How a Dress with Pockets Can Cure Everything.

Originally featured on Elephant Journal April 26, 2017

I love my dresses with pockets.

I have at least four. One in cream linen with fuchsia and lavender wildflower print, one in white muslin with burnt orange embroidery, one in slippery man-made fabric with hot pink ornate vases, and one in studious black cotton with white lace.

Most importantly, they all have functional pockets.

 Any time I was sick growing up, my mom’s advice always included putting something nice on (after drinking a glass of water, of course). As a teenager, I humored her. I didn’t believe there was any way that getting out of my comfy pajamas would actually get rid of my headache. Until, of course, I got out of my comfy pajamas and my headache went away.

My mom was unwittingly channeling Chögyam Trungpa and his teachings on inner drala. Psychologically, it’s similar to “fake it until you make it,” and I can attest that it works.

When we look good, surprisingly we feel better.

Dressing is a way of communicating with the world around us. For better or worse, we dress according to gender norms, wealth, religious beliefs, activities, culture, age, body shape, and the weather. We most often dress for others before we dress for ourselves. We meet work dress codes, uniforms, and society’s relentless expectations.

Getting dressed each day can quickly become a chore.

But we have a choice. We can choose instead to dress joyfully.

My teenage self would be loath to admit it, but my mom was onto something. In the same way that clearing and cleaning the space around me instantly improves my mood, I always feel better after putting on an outfit and jewelry that I love. It’s like magic. When I lived alone and insomnia kept me up in the middle of the night, I’d try on my fanciest clothes just…

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Decadent, Raw Vegan Truffles even the Carnivores in your Life will Love. {Recipe}

Originally featured on Elephant Journal April 16, 2017

Many moons ago, I was vegan.

I never adopted a raw-food-only diet, but I surrounded myself with plenty of people who did. Now, not so much.

 My husband proudly tells my family that he “cured” me of my hippie-food ways. He likes to think so. Deep down—actually not so deep—I’m still a pure food foodie. I just camouflage these tendencies by eating almost everything now.

But there are a few holdovers from my vegan-dominated diet that will never disappear from my life. This raw, vegan truffle recipe is one of them.

It was inspired by a friend from college. She made a variation of these and I devoured them, even though they weren’t meant for me. I kind of felt terrible, but not enough to actually stop eating them.

I’m not always good at following recipes. When I cook, I make most dishes based on the ingredients on hand. This drives my husband nuts. He’s an engineer, so when he cooks, measurable numbers rule the kitchen. He will often make a dish without ever tasting it before serving. I find this sacrilegious, but it works for him.

Me? I cook with approximations. I cook based on what I’m hungry for, or what happens to appeal to me. Sometimes, dill makes it into every dish I prepare during the week. Sometimes I crave fresh mozzarella and it sneaks into my shakshuka recipe.

I use a lot of loose guesstimates when measuring too. I make a Moroccan carrot soup, and it’s different every single time I make it. Sometimes, I vary the ratios based on my mood. Because of this, I’ve never actually written down one of my recipes—until now.

This means that I had to whip up a new batch of these truffles—oh no! And sample a few—or a lot. They’re practically vitamins, so feel free…

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Why I’m Writing my own Obituary.

Originally featured on Elephant Journal April 1, 2017

I once read that big publications ask journalists to keep obituary drafts on celebrities so that they can quickly publish in the event that one of them meets their ultimate demise.

Although this seems morbid, it’s also practical. I was recently reading a 3,500 plus word obituary published within hours of the death of a public figure in Ireland, and I was struck by how deep and thorough it was. In comparison, the obituaries of beloved local members of my community—oft written by loved ones—were rather shallow and fleeting.

This bothered me.

We’re all a bit voyeuristic. I can’t be the only one who reads obituaries of people I don’t know and have never met. The obituaries that I find most touching are the ones that reveal the humanity and uniqueness of a person.

How did they live in ways like no one before them? What can I learn from their lives? What stories did they embody in flesh and bone that will live on in the memories and hearts of those still here?

I started considering my own life and what I want to be remembered by. There are the basic facts: name, date of birth, age, eventual death details. But aren’t we all more than just dates and numbers?

My brother and I have had a long-standing pact that we will write each other’s obituaries. He has the same infatuation with language that I have, and a keen ability to reveal truths.

But instead of leaving it all up to my brother (and to chance), I decided to draft my own obituary.

Let me be clear: I’m not doing this because I think we should live in a state of fear that death is around every corner; rather, we should live in the knowledge that life is full and…

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How the Deepest Massage of my Life Brought me Back to my Body.

Originally featured on Elephant Journal March 28, 2017

A month ago in Dubai, I had the deepest massage of my life.

As the massage therapist stretched, pulled, and pressed on my sore exhausted flesh, I immediately knew this massage was different.

Like so many of us, I often walk around somewhere up in my head and barely notice my feet meeting the earth. This tendency to live in my mind is what compelled me to play competitive sports as a child, then find yoga and dance as an adult.

Although my habit is to live up in my comfy cerebral space, my body craves being lived in. Sometimes vigorously, but mostly just actively, even if it happens in fits and spurts. I’ll spend days not doing much intentional movement and then I’ll get the itch and dream of running—sprinting down my street. Or I’ll get the taste of cobwebs on my skin and I need to move. Now. Jump. Stretch. Shimmy. Climb something until my chest heaves and sweat makes dusty rivulets down my legs.

I love massage and I’ve had my fair share of them—in seven different countries. I adore the ritual. I crave the therapeutic benefits. I need the relaxation. I cherish the self-care.

My mother introduced me to the magic of massage when I was a teenager. After getting professional massages together as a birthday treat, my mom decided on a whim to buy a massage table. Her intention was to give me and my brothers all the benefits of massage from the comforts and ease of home.

I can remember one sunny summer day she set the table up in the grass of our backyard and gave each of us a sugar scrub rub that ended with a run through the sprinkler. Unfortunately her dream was…

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Do we need another Reason to Adore Prime Minister Justin Trudeau?

http://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-38960035

Originally featured on Elephant Journal March 15, 2017

About a month ago, while crossing from the United States into Canada, two men lost almost all fingers to frostbite in their desperation to seek refugee status.

“Asylum seekers are illegally crossing from the US into Canada in growing numbers hoping to receive refugee status. One small prairie town in southern Manitoba has become the nexus point for migrants who have lost hope in the US.

Mohammed says he once viewed the US as a beacon for human rights and a place that welcomed newcomers but ‘when we came, we didn’t see that.’”

Where is our outrage?

Like most Americans, I am ashamed to admit that I’ve become jaded to the plight of refugees. We read about climate refugees fleeing water shortages and famines. We hear about Syrian refugees fleeing bombs and desolation. We see boats filled with children drowning on a weekly basis. Rarely does the latest tragedy pierce our comfortable bubbles and actually force us to stop and think about what is happening outside our families and our homes.

I was horrified—stomach in my mouth, tears streaming down my face—while watching the interview with these two men. Being from Alaska, I grew up with a healthy appreciation of the seriousness of frostbite. But that’s not why. This isn’t happening in Europe or the Mediterranean—this is happening here at home.

Instead of finding the “Land of the Free,” and rather than waiting to see what policy changes come next from the new administration, desperate immigrants are leaving the U.S. and walking across the sometimes frigid, snow-covered border into Canada.

Sound familiar?

Many of the undocumented immigrants entering the U.S. from Mexico are Central Americans fleeing from violence in their home countries. It’s an ongoing American delusion to think that we have a monopoly on…

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Mindfulness in the Pediatric Ward.

Originally featured on Elephant Journal Feb. 2, 2017

Being in the hospital gives me PTSD.

Like actual PTSD. My breathing is shallow and fast, I start feeling trapped and claustrophobic. I sweat. The really smelly kind of sweat. My mind fills with a torrent of fear that drowns out all other thoughts.

And to my horror, when I get angry at not being heard, I cry. When the tears burn down my face, I become even angrier that I’m crying and less able to speak up. 

This is why when I told my husband a year ago that we were going to have a baby, I also told him I’d like to have our baby at home. He was already familiar with most of my hospital traumas, including the discovery that I’m allergic to two common medications—after they were pumped into my IV. Twice.

I’ve been rushed into emergency surgery 3,000 miles away from home and I’ve spent a week as a medical test subject. I also have the type of veins phlebotomists dread. It takes three sticks on average for a needle to find a suitable spot. I once sprayed a two foot stream of blood across a wide-eyed nurse. 

After a month or so of petitioning for a home birth, he finally agreed and we found the most extraordinary midwife. We had a healthy pregnancy and a dream birth at home. Six hours of calm in a safe space with no medical intervention and full-on mindful breathing resulted in a healthy, happy, eight pound, 15 ounce bundle of joy.

All of our intentional avoidance of hospitals has now flown right out the window. 

Today is my second day in the pediatric ward hovering over my three month old son as he struggles to breathe. It’s taken me two days, two long exhausting days to wake up. Entering the hospital through the Emergency Room is like being placed on a…

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10 Things to Do Instead of Yelling at the News

I’ve spent a lot of time the past few days huffing and rawring at the news. Crying even. All of my sacred cows are being slaughtered in this new administration. I expected to be incensed, but I thought I’d get at least a few days respite in between each time I need to donate or make a phone call to my Senators or get out and protest. Apparently not.

So in order to stay sane since we are only ten days into the next four years, I’m going to commit to doing these ten things when I. Just. Can’t.

  1. Hug my little one. With the overwhelming despair that comes crashing down on my shoulders each time I open BBC News or the NYT or my Facebook feed–I’m recommitting to spending quality time with our three month old. During the day too often I turn to my phone, or CNN, or my laptop for a distraction. After the first few weeks of breast-feeding a newborn at all hours of the night, I stopped turning to my phone while nursing at night. For one, my googling was diagnosing my new baby with all manner of rare disorders and second, I was having a hard time getting back to sleep in between feedings. When your little one eats every hour and a half at night, those few minutes of sleep are precious. I’m fortunate to be able to stay home with our son. Even when I’m exhausted and my nipples are sore, I have been peed on for the second time in two hours, and my hair is a frazzled halo around my head–I’m trying to stop and remember that these precious moments won’t last. I’m savoring them while I have them. No matter what is going on in the world, taking the time to make my little one giggle is good for both of us.
  2. Eat. As a new mom I’m good at forgetting this one. I was good at forgetting this one when I was working before baby came too. Having a small child just compounds the consequences of not putting something in my mouth. Now. I get hangry. Niall is good at gently suggesting food or even better, putting something in front of me when I get so hungry that I think I’m no longer hungry and I feel weepy because the world is a disaster and everything hurts and I just don’t know what to do. Food. Put. It. In. My. Mouth. It’s simple and I guarantee that when I eat, the sun also comes out. The world is easier to handle on a full stomach. Preferably a slowly made, organic, free-range, in season, artisan meal. Or just a pickle. Really, I practically live off of condiments at the moment. That’s what I have time for. Surefire way of waking a sleeping baby? Make a cup of tea.
  3. Watch comedies. Seriously. I read constantly. I read a lot of depressing things. Niall is quick to point that out when I start telling him about all the things I’ve been reading. For my sanity’s sake I watch funny tv, funny movies, funny news shows.  Top of my list at the moment:@ Midnight, Blackish, Modern Family, Sherlock, and Full Frontal with Samantha Bee. I also sprinkle in The Daily Show, Top Chef, Project Runway, and lately a healthy dose of turning off the tv. I listen to podcasts too. Mostly Radio Lab, Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me, and This American Life. Alright, they’re not all comedies, but they do nourish me. Watch, listen, read for nourishment. Laugh. We have to laugh right now. Also, it’s all just filler until the next Outlander season starts.
  4. Surround myself with good people. Sounds obvious right? Spending time with people that bring out the best in me is good for everyone. They can be family, chosen family, even complete strangers in a place you feel welcome. At the Women’s March, I looked around and said “Yes! You are my people.” There were 1000 people marching in our small Palmer and I knew most of the them. It’s a comforting feeling to know that so many of my neighbors share my values. Even the complete strangers were good people. That includes online communities too. Fighting on social media tends to lead to fights in my real life. I take my online frustration out on those nearest my computer or my phone. Laugh with real people in real life. When our little one spit up all over Niall’s face while he was playing “Super baby!” I laughed so I hard I think I added five years to my life. Children are good for laughs. So is The Onion and Waterford Whispers News. 
  5. Make a list of my priorities. I’m not talking about a clean house or groceries or whatnot, I’m talking about my political values. I write them down. I sometimes create a hierarchy when it helps. I also add what I can do about them and organizations I care about to donate my time and money. Also get to know your elected officials so they can enjoy hearing about your priorities. Here are a few of mine:
    1. Reproductive health: Planned Parenthood
    2. Immigration: ACLU
    3. Refugee assistance: RAIS
    4. Community building: Radio Free Palmer
    5. News: NPR
    6. DVSA: Alaska Family Services
    7. Global education: Alaska World Affairs Council
    8. Community gardens: Grow Palmer
  6. Dress up. This is one from my incredibly insightful Momma. When I was sick growing up, her advice (after drinking a glass of water) always included putting something nice on. Something that made me feel good. Because when you look good, surprisingly you feel better. She was unwittingly channeling Chögyam Trungpa and his teachings on personal drala. It’s similar to ‘fake it until you make it’ and I can attest that it works. I always feel better after a shower and putting on an outfit and jewelry that I love. It’s like magic. When I lived alone and I was up in the middle of the night, I’d try on my fanciest clothes just because it felt good to do so. Now, when I can’t possibly drag myself off of the couch and out of my pjs, I put on a cute dress and earrings that hopefully I can a) breast feed in or else I flash whoever else is nearby and b) my baby doesn’t rip out of my ears. Sometimes I can only wear said outfit until the next hungry cry or watery burp, but even those few minutes are enough to shift my mood for the better.
  7. Move. Any kind. When it’s -25 degrees F, I dance around the house with my little one in my arms. Sometimes I ski. Sometimes walking up and down the stairs fifteen times to get another baby outfit or wash another load of baby blankets is enough. When I have a cooperating little one, I practice yoga. With or without the baby sitting on my sternum. I try to get outside as much as possible. Fresh air is almost as important as moving. But not when it’s psycho cold out, that’s what the treadmill is for.
  8. Make something. It can be anything. I excel at approx. 10 rows of stitching. The last thing I knitted to completion was a baby hat two days before our little one was born. The keys to its completion were that I had a pretty fast approaching deadline and that it only took me about an hour. I’m a fan of surrounding myself with pretty things. I like to make journals with old magazines and some cardboard and a lot of blank paper. Sometimes I sketch, mostly I make plans to make something, but when I do–oh the feeling is like a mini victory. Mini because I usually only have time for something small. Sometimes I arrange the magnets on the fridge into a pleasing pattern and that feels like enough.
  9. Clean my ears. This is probably just me, but cleaning my ears with a q-tip is one of my absolute favorite things. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it feels as close to swiping out the cobwebs from my brain as I’d like to get physically. There is something just decadent about cleaning my ears in the middle of the day. I also have to pause and stand still for a moment. I’m not the type to clean on the go. I really savor those few seconds. Especially when I don’t get a whole lot of alone time these days.
  10. Sleep. Haha. This one is a joke. Sleep. Yeah, everyone knows that sleep is necessary/divine/better than sex–elusive. This is wishful thinking on my part. 

I’ll be practicing these ten. They’re good for the soul even without the shadow of the next four years looming.

Gahhhhhhh! I just made the mistake of looking at the news. I’m going to go do #9, #1, and maybe, just maybe #10. Here’s to retaining my sanity and maybe becoming a better person in the process.