Lentil and Chickpea Curry

This was so easy, which is just what I need now that I'm so busy, and it was surprisingly tasty. If you leave off the topping at the end it's even vegan. 

1/2 onion, chopped    1/2 celery stalk, chopped    2 cloves garlic, smashed and chopped

1 diced carrot   1 bay leaf         1 Tbs olive oil         

1/2 red bell pepper        1 1/2 Tbs curry powder, I use zanzibar curry

1 quart vegetable broth (you could also use chicken broth if not vegetarian)

1 can (15 oz) organic lentils* 

1 can (15 oz) organic chickpeas

*I used dried lentils, soak them for a few hours in water before cooking

Toppings: Plain yogurt or sour cream

                 Fresh cilantro

Saute onion, carrot, celery, garlic, and pepper in olive oil until soft. Add curry powder and stir for a minute or so. Add broth, beans, and bay leaf. Cook on low heat for 30 minutes.

Serve topped with cream/yogurt and fresh cilantro.
I'm guesstimating that it serves five and has around 30 grams of protein per serving. 

Who Knew I was Practicing Lojong?

We learn at a young age how to react to the world. We mimic the behaviors of our primary caregivers. Part of this is survival instinct; we want to fit in. Another theory is the nature versus nurture controversy. How much of what we do is simply repeating the habits of our parents, grandparents, siblings? How much is our inherent nature? This has always been a subject that fascinates me, hence the Psychology degree, and lately I've been ruminating over my penchant for drama. As a youth I loved drama. For years all my dad and I had to talk about was other people...these days we don't have much to say to each other, but we've found an equilibrium.

I have had more than a few dramas lately, giving me the opportunity to practice lojong.

I didn't realize I was practicing lojong until I read Pema Chodron today. Lojong is a Buddhist teaching that states “whichever of the two occurs, be patient”; whether the situation is painful or pleasurable, sit with it and wait to react.

What I realized is that I may announce to the world that my finger is “possibly broken” when in actuality it's just badly injured. Yes, still a bit of drama in me, yet when it comes to the big stuff I've learned the ways of lojong. There have been interactions with others recently that could have gone terribly wrong, yet I chose to sit and wait before reacting.

As I continue on this path I might allow my drama queen to come out now and again, but at least I'm the only one involved in my drama.

Holy Cow Batman, I Got Published!

I got a yoga article published in Elephant Journal. Please read, the more hits I get the more likely it will be promoted. Thanks all!

http://www.elephantjournal.com/2014/11/whatever-happened-to-the-eightfold-path-in-yoga/

Where Does All This Deep Thinking Come From?

     I spent most of last week alone, which is normally an uncomfortable place for me, but not this time...which was a pleasant surprise. I found that I enjoyed my own company, that I relished eating whenever I wanted, walked the dogs only if I felt like it, and I meditated to my heart's content. I think a catalyst for this positive experience was a series offered by Shambhala Mountain Center called Awake in the World. I received an email invitation to participate in this free function that just happened to be offered the week that Pete was gone. I made a mental commitment that I would participate every day, which meant anywhere from one to three hours of webcast each night, depending on how many I chose to participate in. This webcast stimulated so much deep, contemplative thinking within me that I feel compelled to get some of my thoughts down in words.

Here's what I took away from this week of study:

• We live in a perpetual state of speediness, yet where do we think we're going? The world is round.
• Compassion can only come through empathy; sympathy places me above you. So I will continue to remind myself to meet people eye to eye with an empathy for their suffering.
• Through meditation I quiet my mind. Quieting my mind allows me to return to the world more present. This present moment is all there is, and now the moment is gone and I'm on to the next one.
• Everything is impermanent, so why do we get so attached to the ups and downs of our lives? The good times will pass and the bad times will pass. Floating on the waves of my emotions is my goal.
• I will work to accept those I love (including myself) just as they are, knowing that good days and bad days are both a part of this love thing.

     In the Buddhist tradition there is no good/bad, there just is; but I find it hard to express myself without this dichotomy.  I write this in the hope that my ramblings might inspire you to stay present to the kick ass moments as well as those moments of total sucky-ness this week.  

Love is…..

I have stood shoulder to shoulder with you for a lifetime.

There were times that I wanted to run away from your hatefulness.

There were times I felt you were my only refuge as you held me tight.

There were times I lashed out in anger and I was met with overwhelming compassion.

There were times that I was soft and loving and I was shunned.

After all this time we still stand,

shoulder to shoulder, trying to figure out how to love each other.

Raw, ugly, beautiful, tender......it is all encompassing.  

A Snapshot of Kansas City

     The skies had been gray for days, and the threat of rain hung heavy in the air. It was the last day of my visit and I found myself sitting at the River Market Emporium. Exhausted, I stared in no particular direction waiting for my friends to join me. As I sat with my hands wrapped around a hot coffee mug, my attention was drawn to a young family seated at a table to the right of me. The man is barely twenty with his hair pulled back in a long, dark braid, a star tattoo visible on his neck. Anger is emanating from him like steam from dry ice. The woman, presumably the mother, sits across from him completely mesmerized by her cellphone and seemingly oblivious to the children. Next to the table is a double stroller. I thought what a clever design it was. The older child, a girl of no more than two, was sitting in a basket next to the man and was elevated higher than the younger child who sat in a basket facing the older sibling on a lower level. My awareness was pulled to their table by the stirrings of the older child in the stroller. In my sleep deprived state I felt nostalgic and wistfully watched the needy child with a certain expectation.
     The sweet scene is suddenly shattered with a horrible flick of the hand. As if in slow motion, the child in the elevated seat moves her hands to hover over her ears; eyes wide, a shudder moves from her head, vibrating down the length of her body. A sudden picture of Munch's Scream flashes across my mind. The man’s hand has come and gone so fast I thought for a moment I had imagined it. I jerk my head in his direction and we make eye contact. His disdain for my judgment, my shock, my gender, is palpable and I glance away in fear. My eyes move back to the child, her mouth is quivering, her eyes are filled with tears and my heart breaks. The man leans over and yanks the bonnet down on the stroller to shield himself from the child he has just punched in the ear. With the movement I hear “Don't you cry” and he gets up to leave, my assumption is to go to the bathroom. I'm stunned at having witnessed such a twisted, intimate scene when I remember the mother. My hopes are suddenly buoyed for the child as I look to her for some kind of justice, but I quickly see that will not happen.

“The eye never forgets what the heart has seen.”~an African proverb

I will not forget that child.

The Werewolf

     I have been running as long as I can remember. Age is catching up to me now though, and, after a long bout of resistance, I gave in and purchased a road bike. Now I find myself cruising the streets of Redlands three nights a week for cardio. I'm a creature of habit and quickly fell into a routine route. Each night I head up the steep roads that lead to Sunset, a windy path that skirts a ridge around the south side of town. On one side of the street there are well appointed houses filled, in my imagination, with doctors and college professors and on the other side of the street there is a steep drop off to the canyon below. I ride at dusk, timing carefully so as not to be out in the darkness, as the prolific stories of mountain lions are probably wildly exaggerated, but I'm not taking any chances. I stop at the top of the hill and pull over to the side of the road for a water break. As I pull my bottle out of it's holder something catches my eye from down in the canyon. The irrigation system has just turned off and the remaining light is catching the water laden oranges reminding me of glitter-covered Christmas orbs. A train speeds toward the crossing below, slicing through the groves as it blasts its horn in warning. For some reason a chill runs up my spine as the horn blows.

     As I drink I realize it's been a quiet night. Normally I see a plethora of other bicyclists on the route, but tonight has been exceptionally lonely. I glance to my left and notice the ancient cemetery that sits high above our town. I haven't given it much thought in the past, but tonight it draws my attention. I remember reading in the paper that the cemetery is the source of many of the purported mountain lion sitings. I'm a reasonably seasoned outdoors woman and I know that animal encounters, especially in a city, are rare, but I'm feeling on edge tonight. I slide my water bottle back into the metal holder on the frame of my bike and begin to make my way home. I peddle toward the end of the cemetery wall where it ends at an awkward four way stop. As I approach the stop sign I begin to notice a strange sound coming from the other side of the cemeteries boundary wall, something I think might be mechanical, yet seems strangely human.

     When I reach the four-way stop there are no cars around, yet the noise grows louder. I swing around the corner and notice another cyclist heading up the steep hill. The noise seems to be coming from his bike. I wait at the stop sign for a moment as he approaches, thinking I might need to offer him some assistance from the sounds of things. As he gets closer I can see he's in his late twenties, he's fit, and his bald head is glinting with sweat. He has a long, bushy beard that seems somehow incongruent with the picture. I sit at the top of the hill as he draws nearer, and once more I notice the strange unease that has plagued me the whole ride. I suddenly realize the noise is not coming from his bike, but he himself is emitting a loud guttural sound. He comes to a stop just below me on the other side of the road. He sets his feet down on either side of his bike and raises his arms skyward, he looks into my eyes, his mouth drops open and he spews out a ferocious howl. His face is contorted in anger, at what I don't know. I'm filled with sheer terror as I picture the werewolf of my youth and I begin to peddle like hell down the hill to get away from him. My adrenaline is pumping and I ride hard, glancing back every so often to make sure I'm not being followed. I pull into my driveway and open the back gate sliding my bike through. I slump over the bike and suck in a huge breath, sighing it out, I rise back up. I'm not sure what I just saw, but I'm once more sure there are things that I will go to my grave not understanding.