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Julia

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My mother-in-law used to close her eyes as if by doing so she could close out anything that was weighing on her mind, or unpleasant in her life. Confrontations she didn’t want to have, realizations that were too late, the Cancer that in the end would claim her life. Next month will mark a year since her passing and she is very much on my mind.

For most of my married life we would speak almost every day. We shared a lot of secrets. I miss her. There were so many details of her life that I know she still wanted to tell me, and much I wanted to talk to her about. That is the pain of loss. Those missed moments. Those are hard to reconcile.

The other day I closed my eyes to shut out some things I didn’t want to deal with and I understood her. She was an intensely private woman, and rarely would allow anyone to see what lay beneath the surface. Julia was in every explanation of the word a ‘remarkable’ woman. Her particular passion for life was born from the hardships of being raised in a tight walk up in Toronto’s Harbord village in the 1920’s. Her parents were immigrant Jews and she the eldest of three; and the one with the absolute yearning for her own bed, heating and beautiful dresses. She married and moved to the same situation in her husband’s small family home. She worked hard and created her way out.

Her particular gift was her vision. And with that she orchestrated and navigated the voyage from shoes distributed in the basket of her husband’s bicycle to the flagship store on the best retail corner in the city. He might have had the charisma to charm his clients and suppliers in New York, Florence and Milan, but she had the foresight. She understood what branding the store was before it became a catchword in the industry. She knew it in her bones.

She was our Jackie ‘O’, with her small frame, beautiful features, legs that could enchant a sailor or president, and a flare for putting herself together that honestly deserves a coffee table book. This was very much a big part of who she was and the image of the public Julia, but there was more to her. I knew the intellectual woman who was open to far-reaching ideas, incredibly well read, interested and interesting, who loved art and science and was deeply inquisitive. And I loved how she felt at home in my home. And, the whimsical side of her, that sat at tea parties with my daughters, and kept the soft bunny we bought her on her bed.

I thought I would have more time with her. In her last days, she would rest her head on my chest as I tried to stroke the pain from her forehead and shoulders. I can’t tell you how that feeling of her releasing any façade to me, the softness and the love that I felt from her in that small moment resonates through all of me.

I understood the things she locked away in her heart when she closed her eyes. I think that is why I feel her so profoundly in my chest, as I write this. In some ways it has connected us like a locket, with both our pictures on the inner sides and closed.

Thank you Martha

More Posts, Muse

I was in my early twenties and drowning in the boredom of a degree in sociology. I signed up for a 6-week dance program for credit in the summer after my second year. I had never danced before. That summer I studied jazz, contemporary and Spanish. I fell in love with modern dance, more specifically, with Graham technique. There was something about it that intuitively made sense for me. When I was immersed in the classes my mind and body were truly functioning as one. I had never experienced anything like it.

There is something tremendously empowering about the idea that movement begins at our core and translates, explodes and releases out of our extremities. What I didn’t realize until now was how much Martha Graham’s life philosophy resonated in my mind as well as my muscles and bones. I recently watched a Tribute to Martha Graham narrated by Gregory Peck on youtube. She says that her vocabulary of movement is a “how to of how to move through life”. It studies the relationship of the body to the mind and the body to the spirit. Her technique focuses on the breath, “to breathe life in or expel it, it is intrinsic to the body and to movement.”

This is what the body remembers. My body remembers the language of the movement, and it has absorbed the underlying philosophy. And now it makes complete sense to me, our wisdoms are housed in our muscles and bones, in our blood. “How many drops of blood have gone in to the making of you – how much memory is in the blood.” She translated her life into a series of movement; I have translated mine in to words.

“I do believe in the sanctity of life and of energy. Life isn’t giving up, it’s moving on.”

I went to The Toronto Dance Theatre to take a class. I inhale my youth as I enter. My body doesn’t realize it has aged, and my inner dancer takes over. Perseverance. Commitment. Determination. Lots of deep breathing. I find a piece of dance floor real estate far enough away from the mirror that my reflection is respectable.

Five, six, seven, eight, the piano accompanist find the melody on the keys and my body miraculously finds the rhythm and astonishes me with it’s memory of the moves. My inner core is at one, and I close my eyes, which proves to throw me off balance, but I quickly re-group. And then, the across the floor routines, this is where you line up, individually or in small groups and leap, jump, chasse, triplet, scurry or glide across the floor. I was floating, prancing, breasts flopping up and down, three four, across the floor, sucking in my stomach, five, six, remember to breath, seven, eight, how ridiculous do I look, and again…

The truth is I enjoyed it. My knees not so much. It felt good to dance again. And, sometimes when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I could actually see the dancer in me, a little fuller and my lines not as elongated, but still co-existing. And, I realized that dance is just as much about my head as my body.

Dance is a metaphor for our lives. Thanks Martha. It’s about being in alignment, and it starts at our core, one, two, and reaches up one vertebrae at a time, three, four, and lengthens to root us at the ground, five, six, inspire, inhale, and release the energy as it emanates from us, seven, eight.

Triplets

Life Is, More Posts, Muse

I have this thing that I do. Well, let me just add an addendum. When I do this, it is wonderful. It makes a difference in my life. And I am going to re-commit myself to this process and hope that you will join me.

It’s how I start my day when I am at my most productive, creative and focused self. It’s a technique that I call triplets. It is equal time of meditation, stretching and writing.

It doesn’t matter if it’s a minute each or twenty minutes each. What matters is the discipline of the doing of all three components. Daily is best. But, if not daily then designate specific days and stick to it.

Meditation: Easy meditation. Sit cross-legged on the floor or pillow. Or, sit on a chair with both feet on the ground and your legs not crossed. Straight back. Open heart. Hand placed gently on thighs. Eyes are softly open or gently closed. You are not trying to tune out the world; you are practicing tuning in to yourself. All you do is focus on the breath. Notice your inhale and your exhale. That’s it. If a thought trails across your mind, watch it go by and don’t give it attention. Listen to the rhythm of your body in the breath. It’s not big deep cleansing breaths; you haven’t had time to be stressed yet! It’s simply breathing in and breathing out.

Stretching: Create a series of movements that feel good for you. I like to do a few sequences of salutation to the sun. But honestly, it’s the idea of moving your body in ways that give you a sense of release and centering. Stretch your arms above your head, up to your tip toes and take a deep breath, and then release the breath and fold your body reaching your hands to the floor, let your head hang gently and feel the stretch and release along your spine and the backs of your legs. Gently come up one vertebra at a time. Repeat. It’s that simple.

Writing: Take out your journal. Write by hand. No computer. Open to a page. Date it. Write about anything you want. How you felt about your breath. What you are worried about. Good things in your life. Gratitude. Fear. Anxiety. People. A poem. What you see out the window. What you dreamed about last night. What are your dreams? You get the idea. The only rule is that it has to be hand written and it has to be timed. You are not writing a novel. You are just writing for it’s own sake. And whatever comes out is good.

That’s triplets. Practice this. Start with 2 minute of each as soon as you get out of bed. Set the timer on your phone so that you know your beginning and your end of each section. Work up to ten minutes each. Then treat yourself to a lovely glass of water, some tea or a coffee. It is an amazing beginning to your day. Let me know how it’s going.

The icing on the cake

More Posts, Muse

A pair of shoes can simply change your day. Really. Look what happened to Marie Antoinette. Those exquisitely lined shoeboxes with sumptuous brocade, jewel-encrusted slippers in marvelous colours, were indeed the icing on the cake. Cinderella, in a charming deceit, leaves a glass slipper behind, taking our prince on a romping road trip around the countryside. The Wicked Witch of the East, dies in a tragic house falling, which bequeaths the dazzling ruby slippers to Dorothy, sending her on an inspired journey down the yellow brick road. Shoes are deep. Were the Manolo’s the accidental aphrodisiac that finally led Big to tie the knot?

Shoes have a certain way about them; the intrinsic pedestal on which a woman is propped, the true tell-tale of our inspiration. A pair of jeans partnered with flats, stilettos, or boots insinuate very different ideas about the woman who wears them. But, we, and I do mean it as the conspiring ‘we’, know this. That playful little arch in our back from a pair of high heels, the strategic power of hose and pump, that rock star sensibility of great boots.

Ingredients

Life Is, More Posts, Recipe

Some people seem to have all the ingredients of their lives set out on the counter, measured, tossed into the pan or bowl at various times, baked, brewed or grilled, somehow always to perfection. Their soufflés never fall. At least that is how it appears.

It’s a mirage. Everybody has stuff. That’s just the way life is. Yes, some people have more stuff than others, but nobody goes through this life without something. Our lives are complicated, and the ones we think have it all together, the ones whose lives we envy, those are often the most messed up. The intricacies of relationships, family, love, business, desire, well….those are the details that rarely follow the course of least resistance.

Most people who are really, really good cooks will not be able to direct you specifically to a carved in stone recipe, it’s more like the recipe is their guide and they deviate off the path as it comes to them. Life is a lot like that. There is only so much you can plan. And, there is certainly a whole bunch of tossing the ingredients in to the pot and seeing if it works out along the way.

My friend Ellie attended my first recipe for life club party. I asked everyone to bring a story and a recipe. She brought the ingredients for a chocolate turtle martini, a martini glass that reads, “I love nights that I can’t remember”, and an apron that says, “keep calm, carry on”.

She is my fun friend. She keeps me balanced. I can be overly introspective and she knows how to listen and support me, and she is the person I can laugh with as well. She lives life fully. She travels, goes to concerts, (she just saw the Rolling Stone concert 4 times…) opened a fashion boutique called Shenkin West, she loves colour. She is the fuchsia and chartreuse, to my white and beige. And when things work out she says, “the ingredients were right”. So here’s to mixing and concocting and creating our lives. Cheers!

Rob’s Chocolate Turtle Martini

Recipe courtesy Rob Harpest

1 drink

Ingredients

Cocoa Powder

Powdered sugar

Caramel sauce, in a squeeze bottle with a very small tip

Chocolate Sauce

2 ounces vanilla vodka (recommended: Stoli Vanilla)

2 ounces white creme de cacao

2 ounces Praline New Orleans Style Pecan Liqueur

Crushed ice

Roasted pecan halves, for garnish

Roughly chopped chocolate squares, for garnish

Directions

First, sweeten the cocoa powder to your liking by mixing the cocoa and powdered sugar. Take a large martini glass and very carefully coat the rim in caramel sauce from the squeeze bottle, being careful not to let it drip too far down the sides.

Then, dip the entire rim of the glass into the sweetened cocoa powder, being sure to coat all of the caramel. The desired effect is a chocolate dusted caramel rim. If available, I also like to put just a drop of chocolate syrup at the bottom of the glass for color.

For the drink, shake the vodka, Creme de Cacao and praline liqueur in a martini shaker with ice to chill. Fill the martini glass nearly full with crushed or shaved ice, being careful not to touch the rim. Strain the drink into the martini glass.

Garnish atop the floating ice with a roasted pecan half and a small piece of chopped chocolate. Alternately, I have garnished it with a half of a Turtle candy by making an incision and hanging it on the rim of the glass. Whichever you prefer.

Sponge Cake

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I can see my mother standing at the kitchen sink, and the lovely window edged with white curtains that gazed in to the garden. The ribbed glass cabinet doors, the right edge chipped, but worn smooth. Plates stacked in sequence of size, teacups dangled from the hooks above the juice glasses. Her black hair, short and tucked behind her perfect ears. The curve of her back under the pink sweater set and her apron tied with a bow at the back. I imagine her hands as she washed them under the tap and wiped them on her apron. The same hands that held mine.

Her recipes are within me, like pieces of her. A weathered yellow bowl that somehow made the trip across the ocean from England stands on her counter and his filled with red cabbage soaking in vinegar. The way she patted the ‘canaidella’ into balls for the chicken soup. Fish patties….and when she was too old to stand and cook, she made them with me and my girls in my kitchen. She sat on a stool holding the tin bowl and wooden spoon. Yorkshire puddings, apple cake, the apples sliced by hand and smothered in brown sugar.

I have learned many things from my mother. If I’m a good mother, it is because of her. So if my daughters turn out okay, it is because she is watching over them. I f my mother had a ‘recipe for life’ it would be her inner strength and courage, her ability to put one foot in front of the other and find what is good about each day. And to find joy…. She was around my age when she lost her breast, her son, her husband. And yet, she filled my life with joy, she was gracious and good.