Sweet victory

The people lined up to vote and made the wisest choice for the country and for themselves.

It's the journey not the destination

After many years of yoga practice--at times more focused than others--today, I performed my first unassisted (i.e., without the help of a teacher lifting my legs into the air and above my head) handstand (Adho Mukha Vrksasana). I have repeatedly told myself that the absence of upper body strength would forever prevent me from doing so even though most observers said that this had nothing to do with it. Of course, I've been advised that "it's all in my head," but found this hard to believe.

A classmate recently recommended fixing my eyes on a point on the wall ahead of me once in the prep position, i.e., my arms extended onto the floor below and in front of my torso with my hands and fingers spread open wide and legs extended just behind me; downward dog position (Adho Mukha Svanasana) with the primary variation of inching the legs slowly toward the torso until that sweet spot is hit which forces the legs up into the air, over the head, and onto the wall behind. She said that when you fix your eyes ahead, it forces you "into the moment," and something almost magical happens when you remain present, forgetting about the stress of potentially falling on your head or the victory of making it up on your own. Today, I thought of her advice about fixing my eyes onto a point across the room while looking at the world upside down and the next thing I knew I was up in the air as though lifted by some otherworldly force that had nothing to do with upper body strength.

Yesterday, I heard a senior teacher say that the end result is not the point in yoga: it's the process that matters, the process of getting there, and that's why the correct position is much more important than actually achieving the goal, e.g., like getting your legs in the air on your own or having the palms of both hands flattened to the ground in Uttanasana (a type of forward bend). She also reminded her students: dont' let the ego be the teacher, the end result shouldn't be the driver. It's not the destination, it's the journey.

That may be why in the second round, armed with an overly-entitled and premature sense of confidence and with the singular goal of getting back into full arm balance position on my own, I couldn't do the pose. I tried a third time with the same result. That was it, one time up on my own and no more. In retrospect, my positioning (for getting into the actual position) was too careless and inexact, I lost sight of that point across the room, and forgot to stay in the moment fixing instead on the sole reward of independently lifting my feet over my head so that I could watch the world upside down while it watched me.

A parable of sorts, no? Does it ever really work to be guided by the reward and not the process? When we lose sight of the moment or remove ourselves from the present, do we ever feel truly victorious, i.e., content? Fortunately, we don't have to stray too far to be reminded of this only to recognize our own humanity with all of its limitations and imperfections and to force us back on course towards the destination but not at it. I don't expect to see the world upside down again any time soon, at least not by getting there on my own, and, until that time, I'll try my best to remain focused on the process (whatever it happens to be and in whatever circumstance I happen to be in), keep my ego in check, be brave despite the outcome. It's the journey not the destination afterall.

Support your local artists

Michael is a new friend who moved here recently from Berlin partly for a relationship and partly for a new life. He's a fine artist sculpting objects out of clay. Shortly after arriving in San Francisco, he landed a job at a local interior design firm but once business slowed--around the time the economy did--he was let go and now he's looking for work like several other friends who have lost their jobs over the past month. It's a scary time and it's hard to know where people will go to find work.

So, what does an unemployed artist do? Head to Open Studios, the country's oldest and biggest art event of its kind, to see what other starving artists are doing.

Today, we visited over 100 studios at one of the city's defunct military bases, Hunter's Point. Along with others seeking refuge from the storm--it's raining--we made our way in and out of the various ateliers. Little was truly inspiring except for a handful of artists. Two that come to mind are Monica and Robin Denevan, a sister and brother duo; the former a photographer and the latter, a painter. She photographs seamen in Burma in graceful poses with their boats or on their way home. He paints with beeswax oil and natural resins haunting yet beautiful images of marshes and rivers and seascapes blending into the atmosphere. Abstract yet somehow literal, like Turner. I can't really remember much else besides them.

I'm hopeful that this time next year, Michael will be gainfully employed and displaying his wares in an open studio for all the world to see.

BOO!

I hate to sound old but I do remember a time when Halloween masks, sheets with cut-out holes for the eyes, and little super hero costumes were just meant for fun and not much else. San Francisco is a city that relishes in this dress-up holiday not because people don't often go disguised in this town--they do--but because it's a time to overtly display and celebrate the city's weirdness. It is a weird place with a lot of weirdos and this holiday is a time to just let it all hang out. At least, that used to be true.

On my way to work yesterday, I saw this sign on a bank in the downtown area. Apparently, you can no longer enter a bank if masked on October 31 lest you be confused with a robber or, perhaps, egads!, a terrorist. Could terrorists really be thinking of walking through customs in a Spiderman costume? Is the sign saying that on all other days of the year it's okay to visit a bank with your mask on or does that mean that if you do there'll be no confusion as to whose side you're on and you'll be immediately wrestled to the floor and thrown into the slammer. I guess Halloween isn't as innocent as it used to be. Is anything?

My new roommate

Once again, my escorts are a good-looking gay couple, who are dear friends and the perfect “date” when I’m without one, which is often. We are attending a birthday celebration for one of them at the home of his mother, who lives about 20 miles north of the city, in Marin County, where old-time rural and new cookie-cutter type development slyly mix making the place eerily charming. Along the way, the three of us stop to pick up one more homosexual, a struggling artist in his tender twenties who entertains us with news of the latest foreign film or a pre- or post-Burning Man gathering. A night out with these three usually guarantees a good time even if I can’t bed any one of them at the end of the evening.

We arrive at my friend's mother's home, a residential facility for seniors who are healthy (i.e., ambulatory) or not. Stepping onto the curb, a very friendly woman getting out of her car at the other side of the street calls to us. I didn’t know we’d be joined by anyone else but am relieved. At 84, my friend's mother is sharp but dominates every conversation with talk about her long-since dead husband and the thrilling life she led while he served in the U.S. Coast Guard. Since this conversation can quickly become tedious, I figure that the woman with the big smile will be one more voice in the room to drown out our hostess' monologue when it begins to spin out of control.

It's mid-February and chilly and those of us arriving by chariot are dressed for winter, California-style: jeans and light wool jackets for the men and a cotton candy colored puffy down jacket for me. The friendly newcomer, on the other hand, sports a different and refreshing winter look with tightish black pants belled at the ankle and a long dark coat tastefully embroidered with bright colored flowers. As she crosses the street to meet us, I also see her unusual jewelry including an inventive single stainless ring with holes for two fingers. I think: Artist from New York; in time, I’ll discover that both are true.

Her shiny smile is of the welcoming kind especially in the middle of winter. With long dark curly hair framing creamy skin and little rosy patches for cheeks, she looks straight out of a Caravaggio canvas updated to fit the times by about 400 years. No surprise the woman with the rose-colored cheeks is named Rosie. People are not always perfectly-suited for their name, but she turns out to be.

Fortunately, my friend's mother lives on the healthy wing of her residential facility because I am not much in the mood for messy bottoms or sadness of any sort. It has been a long winter and I'm ready for a good dose of levity even if just for the night. Raised in New Orleans, his mother still cooks a mean gumbo, the centerpiece of the evening’s meal, and I make my way to the buffett table for seconds, thirds, and so on. On my third or possibly fourth trip back I meet up with Rosie, who’s also wrist-deep in the gumbo cauldron, and strike up a conversation partly to avoid returning to the couch where everyone else is listening to yet another story about life on Governor’s Island as a new bride.

Curious about the person with enough imagination to wear a single ring that straddles and joins two fingers, I ask, “So what’s with the ring?” To which she replies, “Oh, it's made by a friend of mine. Isn’t it great?”

“It is.” It figures that her friend makes jewelry. I assume that she does too. “Are you also a jewelry maker? Does it feel funny not to have the freedom of those two fingers?”

“I string beads,” and then adds in response to my second question, “No, it feels good. In fact, it kind of feels better to have your fingers stuck together like this.”

Not seeing the restricted mobility as a problem, I register her response as a positive indicator: a glass is half-full kind-of-person of which I’m in serious need, so I keep things going, “What do you do besides string beads?”

“Not much right now. I’m from New York, Boston, and moving soon, so I'm not working.”

“Which one? New York or Boston?” I ask.

“Born in New York, but left Boston for New Mexico a couple years ago. I went to school in Boston and stayed. I’m going to Cambodia soon to visit an orphanage run by a friend. What do you think about traveling on your own?”

A bit perplexed about her moving around so much, I respond, “I wouldn’t do it any other way.” I actually just returned from Vietnam where I'd been on my own, and, as a fairly intrepid traveler for most of my adult life, the idea of wandering solo around the planet doesn't much faze me. I know nothing of her capacity for exotic travel, but believe that her open face and willing smile will go over big in Southeast Asia.

To this near-perfect stranger, I insist, “You have to go. You’ll be fine. Besides maybe you’ll fall in love while you’re there, just like Elizabeth Gilbert.”

With that her already sparkling face really lights up, “Have you read Eat Pray Love? I just heard her speak. She’s my hero!”

I never imagined that responding, “Mine too,” meant we’d suddenly entered a kind of pact to begin a friendship that would forever change my life. Upon discovering our shared affection for the writer Liz Gilbert, we talk for the remainder of the evening about the virtues of travel, the thrill of the unknown, the elusiveness of true love, and the difficulty of finding your way as single heterosexual middle-aged women in the gayest and youngest city in the world. They say it gets harder to develop new friends as we age, so I am grateful for those encounters which prove this absolutely false; meeting Rosie that winter night was one of those occasions.

As the party came to a close and our conversation was far from done, I said, “We have to get together soon,” thinking about the following week as a possibility.

“I’d love to, but I’m moving back to Boston soon.”

“Boston? I thought you were headed to Cambodia.”

And, she revealed, “I am, but that’s after I resettle on the East Coast.”

That was February 2007. A week later, we met for dinner at an understated ethnic restaurant in the Lower Haight and the conversation we'd started a week earlier continued without barely missing a beat. We talked about our hero, Liz Gilbert, our respective ex-boyfriends on the East Coast, and the possibility of traveling through Asia. She shared a tale about visiting Lourdes, France earlier that year and a profound experience of betrayal while in confession with a priest from India. That story was followed by another of her recent time in Galisteo, New Mexico and a terrifying fall while there into a 12-foot-deep sinkhole whose location was unknown up until that time.

My new friend was an entertaining storyteller but also possessed skills sometimes hard to find in those who can simply spin a good yarn. She knew how to watch for your response, pause for your input, and somehow make the whole story relevant to your life too even if you’ve never bathed in the holy water at Lourdes or fallen in the direction of the earth’s core. Listening to her I was convinced that our meeting was the sole redeeming event in what was otherwise a crappy year and her moving back to Boston would give me just one more reason to doubt that magic exists. The restaurant closed around us and we promised to get together the following week to, once again, continue talking.

Over the next few weeks, Rosie decided to delay her departure for the East Coast, giving us a chance to meet for another meal at a solidy trendy restaurant on Market Street that is one of my favorites and one she had been to with her ex-boyfriend.

“It’s good to reclaim these kind of places for ourselves. I’ve wanted to come back but the thought of doing that without him turned my stomach. Thank you for doing this with me,” she said as we took a seat in the upstairs dining area.

“Let’s make a pact that we’ll do that for each other when possible. I like the idea of conquering those kinds of demons with a friend. Somehow it seems easier that way,” I replied. We lifted our glasses of tap water to that and the conversation—like the earlier ones—lasted for hours. That toast sealed our fate. We would help one another get over and through various bumps in the road in ways we couldn't have done alone.

Following that dinner, Rosie fell into a romance with a man who made leaving San Francisco prematurely a bad idea. At the end of the Fall, she and her dog, Trusty, needed a new place to live, and the two of them moved into my home, providing me with the feeling of family for which I'd been desperately longing. What followed next was the stuff that stories--like this--are made of. In Spring 2008, she saved my life, and, right about the time I started to get well (Summer 2008), she moved back to Boston. She passed in and through like an angel saving me from a generally unremarkable year (2007) and chaperoning me through an astounding year (2008) that almost took my life and through which I wouldn't have survived on my own.

Last week, my new roommate moved in. She measures about four inches long and is rather shy unless coaxed out from under my dishwasher by cheese or peanut butter snacks. She likely won't last long around here since I've recently set a trap in the middle of my kitchen floor. It's not that I want to remain living alone; in fact, quite the opposite, I'd prefer to share my home with someone else and live like a real "family" does, just not with a small rodent. Good news is I got a call last week from Rosie who's thinking of moving back to California--things in Boston aren't exactly what she expected. Hopefully, that trap will snap just in time.

The bridge to everywhere

Here you see it, the 1.2-mile-long east span of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge while under construction. The east span will be the largest self-anchored suspension bridge. The single tower will be located just a little off of Yerba Buena/Treasure Island. Construction has taken place while the existing east span is open and, thus, requires all kinds of engineering and scheduling twists and turns to keep current traffic flowing and interruptions at a minimum. It is THE link to the East Bay from San Francisco and one of a limited number of links to the South Bay. All to seismically retrofit the span after one section of it collapsed in the 1991 Loma Prieta earthquake. On our recent tour of the project, the Project Engineer said something about the new span being able to withstand a 8.0 on the Richter scale; not sure if I heard him right or if that's what I wanted to hear. I must confess that the thought of the bridge collapsing again in an earthquake gives me the willies.

Although you can't see it in these photos, along the east side of the new span is a public path for bikes and pedestrians. This $600 million addition to the project seems hefty in cost but will be a fantastic addition to a bridge that's never been publicly accessible: all thanks to BCDC. The project needed to provide: "Maximum feasible public access consistent with the project." That's what the laws says. I realize that I'm biased, but thank goodness for good government.

So looks like our government may be taken over soon by the Dems. Hallelujah. Not that it'll be a smooth or easy road head. In fact, I think it would be an awful time to regain control, but someone's got to do it and it's better us than them. There's something so ironic bout a government that's hell-bent on spreading democracy all over the world, while having no regard for the democratic process here at home. What's that called: hypocrisy, theatre of the absurd, horror story?

The mystery of Neti

What could they all be thinking about? Of course, nasal irrigation. I'm all over it and, apparently everyone else is too.

After my surgery in March, the nurses insisted that it was essential to a speedy recovery. So every morning and end of the day, they'd enter my room with an oversized plastic basin, a canister of salted water, and a syringe-like device--the whole apparatus for cleansing my sinuses of residue left from surgery and also any residual bacterial infection that may be lodged anywhere else in that area of my head. Not the most pleasant exercise but, hey, if you want to get out of the hospital, you do what they tell you to do.

Only because they insisted that I continue the regimen once leaving the hospital did I enter into the secret universe of the Neti. Different from the mechanical-looking device used in the hospital, the real world offers a nasal irrigation device in beautiful ceramic and soothing colors, e.g., Midnight Purple and Seafoam, known as a Neti Pot. The yogis have used the Neti for centuries but us, Westerners, are just discovering that it can actually do wonders for your mucous membranes...no kidding.

Most of the members of my very small family appear to love me. Despite that, they do find it difficult to embrace my ideas or suggestions especially without the endorsement of a third party. My brother, sister-in-law, and myself are sitting at the Salt Lake City airport waiting for our respective planes when I begin to reveal the mystery of Neti. I'm explaining to my brother, who's getting over the tail-end of a bronchial infection, how you shove the spout of the pot into your nostril, tilt your head, and let the saline solution come out the other nostril--really, it's kind of fascinating to discover that this kind of passage exists in your head! Of course, he's listening skeptically and just about to discredit the whole thing until the complete stranger across from us chimes in.

"Have you ever really gotten used to it?" To which I respond affirmatively.

"I'm still using mine, but it's always been a little awkward." This from a guy who looks like he's been living off the land for most of his life and to whom the secret of Neti was not too difficult to discover (i.e., at his local health food store, his back-to-land group of friends, the most recent yoga journal).

We continue our exchange about the Neti, when Mr. Corporate America sitting a few seats down pipes in, "I can't live without mine. I swear by it." At which point, the three of us engage in an in-depth discussion about the not-so-secret Neti. My brother looks on incredulously wondering if we are plants for some crazy advertising agency. Short of the long, the three-way endorsement was enough to convince him.

I stand by my Neti. It offers hope in an otherwise isolated and cruel world. Forget the obvious health benefits, if nothing else, it brings unlikely strangers together in the airport or brings family members together on otherwise contentious subjects.