Greetings from my vintage floral couch, which is covered in fabric glue and patches because its upholstery is too delicate for this world.
Sometimes positivity comes out of me as a form of politeness. I don’t want to leave a rain cloud in anyone’s space. It seems rude. But living is made up of a great, imperceptibly vast range of experiences, and some are more challenging than others. This week? Not the easiest. This year? Probably no one’s favorite.
Ah, but even when I feel like Eeyore, I still automatically take note of the tiny things that are wonderful. Like eating a watermelon yesterday and letting the juices drip onto the ground outside. It felt like real summer. Or, putting ice in my water for once and feeling the soothing cold in my throat as I swallowed. And, of course, every time my cat jumps out from under the bed out of nowhere, like a wild Pokemon ready for cutesy battle.
A wild Holden has appeared.
Coping it up
I’d rather be living it up — big glass of frozen margarita on a yacht in Miami, or something? — but alas. Many days of late have asked for special care, a little extra attention to coax them through to the end. Here’s what I’ve been trying to help alleviate anxiety and step away from doom and gloom.
Nadi shodhana aka alternate nostril breathing. Many-a-yoga classes have included rounds of this form of Prāṇāyāma (breathing exercises), where you block one nostril, inhale and exhale through the other, then switch. They say it’s good for grounding and managing anxiety, so I finally tried it in a time of high stress. Definitely a tool worth having in the toolbox. This Yoga with Adriene video will show you the ropes.
Burgers. Or any fatty, heavy, or greasy food. Probably not good to make that 100% of one’s diet, but adding in something like this into the roster of lentil salads, avocado toast, and black bean tacos helps me feel more grounded, literally anchored by its weight in my belly.
Saying no to coffee. I’ve wanted an iced latte every day of this week, but I knew that adding caffein jitters on top of my anxiety would not be helpful. Instead, I crushed up some old lemons and turned them into lemonade, then asked myself why I had never done this before. (Is this symbolic?) Later, I reaped the benefits of Jake’s latest kitchen project, home made ginger beer, which tastes like gingery kombucha made with love.
Making plans. It seems like risky business when tensions are high, but I’ve found that making plans — and sticking to them no matter how I feel when they come around — has been a big help in pulling me out of depression.
Learning other people’s songs on guitar. Pressure can take the fun out of anything. I occasionally go for periods of time without playing guitar because I feel like I have to do something really profound and amazing every time I pick up the ol’ axe, and since I’m afraid of falling short, I just don’t touch it. I shook off that feeling this week by finally starting to learn the lead for “Somebody to Love” by Jefferson Airplane for fun. (I would give you a video, but that would put pressure on me and defeat the purpose, so just believe me when I tell you I shred. ;) )
The right audiobooks. Fictional, intricate drama is an excellent distraction from the stresses of the day. I’m currently listening to “The Husband’s Secret” by Liane Moriarty, author of “Big Little Lies,” both of which are juicy with surprising plot twists, intriguing mystery, and strong, independent women.
Plantlife
When I first started buying house plants, I thought everything came down to watering. I paid little attention to the issue of light, and none at all to the concept of fertilizer. Instead, I tried, awkwardly, uncomfortably, to provide the right amount of water for a potted plant on any given week. I thought if I could just find the balance of this one thing, It’d be smooth sailing for me and my indoor garden.
I got better at this element of plant care when I let go of the notion that there was a clear-cut path to the right amount of hydration, and considered the fact that there are different facets of care at play.
Now I can keep most plats alive, but in many cases not thriving. Still, I feel a sense of pride seeing the plants I bring home maintain some green-ness.
Then I’ll see an Instagram post of a clean, crisp room filled with plants that are busting out of their pots like deep green fountains. Suddenly, my thin little areca palm seems less impressive.
I have to remind myself a) not to compare my plant life to the pictures on the small hand-held computer, and b) even if the plants plateaued for now, it’s not too late to help them become their best selves.
These reminders apply to things outside of the realm of plants, too. Everyone grows, changes, and lives at their own pace, and everyone has their own unique set of needs along the way. There’s no black and white prescription for a happy and fulfilling life. It takes time and communication, trial and error.
More plantlife
This song for you is by Autolux, a band that formed in Los Angeles in the early aughts and played with many personal favs, like Broadcast and Deerhoof. Close your eyes, press play, and imagine walking, slow motion, down a hallway of classmates at their lockers on the first day of school, paper airplanes flying, hair flipping, friends high-fiving.
Or, alternatively, there’s this classic:
My dream date with Paul Hollywood
I think we all deserve to have a little fun this weekend. I hope you appreciate my effort to lighten the mood this Friday afternoon by sharing an excerpt from my journal in which I tell of a recent dream about Paul Hollywood.
As I approached Paul Hollywood’s large home, I felt uncertain about my decision. “How did I get into this?” I wondered — and I literally did not know, for I was dreaming.
The activities were set to begin immediately — no small talk. This was obviously pre-arranged in some prior fit of passion. Maybe we’d indulged in too much cake and wine at some bake-off related festivity. Maybe, high from all the chocolate, I’d begun to see some charm in his little rabbit teeth that peak out from his thin little mouth. Maybe I’d felt hypnotized by the soulless stare of his steel blue eyes. Clearly I’d wanted to go for a swim in that void, to see where it’d take me, so I’d made some kind of arrangement in a scene that’s out of my reach, filed away in that untouchable part of the dream world that orbits away from us at the speed of light.
Paul Hollywood was inside waiting, his bed conveniently just through the door. He wore a white undershirt, blue and white striped boxer shorts, and that obnoxious smirk he gets when someone on the show teases him for being so very Paul Hollywood about something. As I came in, he stood up with one knee on the bed still, welcoming me to immediately join his bundle of blankets and god knows what else.
I internally panicked at the sight of his sleazy, half-naked appearance. I didn’t actually desire to have sex with Paul Hollywood, not at any point since I’d entered the dream. But I was curious, and amused I’d made such an arrangement, and trusting the insane judgement of my younger dream self, I decided to move forward with the ridiculous engagement. “Better be extra careful, though,” I thought, wondering about condoms.
But still, I couldn’t go straight to the bed. I needed to prepare mentally for contact. I rushed by him and into the bathroom where I was able to dilly dally until the man lost his will, among other things.
When I came out, he had gotten dressed, and was not unhappy about me dodging the love making. Instead, he gestured at me to follow him, the thick material of his dad-like canvas coat crinkling audibly with each movement. We were going to meet his friend for lunch.
I was then I realized I hadn’t just agreed to hook up with Paul Hollywood. I had agreed to date Paully Holly. (This nickname, which escaped from my pen unbeknownst to me, proves that this is no fling to my dream consciousness.)
I followed him to meet some other square man with a square goatee. We were in a gorgeous home, an estate, almost a castle. A big, beautiful old house with porches all around it and trees outside of that, three floors each scattered with windows out of which curtains danced in the breeze. I looked up and saw my friend Caroline leaning out of one. Above her, proud bronze letter spelled “Manderly.”
“Caroline!” I waved. “You didn’t tell me you grew up in a wealthy English estate!”
She just shrugged and went back away from the window.
I was thrilled to be strolling through such beautiful property, a place straight out of classic literature.
I looked over at my Paully Holly and squeezed his hand. He was making his annoying squinty-eyed smile mid-sentence.
I expect we enjoyed the rest of our time there but unfortunately (or luckily) I had to leave that world to wake up at 4 a.m. and look concernedly at our bedroom doorway for intruders, as I always do, like clockwork.
Fortune cookie
A jar of queso dip is only worth $5 when it is worth $5.
TTFN,
Katya