, I too was living very far from my family and there was no internet but there was Dr. Spock! Instead of the computer, it was his book that kept me company when I was trying to figure out what I could do for the million and one things that were new to me then. He always gave common sense advice and not too much of it. He gave me the basics and then left me to do the job. I so appreciated him. The index in his book is probably the best I've ever seen. Everything that I needed to know was in that book and easily accessible. Google is no competition to the speed in which you could find exactly what you needed! Dr. Brazelton wasn't too shabby either!

As parents we do the best we can with what we've got. If we can surround ourselves with other parents doing the same job at the same time, we can help each other without judgement and with kindness and compassion. Cause we've all had the worries and the anxiety and we all want to do a good job. We don't all have to think alike and some of these folks will enlighten us with a different way to approach a particular problem that we may not have thought of and yes, we too can provide comfort, support and our own little tricks. There is much to learn in a moms' group. Things you admire in others as well as some you prefer to steer clear of and that can be from birthing to feeding to discipline to whatever. The important thing is to let everyone do what their gut tells them to do and to encourage that in each other. We're all going to try different things and some will work and others not so much. And its OK. That is what parents do.

Loving and respecting our little babies, these little versions of ourselves, is the most important thing to do. Listening and parenting like we live. With intention and love. Turn off the computer and look at your baby. That will be my only and most important bit of advice.

My space in the world

Before I walk into my studio, I leave all my anxieties, worries, restlessness behind. I read and acknowledge the sign that I've posted at the entrance for the people that I invite to visit: "Welcome! Please take responsibility for the energy that you bring into my studio and my home. I take a deep breath and enter.

In that room, which to me is magical, I look around and see my life held within its walls. The childbirth books that I've read and shared with so many women. My many cookbooks, all the women's health and spirituality related texts. The art books. The corner dedicated to dyeing. Photos of my grandchildren. I open the door and let the breeze join the ceiling fan in making my dyed cloth float and fly gently in the breeze. My latest painting or drawing, or both, await. The smell of yesterday's incense is still there. My jewelry making corner is a mess. And its ok. I don't have to cover anything or make untidiness disappear. My brushes are drying in the sink. My music is ready to be turned on. Life it good.

I seem to gravitate to painting women. I don't draw well at all but these women seem to come out of my brush and we start our relationship right then and there.

There's "La Mejicana" made after a trip to visit friends in Mexico.

Sometimes I use acrylics, sometimes I draw and decide that the drawing needs to be painted. I keep many mixed media journals. Then I turn my attention to my witchy boiling pots and start dyeing!

The room opens up and becomes a patio where I dry the cloth that I've dyed

Here is "La Argentina." Natalia took one look at her and named her!

Hopefully when my grandchildren get a little older, they'll join me in my little sanctuary and paint with me, or draw or just hang out and string beads.

Notes (and a little advice) From a High Tech Abuelita

I seem to have become an “I” person…you know…IPhone, IPad, IPod, MacPro and all. I read on a Kindle and that’s because at my age, the non-glare aspect is crucial. It works well at the beach.

My son accuses “Mother, you have entirely too much technology!” I adapt every one of my gadgets to my life and give them the place they deserve. I walk my dog with my orange little IPod that matches my car and I listen to music and use the pedometer to make the daily obligation count for something other than exercising the pooch. Multi tasking is healthy sometimes.

I enjoy Facebook and finding out what my friends are up to. I adore my IPhone and have a million pictures on IPhoto. YouTube entertains me ad nauseum. Living Social offers me great deals. The Skimm amuses me, "the Huff" often annoys me. I travel with my IPad AND my computer which has become part of my daily life and quite frankly, I have trouble leaving either behind. I buy my theater and movie tickets and do my banking online. I have a GPS in my car and an Apple TV in my den. I hardly use my digital camera in favor of the IPhone camera, which is more convenient, and for my purposes, excellent. I Skype with my children and have managed to maintain a loving and close relationship with my children’s children (as far away as Singapore) with this mode of communication.

Before I became fond of I-products, I had a long history with computers, starting with my dear Commodore 64, which taught me everything I needed to know in preparation for the bigger and better things to come. I was involved in getting a computer lab into my children's school against opposition of some peers who did not think it was necessary, and insuring that every classroom had a computer and a trained teacher to use them and help the kids. I'm often amused when young computer whizzes on the radio or TV put down their parents or older folks as computer illiterates. How did they get so smart?

I couldn’t bring myself to dispose of my beloved Commodore 64 until I moved from New York to Miami a few years ago. Thought I might have to donate it to some computer museum. I remember the first time I used Windows! I also remember my daughter teaching me how to email her when she went to college and how to use the Internet.

Google helps my memory when it falters and I need to look up something that I know but can’t quite place. Smitten Kitchen, Food 52 and Epicurious offer me great new recipes to try. My computer keeps me company, especially on those nights when sleep eludes me. There she is, ready to serve, inspire and help the hours go by. “A Pinterest perhaps?” she suggests.

The most important thing that I have learned being part of this computer age is that all the technology in the world cannot and will not replace a phone call when I, or the person I’m calling needs it or is delighted by it. No apps for human contact. No apps can replace a wonderful movie in a theater or a play or a real delicious hug from a friend, a child, a grandchild. No app gives me a welcome like my two dogs and two cats. And lets not even go to the texting “thing!” I thought it was wonderful when we finally got rid of telegrams. To think that they have now been replaced by cold, short, unpleasant half-words that people use to excuse their lack of time, of care, of simple good manners and style of writing and speech.

We must espouse new technology readily. It keeps us current. It keeps us in the loop but in the process; let us not forget good manners and those come in the shape of eating in a restaurant and leaving our phones at home or in the car. Of not holding our phones in our hands as if we were all neurosurgeons waiting for an emergency call from the hospital when we’re in a social situation. Of being able to ignore that call or text until we are alone and not offending anyone and certainly not while driving.

No technology can replace that cafecito at our favorite Cuban coffee shop. A nice lunch with a friend. A call to remind someone you care. Nothing is as thrilling as a postcard from a friend in a faraway place who happened to think about you and put a stamp on it and mailed it to your real home address. A thank you or "am thinking about you" handwritten note. No email can replace that moment of hearing your dear friend’s voice on the phone when you’re feeling down. Apps don’t convey emotion. Texting cannot (unless you’re 13) let you encompass how you feel when you’re depressed. You need real-time-face-time with someone who can listen. Apps don’t hug.

So my advice to myself and to you is, be selective with your technology and use it to enhance your life. Use your voice, your handwriting and your dialing skills to do the real thing. You’re not the only busy person in the world. Make time for yourself and the people you care about and teach your children to do the same. Mindfulness counts.

A Grandmother's Tale: Sammy's Birth

I was at Max's birth. I was invited very soon after Marisa found out she was pregnant. She and Adam invited me to be there and I was very proud to be asked. What an honor to be at the birth of my own grandchild! Flew to Tracy and Steven's side when Lily was born. Begged Virgin Atlantic to take me to London (and they did) when Natalia's birth was imminent and now I was headed to NYC to welcome a new grandbaby! What a treat!

Birth has been part of my life and continues to be so. I've attended so many births of people who I hardly knew. I was intimately involved in the beginning of so many families. Now it was my turn. My own children were eager for me to participate in the births of their children. I think this was and continues to be the payoff for so many sleepless nights. For so many women in Japan, in New York and Miami who I, in one way or another, helped with my presence or the right word at the right time. Now I was getting to see the children of my children come into the world. I went to the midwife with Tracy. I paced like an anxious father for the twins's birth and half slept with the phone in my hand in Miami when Ruby was being born, also at home.

Max's labor was long and I think my supportive role was for everyone involved. Helped the midwife convince Marisa that a walk around the block with lazy contractions would be beneficial. Poured a hundred cups of tea for the midwife and for myself. We chatted while Adam and Marisa were soaking in the birthing pool upstairs. Held a flashlight to assist the midwife given the place where Marisa chose to birth which required some illumination! Hopefully my presence was also beneficial for Adam who was also exhausted. It allowed him to be fully there for Marisa. Saw Maxi's face as he emerged. Saw Marisa and Adam's faces as they met their new son. Images in my mind that will be forever present.

Now Marisa was pregnant again, and once more the invitation came to be at the new baby's birth.

I arrived in Brooklyn after spending time in Indonesia with David and Alex and in Singapore and again in Indonesia with Steven, Tracy and the girls. One week at home and off to NYC on April 2nd still pretty jetlagged. The baby was due on the 7th. On the 3rd, Marisa and I cooked up a storm so that they would have meals prepared when the baby was born. On the 4th we went to Arthur Avenue in the Bronx where we met Frannie, Stephanie and Paul for lunch and to buy more goodies for the house. Armed with lots of prociutto, fresh made mozzarella and a big chunk of delicious Parmesan we returned to Brooklyn. That evening we made dinner, ate it and I left their house at around 10PM. Went to "my" (Natacha and Patrick's really) apartment and had barely fallen asleep when the call came. It was around 1.30PM when Adam informed me that contractions had started. He would keep me informed if they continued or whether they would just go away for the night! At 2.45 Marcie (Marisa's midwife) called to tell me that she would stop by and pick me up to go to Marisa's where things were heating up. We arrived at their house at 3.15am.

Sammy's labor was quick and his birth just beautiful. He emerged and was given to me by the midwife as she tended to Marisa. A nice oven warmed towel was waiting for this little hot body in my arms. I quickly handed him to his parents who were joyfully crying and kissing. It was sensational. He felt so warm and of course, slippery. His face reminded me of Goosie. All big open mouth announcing his arrival...as if we hadn't noticed! I was in awe of Marisa's strength, determination and courage. "I am woman hear me roar" doesn't even cut it. Adam's pride and emotion are hard to describe. Love was everywhere.

Sam was born at 3.59am (important for the astrologers in the family!) and the midwives were gone before the sun emerged. We were in the living room. Marisa, Adam and the baby dozing on the couch, me on the armchair where I too dozed off. Max who slept through the entire proceedings came to meet his new brother. I wish somebody had filmed both births because while Maxi's was long, it was a typical first birth and Sam's was birthed by a woman who knew what she was feeling and who had done this before! It would be very inspiring for a lot of couples who might reconsider their birthing options.

While home birth is not only not possible for all women it is also not something that one chooses lightly. Perhaps starting out with a birth center can help give women that confidence that might, just might inspire them to try a home birth for their second child... or not. They will surely have more confidence in their own ability to birth their babies with strength and determination away from the medical establishment's perceptions of what birth should be. A neat little package of interventions that are decided according to the practitioner's or hospital needs more than according to what the mother needs. Choosing the right birth attendant and place of birth is the one most important parenting decision that one can make.

Now these happy people are in their own little birth bubble home with their two boys learning how to incorporate this new delicious being into their lives.

My work here is done. Off to Miami tomorrow in my own birth capsule with beautiful images of love, strength and wiggly little babies.

Jetlag

The Joys of Jetlag

“A temporary disruption of normal circadian rhythm caused by high-speed travel across several time zones typically in a jet aircraft, resulting in fatigue, disorientation, and disturbed sleep patterns.”

Yep, I’ve got it alright! Have lived with this condition frequently over the years. Awake at night, exhausted in the morning, hungry at 3am, listless the rest of the day. Backache, headache, you name it. Melatonin? Sleeping pills? A relaxing herbal tea? A soak in the tub? Tried them all.

I’ve tried staying awake as long as possible and normalizing my patterns and yet, when I think I’ve got it licked, it comes back like a boomerang. I do yoga positions to alleviate aches and pains. I eat lightly throughout the day to relax my anxious stomach. No caffeine, no more spices for a while. Nothing seems to work for long.

A lot of this awake time happens at night and you know how treacherous night can be for musings and deep philosophy, I think a lot about the many things I should be doing in the morning or worry about things that I can do nothing about. I am not grounded enough to read a book or concentrate on anything for long, even my favorite taped shows on TV don't seem to do the trick. My a/c is turned high or lowered at random depending on the mood of the moment. Sometimes feeling that its terribly hot and then freezing because I’ve overdone the thermostat, the air is too cold. By 3PM (3AM in Singapore) I desperately need a nap. All in all, not a pleasant condition.

My air travel these days is still considerably easier than say during the years I lived in London or the 12 years that I spent in Japan. Any trip I made then with four kids in tow produced this condition with the aggravated assault of having to deal with a house full of children and their needs in the morning. I remember spending hours playing canasta with a similarly jetlagged Marisa in the middle of the night while the others slept soundly. I think we must have been resentful of their peaceful sleep while we tried to beat each other in the game.

I guess that’s why the movie “Lost in Translation” hit so close to home. I know how many cities feel in the middle of the night. I know how it feels to know that I’m probably one of the few people awake at that particular time.

The only long trip I remember not having this disoriented feeling was when Natalia was a couple of months old and I took her from Tokyo to Buenos Aires to meet the family. Since we were on an on-demand nursing routine, I never felt the difference in time in these two cities which are on opposite sides of the globe. Neither did she. Nursing is nursing. Its always jetlag then even if you don’t fly at all!

Last night I slept better and woke up at 5am. I guess I’m beginning to normalize again. Still, you never know. Tonight is another test. Next flight is in a couple of weeks to welcome my new grandchild but that's only to NYC and the only aggravation will be to once again, remove my shoes for security and have to deal with American Airlines. The grandchild part? I should be fully awake, aware and delighted for that.

Airline Travel - Then and Now

I was 11 years old when I made my first inter-continental flight on Panam from Buenos Aires to New York Idlewild. It was pretty much like riding a grasshopper which stopped a thousand times along the way. I remember flying into La Paz and while walking to the terminal (they used to park the airplane miles away from the terminal then) in transit I saw some women on the side of the runway with their little kids and some livestock…just hanging out watching the planes and trying to sell some of their knitted stuff. I went over to pet a goat or a llama (can’t remember what it was) and stayed there while my mother watched me from afar. I was asked to get back with the passengers eventually and we continued with the pilgrimage up north. I also stopped in Havana and I remember my mother having a coffee at the airport and saying it was delicious. Little did I know that I need a fix of Cuban coffee daily! We must have made at least 6 stops.

The pilot flew over New York City and offered us a view of the Statue of Liberty while I tried very hard not to throw up! All those take offs and landings combined with the mountains of airline food that I consumed made my arrival at our destination rather shaky to say the least. Then I used to think that by the year 2000 we would all be flying our own planes. When I mentioned this to someone recently he remembered thinking the same thing although he asked me “well…would you like to fly your own ‘car-plane” to which I responded “no way!.” Its bad enough to deal with other drivers on land these days.

Since that momentous flight I have continued gathering flying hours and miles through the years. Pity that one couldn’t sign up for any frequent flyer miles in those early years of traveling cause now I would be flying free all the time! Living in all those different places in the world gave me the opportunity to do more flying than I ever thought possible. Few airlines are left in the world that I haven’t flown in at one time or another, from tiny little planes to the new humongous airbus which I flew to and from Singapore, not only this time but also at what I think was one of the inaugural flights 3 years ago – a beautiful and amazing machine that looks more like a hotel and than an aircraft - enormously comfortable and for those who feel confined by smaller aircraft, a roomier and less oppressing feeling.

If you've watched the TV series Panam and got a taste of the luxury that it meant to fly in those days and compare it to a regular flight these days, airline travel has certainly changed. One of the best and most positive changes is that more people are able to fly now than then and that is the most notable difference. The planes are larger and somewhat faster. The standards of service (or lack thereof) however, have declined to being nonexistant. Passengers feel like cattle because they are treated that way, they are not imagining anything that isn’t actually happening. I flew American from JFK to Miami, a short flight that I know so well that I could probably navigate it myself! Remember, I had just gotten off nearly 24 hours of flying on Singapore Airlines considered to be one of the best in the world to a tiny domestic flight which would bring me home. It was less pleasant than riding a bus. The flight attendants were tired and disheveled and in a very poor mood. The passengers looked like they were planning to end up at the beach on arrival, wearing cut off shorts, t-shirts and flip flops and carrying onboard what seemed to be all of their earthly belongings. As to “tiny domestic flight” in Asia I flew a couple of those on AirAsia, their budget airline. A great experience.

On American, the drink service was carried out with less charm, manners or grace than one is served a Big Mac, in fact, one can get better service at McDonald’s any day of the week! They charge for bags, for crummy earphones, for food and anything else they can put a price on. It used to be a relief to board a plane after check in, immigrations, lugging bags and the normal anxiety and excitement of travel. You left all that craziness behind and settled in for a pleasant and of course, faster journey than say, taking a Greyhound! Now we’ve added endless lines of “security” carried out by disgruntled TSA personnel to the list of things we do before we board the plane, we’re pointed to our seats (if we’re lucky) and we never see a flight attendant again until they throw a “complimentary” Coke at us while they chatter among themselves and ignore us. They lug around a black plastic trash bag to collect empty plastic that we need to dispose of while they talk among themselves and barely regard you as a person. One flight attendant dropped a napkin on the floor, saw it, left it and walked off while I was supposed to be making sure that my space was clean and tidy. Two other flight attendants passed by that little piece of paper smack in the middle of the aisle and ignored it. The plane looked like it had been struck by lightning when we disembarked and let’s not even discuss the bathrooms which were atrocious.

While I had just stepped out of the comfort and joy that Singapore Airlines crews bring to every single passenger onboard with their politeness, care and pride in their work and their planes, flying American yesterday was so different and insanely deficient as to merit my attention and in-flight musings for what would happen if the standards changed. If yes, they charged for what they needed to charge but did so with charm and respect for their passengers…that flight attendants would have seen fit to groom themselves to look professional and in charge and addressed you as guests rather an another pain in the butt passenger. Perhaps if one of the crew were to help that Mom with the three kids to get settled in her seat rather than bark at her that she was holding up the takeoff. That the flight attendant who dropped that piece of paper would have leaned down to pick it up and throw it in the trash. Maybe, just maybe, people would follow suit and not see fit to fly in their pj’s and clean up a little when they have to sit in close proximity to their fellow humans. One really doesn’t know what comes first here, the chicken or the egg. There’s no doubt that attitude begets attitude.

The title was “purser” or “hostess” in the past. Then we upgraded it to “flight attendant” and we thought we had progress in “liberation.” What we liberated them from was the responsibility and pride that one has “hosting” a gathering in one’s home. The house is clean and tidy, the food edible and hopefully tasty, the drinks served with care and the little extras that one does when a guest needs or wants something that we can provide. That was the original idea. They hosted their passengers. It was their home or plane that we were boarding and the feeling was different. The excitement that one naturally has when one starts a trip being business or pleasure is swiftly dispelled by their behavior, lack of humor and social graces which brings out the worst in us, the people, the passengers.

After nearly two days of flying Singapore Airlines and I do know the difference between international flights and domestic, with a short stopover in Frankfurt, the plane that I disembarked from was spotless. The bathrooms impeccable and most importantly, the crew looked fresh (granted, in Frankfurt we got a new crew) and professional in a warm and welcoming way. A new set of passengers could have boarded that plane back to Singapore without even cleaning that plane! No blankets or pillows on the floor, No newspapers strewn about and even the air was fresh and as pleasant as it can be on a plane after such a long flight. The tired passengers left with a smile on their faces expressing their thanks to the crew sincerely, definitely not faking it!

I did not feel the need to thank anyone on that flight to Miami yesterday. In fact, I think American owes me many thanks for even considering flying with them and submitting me to the whims and lack of energy of their crews. Oh by the way, we were held up for nearly an hour on the runway on arrival because they assigned our gate to another flight.

And I won’t bore you with the efficiency and beauty of Singapore’s Changhi Airport which is material for an essay of its own. I’m sure David, Alex, Steven and Tracy can help me with that one at some point. I would like to thank Changhi for making my entrances and exits from Singapore so pleasant and stressless. I enjoyed every second spent there.

Its Club Med baby!

The first time my husband suggested Club Med as a destination for our next getaway with the kids I doubted that I would enjoy it. I thought of myself as an easy person to please. Give me a beach and a good book and I’m a happy camper. I thought of Club Med as camp and I refused to be “organized” by anyone but myself. We never travelled in groups…you know, of the bus variety with the lady holding up the flag and leading us to our next destination. “Its Tuesday…it must be Belgium” was never my style of travel. I thought Club Med would be just that. Fortunately, he didn’t listen to me and insisted that we try it. We ended up with four active kids in Club Med Caravelle, in the little island of Guadalupe.

As a fledgling Club Med “G.M” (gracious member) I eyed the “G.O’s” (gracious organizers) with suspicion as I claimed my bit of sand on the beach that morning. I thought that any minute any one of them would come and recruit me to play some sort of sport or insist that I participate in a game. Lunchtime came and not only had they not even come near me, neither did my 4 kids! They were all busy in different activities and my husband was nowhere to be seen. He was playing volley ball somewhere in the premises. So far so good. Lunchtime came along. The food was fabulous and our chef excelled in most of the delicious offerings. Interesting…maybe they’ve got something here. The week passed far too quickly. I was brown and relaxed. My family did not need my presence nor my attention. This was a true vacation at last!

We went to many more Club Meds in the Caribbean and in Asia through the years as our children were growing up. We also had different vacations every year when we went to lovely beaches in the US and flew to Europe a few times but my true time out as a 24/7 mother was when we packed for Club Med where everyone had something to do and when we got together for meals we enjoyed hearing about the different sports and experiences that everyone was having. I didn’t cook. I didn't drive. I didn’t fret, I actually enjoyed myself enormously doing next to nothing. It was MY vacation.

Now, so many years later, I’m in Club Med Bintan in Indonesia with my son and his family and it is nice to reminisce and I continue to find it relaxing among all the activities and offerings available to guests. I still hang out in some quiet corner reading a book or looking at the ocean, like I did back then. Now I can enjoy my grandchildren having fun and remember their father and his sisters doing the same. I also remember their grandfather whose bright idea it was to begin with! Life goes on.

The Joys and Chellenges of Stepping out in Bali

Aesthetically and spiritually I am totally in tune with everything I saw in Ubud and everywhere else I went to in Bali. The Buddhas and Ganesha images…the temples, colors, ponds and rice paddies…everything really. The kind people, the funny people, the endearing people of this part of the world pull at my heart strings at every step. But there you have it…it’s the steps, the unevenness of the sidewalks that get me and provide that uncertainty that make me so aware of every inch I travel. The potholes, ditches, water puddles, the motorcycles and cars passing inches away from my body, the dogs and even chicken are a constant challenge and reminder to watch my step! Is it my age or do these people really have a problem here?

It didn’t really matter which shoes I wore. Whether it was flip flops, sneakers or walking shoes the terrain is really not walker friendly. Can’t imagine anyone in their right mind wearing high heels to walk in the streets of Bali! I felt like my ankles were going to explode with every step and sitting down for a second provided my tired and abused feet with enough rest to restore energy and determination to walk another few blocks. I am amazed that I didn’t sprain something. The hospitals have to be full of people who have torn some part of their limbs and must be full of tourists complaining of aches and pains in their feet, ankles or legs. Must check that out.

What I saw and experienced in spite of the treacherous walks made it all worth it. Walking into tiny alleys and finding my own little piece of paradise waiting to be discovered. A beautiful image, an offering or two, a rice paddy at the end of the road…even a monkey watching me watch it. These little incursions into the essence of Bali are mesmerizing and awe inspiring. A dog following me with his eyes, a cat sleeping in the shade, a woman looking at me with kind eyes and wanting to know my story. Communication is very physical here. In fact everything is very physical and intimate. There is no flinching away from a hand on your shoulder to show friendship, not that one would want to flinch at all! One woman compares her arm to my daughter’s and tells her “you are Balinese…same color!” she exclaims delighted to find a foreigner with darker skin than what she’s used to seeing. Another one tells me what she’s putting into her offering today. There’s some coffee, sugar, a cigarette, a little rice and a fruit in a tiny hand-made basket. Sometimes a flower or two. Preparing and laying out these “offerings” seem to be a full time occupation. They are prepared fresh twice a day. They are in storefronts, temples, restaurants, hotels or simply on the sidewalk and adding to the challenge of walking and not stepping on incense. And the incense! You know how much I love it…it’s everywhere and it smells glorious.

The women work hard. The men seem to be, in their majority, in the transportation of tourists business. “Taxi Madam?” they ask as you walk by while the women carry big loads on their heads and walk with determination to the next stop in their day. I even saw women construction workers carrying bamboo and enormous pipes to and from the construction sites hardhats and all. They ride their motorcycles with kids onboard and even bamboo trays of food. Families of four ride these bikes all over town competing for space with cars, trucks, dogs and as I said, the occasional proverbial chicken crossing the road.

The color of the temples and offerings are so pleasing and soul soothing that one must keep an eye on them at short intervals in order to keep calm. Of course one can also walk into any spa, and there are at least two in every block, and get a glorious massage. There’s plenty of quiet and sweet smelling space. I totally slept through a facial! Woke up looking great though!

We walked into an inn, which has a beautiful spa next to an eternity pool, which looks like it ends in a rice paddy. One can get away from the madness of the streets whenever that mood strikes. The turmoil is gone. There is no noise, no distractions other than the sound of water and the feeling of warm oil poured over aching muscles. Must say that a rooster made his presence known nearby and peppered the meditation part of a yoga class. David Sedaris says that he asks people wherever he visits in the world what noise their roosters make. We say “cock-a-doodle-do” but there’s lots of other versions of the noises that are attributed to these little cocky creatures around the world. I’m going to miss them.

And I’m going to miss the little kids trying on Goosie’s and David’s flipflops, and sitting infront of the beauty of a simple green rice paddy and watching David’s long frame guiding me through an alley or watching Goose’s long beautiful legs and those gorgeous skirts she wears walking infront of me showing me this or that. I’m going to miss playing Canasta and being beaten by my own daughter in a game I taught her! I’m going to miss all the delicious meals made even better by being shared with these two totally delicious people.

When they come to visit me in Miami, Coco, Boo and Puma will replace the animals and the crazy birds that fly by will have to replace the roosters and chicken…not ready to adopt any just yet. They’ll see my little cottage full of memories of Asia and of course smell the incense in my patio. Maybe it will remind them of home. I do guarantee better walking surfaces…even in the parks where I walk Coco. I’ll definitely arrange for a massage or two. I'll even cook some of the food we learned how to make in our cooking class. Thanks for all the new memories, for your sweetness, for your love.

Yoga in Bali

The morning starts off with yoga in an enchanted space. A tree house like room with mats and cushions as the only furnishings. Hard to describe the beauty of the vegetation that surrounds me, the wood, bamboo, textiles, incense everywhere and the sweetness and kindness of all around me. Window frames with no glass and beautiful carved wood everywhere. How could a yoga space be any different in Ubud. 

The heat of Bikram, the tiger breath of Kundalini and an instructor who believes our bodies are just meant to do what he tells us to do. Hatha and Iyengar be gone! The small young man with a chiseled brown body using his own perfectly toned muscles to show us what each pose should look like. Really? Fat chance.  

He demands that we move…move…move our hips “don’t stop…don’t ever stop” he commands. We gyrate them back and forth…up and down…”move move move” he reminds us at every breath and little by little I feel the sweat pouring out of me and my muscles relax and do things that I never thought they could. Up with the leg, down with the pelvis, up with the head…breathe breathe breathe, move move move. We repeat and hold poses for what seems an eternity and then he says “one more” and then finally “last one” and we collapse in a heated pile of bones and muscles and sweat. Not for long though as he demonstrates another position. The two men in the class take their shirts off and they are drenched. I wish I could take mine off as well.  

After an eternity of effort and concentration we get to the best part. We lie on the floor, breathing, letting our bodies relax.No more move, move, move! Recharging chacras with energy and light. My chest expanded, my heart open, my mind filled with gratitude. The instructor sings a song for us with his guitar. In the distance I hear his voice invoking Krishna. My beautiful daughter next to me. What more could I possibly want! Seven ohms for seven chakras. Ohm Shanti Bali. Namaste.

My grandson Max appreciating my art:

Max's appreciation of my work is all the motivation I need! Pretty compelling wouldn't you say?

Since I haven't really been able to spend much time in my studio lately, I fiddled about and sketched on my IPAD.  Had lots of fun. Here are the results:

As you can see, I had a lot of fun.  Now for some real painting, I will definitely get back to my studio!