part five: home.

i am listening. 

and to listen to my body, to my crazy, to my needs: i have to slow way down. 

why is it so terrifying to slow down? in my childhood, 

most things were compared to brain surgery as that was my fathers profession.

 what would happen if a brain surgeon slowed down? the patient would die. so i guess, slowing down meant death or you had to perform life saving surgery (or something of the like) to give yourself the gift of a slow down. you had to sacrifice yourself in some grand way to give yourself the gift of rest. i feel we all have some form of this. what is this? who said this?! 

another wonderful mantra of the time was 

'you can rest when your dead'

how can you beat that one?! i suppose not resting might take you there a lot sooner, you can finally let go & rest! OY. these words were said in a jewishy kind of a jest yet the heaviness of never stopping, always doing, sprinting toward success whether i knew what it was or not, being famous, wealthy, shining my light till it died out are all laden in a heavy soup of expectations topped off with a blinding compote that has been simmering in the fires of my body for too long. boring story. 

and the listening required stopping. oh god. stopping. scariest place ever. 

stopping is not trending anywhere these days and

i am a leo with a scorpio rising and an aries moon. help! 

lets step back a minute. i didn't just decide one day i needed to stop, breathe and really 

go there 

whatever that means. also, lets just pop the fantasy cherry that i am all good now and stopping comes with ease. NOT THE CASE. i am steeping, drip by drip in this precious forever conversation, in this fearlessly tender practice, this vital listening, that is this being human thing. 

i thought letting the house go would be the hardest part of our journey as we tried to do everything we could to keep it. we were so scared to let go. in the process of getting the house ready to sell, we moved out in the new year. a dear friend offered her home to us for one month. we figured this would be plenty of time to find our new home. i can admit to even a zest of excitement in the unknown, finding a home that will serve our family better with a yard, a conversation with nature, aligning with what we wanted for our family, maybe even a swing set and some bikes. 

one of the last nights at 601 j and i made a fire. we wrote on a piece of 

paper everything we wanted in a home. we talked about all the things we see, we crave, we want for our family. we put it on the altar. as the days, the craigs list posts, the westside rentals, the willows, the trulias, the MLS' all rolled by we were faced with our story over and over again. on paper, we were not the best of candidates for a clean credit report. every phone call, every agent, every open house we would share the story. we were honest, authentic, up front and deeply exhausted. we were rejected by the first three homes we liked. each place taught us something new. don't involve the kids, speak directly to the listing agent, meet the owners. the month of january was full with tears, carrying a heaviness that only the unknown can bring mixed with a fierce mama lion desire to keep us moving forward in a thick & sticky landscape of letting go, letting go, letting go. i had no idea what i was doing. i made breakfast, lunch and dinner. i packed boxes. i called clients. i watched the end of parenthood. talk about loss.

one of my tools to slowing down is creating

altars

. creating beauty everywhere i look. i crave beauty inside the suffering: a point in which to pray. a place to stop, to see what i am working toward, to express my gratitude. an installation of intentions that is working while i am surviving. my true self represented inside of a painted rock, a feather, a poem, a louise hay quote, a lit votive candle from ikea as the whirling dervishes inside me dance their dance. all of this inside black beans & rice, potty training, undying laundry, karate, trying not to yell and failing at every attempt, looking for empathy everywhere and finding it in the altar.

::: this is part five in an unraveling series on home :::

a pause for passover ::: brisket.

hi beauties! let's take a breather in this unraveling series on home to give you a brisket recipe for passover or any day really... it's a quick prep and a deeply nourishing outcome with it's warm aroma filling the house for hours and it's delicious taste.  this is a very significant piece to defining the sacredness of home, the connection to my bloodline, the poetry inside my culture ::: the delicious food of the high holidays. i am rarely 'on it' with the blogging & weeks before posting recipes (sorry).... i think a staff might turn that around. i guess i could start with a calendar. today, i am turning over a new leaf and sharing a very simple and BEAUTY filled recipe for passover. this can happen in a dutch oven or in a slow cooker. i love both depending on what your day has in store. if you will be home, throw it in the oven. if not, slow cook it. whatever you do, with these few ingredients it will be delish.

BRISKET

parsley, celery, carrots, meyer lemon zest, 

spring onions, garlic, garlic salt, bay leaves, 

rosemary, thyme, salt and LOVE. 

1. turn the oven to 350

2. heat the dutch oven on the stove top with medium to high heat. 

3. inside the dutch oven: olive oil, spring onion or any onion, garlic

4. 

massage the meat with gratitude, love, garlic salt, salt, rosemary,

thyme & parsley

5. you are looking to hear the 'audible sear'

6. make sure the pot is hot

7. seer the meat for a few minutes on both sides

8. then add a few stalks of celery, carrots and any other vegetables

9. yams, potatoes or celery root are a nice addition if you are looking

for more roots

10. then add 1 - 2 bay leaves, a little more olive oil on top, salt & zest

of one meyer lemon

11. put it in the oven on 350 for 2 1/2 hours with the top on

12. you will want to check in every 30 minutes to an hour

13. you are also welcome to turn it over if you want in those intervals

14. whatever you do, it will turn out beautifully

15. you got thisxxxx

the food of the holiday is where i have an opportunity to connect with my judaism, the kitchen as my temple. the smells, the gathering of the food, the connecting with all the jewish grandmothers before me, it's inside the stories we came from and the stories we are writing today. we are giving our families this story by turning on the fire during this time of the holidays. whatever you believe, you can connect to nourishing your family with intention and lovexxxx.

part four: home.

inside the mess i found some more beauty. 

i found some freedom. 

i discovered nourishment. 

i began to realize the old story, the story i was born into, the palette of colors that fed my parents and the family they raised, could no longer apply to me and my family. that round & precious placenta that fed who i was and where i came from was no longer able to serve in that way.  the safety nets had big holes, the gods took off their masks, the skin began to peel revealing the bones that define home, safety, warmth, love, nourishment and dare i say: prayer. 

in this unraveling, i had to sculpt something. i had to shoot a few birds with one stone. i had to feed myself, my family, my marriage and my expression inside a new kind of survival. it no longer existed in a new pair of shoes or seasonal bed linens, it couldn't take hold inside of a family trip or a little anniversary getaway. the restart button, the release gear, the reconnection to myself had to come from within. 

i sat on the porch 

in the dark 

with my breath. 

i had no idea what i was doing. i just knew that i had to do it. i had to get up before the house got up. i had to hear my own breath; even if it lasted a second inside the noise, the fear, the fantasies. i had to go back to the breath. i had to find my way back to the breath. i had to find my way to nourishment.

t

o ask what nourishes me, i have to ask who am i? i have to know myself to know what i truly crave, what i want in life, what i want today. i have to make choices that align with my values, with the nutrients i need, those ingredients that reflect who i am in this moment, the story i am writing, the mother i am raising, the children i am growing. 

i sat with all the people who live inside me. i sat with my body. i asked her questions. 

i took notes on 

a blank canvas, a cold heavy block of clay, an un-lined sheet of paper, an empty wood floor

.

i am listening

. i heard her fears that fueled me for so long. i let myself know that i am here now.

i am listening

.

all of this became prayer. 

all of this, inside carpool, soccer practice, red DWP bills, family night, quesadillas, miracles.

nourishment became prayer.

::: this is part 4 in a series about home :::

part three: home.

"beauty is the conversation between what we think is happening

outside in the world 

and what is just about to occur far inside us" 

david whyte

what i think is happening and what is just about to occur far inside me.

i had to make room for what was happening far inside me. i had to begin a search for trust, i had to try to find the light switch for faith, what it looked like to believe, what it felt like to support me, on my own, table for one. to fall deeply & truly in love with all that i am, broken pieces, torn swatches, whole heart, lonely survivor, messy beauty. 

i had no other choice but to get really really quiet. 

inside the loud choir of chaos, the recipes to fix my life, the suturing of all the wounds, the should have's, the desperation that would creep up behind me inside needing a new pair of jeans, sneakers, underwear or the kids needs, wants, hungry for what everyone else had to a warm jacket, a lunchbox, a bike.

i remember the fittings my mother would set up for my sister and i in palm beach, florida. we would 'get fitted' for an occasion. in the dressing room with a three part mirror, my mom & usually an older jewish woman looking at me over her glasses to see if the length was just right in the back, to see if they needed to take it in a little more on the side, to see if it was perfect. 

my wanting got so thick & sticky like sourdough rising under saran wrap. 

the waves of wanting would take me under, i could hardly breathe.

i wanted to run. i wanted to sit still. i wanted to eat cookie dough ice cream and watch a romantic comedy. i wanted to order 6 of everything. i wanted someone to rub my back, tuck me in and sit with me while i fell asleep. i wanted a mother, a grandmother, a great grandmother. to see me. hear me. tell me i am going the right way. everything is perfect, just like the hem on my dress.

the only thing i could find was beauty.

beauty in everything. 

beauty and ocean in everything.

hope was turning into beauty. 

i could gather, create, be inside of, understand, reflect, taste, smell, quilt beauty into the pain. the entire feast of savory and sweet, i could always create space for beauty. i found her inside my grandmothers cobalt tea cups, a warm wide wood bowl you want to nap in, a perfectly deep and loving ladle. peeling parsnips, my hands inside of olive oil & salt, making love to a new kind of abundance. one that had nothing to do with things and everything to do with the story inside everything. i crave the lineage, the past, the present. the stories i didn't know, the ones i was making up on the fly, the permission to let the flab hang over the unbuttoned jeans, the lipstick on the teeth, burning the rice. 

inside the mess i found some more beauty. 

i found some freedom. 

i discovered nourishment. 

::: this is part three in a series unraveling on home you can find parts one & two

here

:::

part two: home.

::: this is part two of a series about home part one is

here

:::

the day we let go of hope, our new story could begin. 

mind you, i had no idea this is what was happening. we had so many clear tubes, colorful wires, electrical sockets, tied up placentas, injections of hope inside starting new, over and over and over again. 

we started a new for seven years. 

we were not going to give up. 

hope. 

there were many firsts. documentary style firsts. 

american express coming to the door on christmas eve to take my husband to court, selling the rings or the car being repo'ed in the middle of the night. car alarm blaring all the way down the hill with the car seats in it. 

picking the car up later that day with 6 pit bulls to guard the gate. 'this doesn't look like the volkswagon dealer dad.' 

heart breaking. 

heart all over the place. 

hearts full with hope. 

i couldn't find anyone

 who came from where i came and landed where i landed. i tried to make small talk. i tried to answer the questions 

how are you?

where are you going for spring break?

i tried to share the story. i tried to look for help, for support, for a mother. in the depths of hope i tried to lose the story or maybe i was hoping to find myself inside of it. the story never fit me. it was too big around the neck line or too tight in the hip. i was trying to do anything i could to lighten the heavy in a serrated terrain of thick thick shame. 

the yoga, the walking, the playdates, the writing, the working. how to live when so much is dying? how to live period. how to make a life in this life? the dreams, the vows, the definitions, old beliefs, the thinking, the knowing, my mothers voice, my fathers voice, the groundlessness of it all.

i couldn't find anything in there. i was no where to be found. 

i started to get really hungry. 

the only thing i could find was the fire. 

the cake plate. the wood board. the bread knife. 

the bartlett pear. the golden beet. the farmer. the land. 

the source. my breath. 5:30 am. the shame. the shame. the shame. 

the olive oil cake.

loneliness. the bad ass book. 5:30 am. my breath. miracles. homeopathy. my 

body.

 courage. the unknown. anxiety. panic attacks. deep loss. friendship. sadness. my vulnerability. all the broken pieces. soup. altars. arthritis. my marriage. baby white turnips. ocean. beauty. values. mary oliver. pema chodron. a kitchen healer. meridians. cupping. poetry. grief. dreams. fear. fearlessness. suffering. softening. 

my breath.

the only thing i could find was beauty. 

beauty in everything. beauty inside the pain. beauty inside the suffering. beauty in this polyester suit in summer. beauty in not knowing anything. beauty in the beatings. beauty in my breath. beauty in a bowl full of golden nugget tangerines. beauty in my lop-sided c-section scar. beauty in my body. beauty in my inflamed toes. beauty in everything. beauty in the leaning in. beauty in letting go. beauty in my fears. beauty in telling the story. beauty in the permission. beauty in the freedom. beauty in not knowing what is going to happen next.

::: this is part two in a series about home :::

part one: home.

today we closed escrow on our first home.

i am everything about it. i am the loss, the depth, i am the shallow, i am the commas, the period, the question mark, the exclamation point all in one. i am the spectrum of colors, i am roygbiv, i am the joy, the gain, the heavy, the light, i am all of the altars we made, the prayers we prayed, the longest of exhales, all the tears we shed. if i had to pick one word, one feeling to describe it all, to label this box in black sharpie, to print this chapter in a fancy font, it would read: grateful. 

i continue to ask myself what is a house? what is a home? so much. 

so much is a home. our home. i want to write all of it down, i want it to be in one short form, one map, one poem, one song. i am finding (in my research) that a home is where we define our first stories, where we edit, cut, paste, change, shift, grow, die, birth ourselves, our childhood, our adulthood, our motherhood. it's a beginning, it's an end, a backdrop, a bed, a soup. a home is cupcakes, silver, a floral tea cup with a broken stem. a home is a place, a feeling, a smell in the morning, a sound in the night, a body. a home is sauteed onions, garlic and olive oil.  

as a little girl, a home was

 chandeliers, limoges, amber glass, anger, broken mirrors, walk-in closets, a foyer, fancy parties, lazy susans and pianos that played on their own. a home was toasted plain bagels with whipped cream cheese in a plastic tub, sliced thin tomato with thick ribbons of bright orange nova on top. a home is where i learned about beauty, the good and the bad. it's where the mirror went from dear friend to confusing & complicated. 

a home was big and grew bigger over time. a home was 

so many things.

in our story, a home was hope. it was a marriage, a beginning, a wedding, conception, birth, midwives, doulas, wood toys, a miscarriage, growing bellies, paintings, gatherings, breast feeding. it was my husband's pride, it was what you did to begin your story, it was a start to so much more. it was the top of the mountain, the view, the vastness, the definitions of who and what we were, how to live a life, how to create a day, how to turn on the fire, how to nourish all the broken bits. in time, our home became white knuckles, desperation, unpaid bills, shame, vulnerability, loss, a desire to run and never come back, an unraveling of the cellular structures from which we came, a garage full of fabric, seven years of 1-800 calls, strangers coming to the door, taking pictures, almost losing hope, then gaining hope, then losing it, then gaining it until finally we let hope go all together. 

the day we let go of hope, 

our new story could begin.

as we take the key off the key chain and leave it in the drawer for this new family, i feel grateful for their new beginning, their new life together and the family they are creating. 

so many new stories just waiting to be createdxxxx

::: this is part 1 of a series about home :::

parsnip fries with love.

beauties!

it's been 1 month and 1 week.

lets just say, i miss you & i am not 
going to let the guilt bring me under!

here is some parsnip love to kick off

the new year with beauty & love. 

PARSNIP FRIES

olive oil

garam masala

curry, tumeric

cinnamon

salt & love

throw on a baking sheet/casserole dish

put in the oven at 400 - 415

for 30- 45 minutes

check and move around at

20 minutes

enjoyxxxx

roasting, roasting & some more roasting.

:::beauties:::

if there is one conversation to 

have about turning on the fire

it's called roasting which really

means turning on the oven when

you walk into the kitchen without

knowing...what is going in it, what meal

you are cooking for, what time you need

to leave, all of it. you will be hungry, 

there

will be food: 

the end...or just the beginning.

this fire on in the home is 

a below the neck chat.

it's not about figuring 

anything out other than making

your tea/coffee, 

grabbing a bread knife or some scissors

and throwing your veggies into a dish to hang out

in the heat while you make breakfast, school lunches, 

brush your teeth and get the routine under way.

this is the way to fold your nourishment into day

to day busy lives we lead..

you will need 

a roasting dish

or baking sheet some olive oil 

& salt.

turn the oven to 375-400 convection bake or roast

take out your beets, your 

cauliflower, turnips, carrots...

you can wash them if 

there is soil or you feel the need

put them 

in the vessel, pour oil, salt, love & done.

***no need to peel anything***

i think the prep is about 6-8 minutes depending on 

how long it takes to cut something into pieces or wash

off dirt; 

this can happen in 2 or 3 increments if needed

you might need to take the kids to school or the cat

is stuck in the tree or you realize you need to go on a

long drive...whatever the case you can turn off the oven

and they can cook inside the heat or take them

out knowing that you are part way there or or or ...

this idea that we need to stop and 

cook sets us

up to never cook except for on thanksgiving

my feelings on that topic are in a novella out of print!!

this is DOABLE.

warm your heart, your home, your family

roast something yummy today

XXXX