Category: Life and Home

Tea for One

I make a cup of tea. I have to heat the water in the microwave because there’s no kettle, but I make a cup of tea. For the casual office worker, throwing a Lipton into seaming water will suffice, but I was raised differently and this just isn’t a cup of tea. It’s Yorkshire tea.…

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Thank You, Rilke

“No feeling is final,” wrote Rilke, and for these simple, four words, I express gratitude to yet another man I have never met. You see, I have exhausted myself with grief again, and it feels like more of a workout than this morning’s yoga practice, which was both strong and strangely opening. I don’t know…

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Winter and Spring.

When it was Winter, my hands were cold, by my heart was warm. Now it is spring, my heart is warm, but I still can’t feel my fingertips. I’ve never noticed this season’s ethereal vibrancy before, but it’s ubiquitous and charming in its romantic innocence. Actually, no, the flowers and the trees are far from…

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Flowers in the Trees.

When the ice cracks, before it starts melting, it’s one of the sharpest sounds, followed by relief; Spring is coming. I read once upon a time in the Little House on the Prairie books that on a big lake where the ice was very thick, this sound was like gunshots. Fortunately, I haven’t heard that…

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Air and Snow

I can’t write. I can’t sleep. There goes more of the wine, and some chocolate, and I’m surrounded by walls of boxes. Then I sleep. I sleep more deeply than I have in ages, but the dreams make no sense; I’m used to that, this week. I see ends and beginnings and snowfall piled high,…

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Bespoke is Not Just a Word

There’s a suit hanging in your closet. I can’t quite see all of it, but occasionally there’s a glimpse of unfamiliar – to me – material.  In my head, I call it “the bespoke suit” but that’s a combination of my own whimsy and the wordsmithing I have to do during the day to satisfy…

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Walk the Line…Or Not

Ashtanga is a different journey everyday, although the path is the same, akin to my walk to the same studio, every morning. Yet there are nuances to this road, one day it rains and Washington Square Park has a dreary splendour, punctuated by residents walking their dogs and the occasional flash of color from a…

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Jump

My toes are touching the edge of the curb and to jump off would to be to leap down into something of which I cannot see the bottom. I know it looks limitless here, on the street, even though really I’m simply perceiving the reflection of water on the tarmac. Dark matter, perhaps, without beginning,…

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Touching the Sky

I used to be afraid to fly and one pre-flight drink was not enough, the conservative dose of alcohol merely dulling the anticipatory panic that this would be a ‘bad’ flight, where I would lose my grip on reality and be that person freaking out on the plane. But then your fingers found mine and…

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