Save-a-Turkey Day 2013

Thanksgiving dinner's sad and thanklessChristmas dinner's dark and blueWhen you stop and try to see itFrom the turkey's point of view.Sunday dinner isn't sunnyEaster feasts are just bad luckWhen you see it from the viewpointOf a chicken or a duck.Oh how I once loved tuna saladPork and lobsters, lamb chops too'Til I stopped and looked at dinnerFrom the dinner's point of view.

—Shel Silverstein

  My cruelty-free Thanksgiving menu:

• cranberry sauce (the easy peasy version: 1 cup sugar and 1 cup water per 4 cups cranberries)
• super-easy lentil roast (recipe from Thanksvegan, which I picked up at the Boston Veg Fest)
• cashew gravy
• stuffing-by-the-seat-of-my pants (it'll have portobello mushrooms for sure)
• sweet potato casserole with millet and kale (I'm making this up t00—recipe forthcoming!)
• garlic mashed potatoes
• roasted carrots and parsnips
• cornbread (just the Trader Joe's mix with corn kernels added)

 And for dessert:

• pumpkin pudding
• upside-down pear gingerbread cake, veganized out of Jeanne Lemlin's Vegetarian Classics (feel free to email me for the recipe)
• coconut cream topping, recipe courtesy of Nina Hayes
• homemade apple cider (sort of—I'm going to juice a bunch of apples and mull with cinnamon sticks)

 I'm feeling very grateful—today and EVERY day—for a clear mind, excellent health and a body that does everything I ask of it, faithful friends and wonderful family, and the opportunity to make a living following my bliss. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! 

Cooking Mexican with Nina Hayes

Last Thursday night I had the great pleasure of taking a cooking class with Nina Hayes, whom I've mentioned on the blog before—she took Main Street Vegan Academy last year, we connected on Facebook after I moved to Boston, and now I take her Jivamukti class fairly regularly. I'd taken yoga with her that morning, so it felt like an all-day veganfest! There were four of us in the group, and everyone was very relaxed and friendly—a perfect environment for learning.  I know my way around the kitchen and don't feel too intimidated by new techniques, but not being intimidated is not the same thing as being enterprising enough to learn something new. Most of the time I fall back on the same recipes just out of a lack of time or planning. So a class like this is worthwhile not just for the veg-curious—it's useful for someone more confident and established in her veganhood, too.Here's the menu—all recipes Nina developed herself:

• spiced squash and bean tamales
• chipotle sour "cream" (made with cashews)
• seasoned kale chips with fresh guacamole
• Aztec chocolate mousse pie with coconut cream

Notice how she managed to put this meal together without any processed faux dairy products! Daiya and Tofutti are great for special occasions or when you're short on time, but ideally you'd whip up a healthier version from scratch, and Nina made it feel totally doable.        We used Nina's Vitamix for both the chipotle sauce and chocolate mousse, which got me REALLY excited to have one of my very own. My mom and sis—generous souls!—are buying me one for a birthday/Christmas present. Granted, I still don't have a kitchen of my own, but it'll be great even just to take it out of the box and use it once a week. As much as we love juicing, making smoothies with a high-powered blender is even healthier because you keep the fiber! I'm also looking forward to making coconut cream using Nina's recipe and tricks for my Thanksgiving desserts (an upside-down pear gingerbread cake and pumpkin pudding).If you're in the Boston area, you can subscribe to Nina's email newsletter on her website to find out when she's offering her next class. Highly recommended! 

The Pace of Nature

Illustration by Claudia Campazzo.

On a recent trip to San Francisco I reconnected with Maura McElhone, a friend from Galway and fellow graduate of the M.A. in Writing program at NUIG. A native of Derry, Maura now lives in Northern California. She says, "I firmly believe that life isn't so much about where we are or how we live, and all about who we're with as we live it. I dream of publishing a book, and of that book making an impact on someone, somewhere in the world." When she told me about making a set of extraordinary friends on four legs, I asked if she'd write a guest post for me. I hope you enjoy this story as much as I did.

***

Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.

—Emerson

It’s a chilly enough evening here in the north San Francisco Bay Area, but I've left the living room window open. I need to keep a constant ear out for them, you see: the deer that come by most nights now for a quick snack, and, in the case of one very special animal, the odd head rub, too.

I first met the deer I’ve come to know as “Gimpy” a little over a year ago when he, along with his mother (easily distinguishable by the sizable notch in her right ear and named “Mango” after the sweet yellow fruit that was the first thing she ate from my hand), would stop to graze on the grassy hillside just beyond my apartment during the spring and summer months.

Once the temperature dropped and winter came, the deer disappeared. To where, exactly, I don’t know. The fantasist in me likes to think of them kicking back with a cocktail on the deer equivalent of Barbados while waiting out the colder months.

When they returned in May of this year, I immediately noticed that the baby was having difficulty walking. It was only when the animals came closer that I was able to see the white bone protruding from his right hind leg. The break was clean, but this offered little consolation as I watched the tiny Bambi-like creature hobble around, dragging the useless limb behind him.

I began ringing various animal rescue centres, but at 9pm, only the answering machines were picking up. Finally, I got through to a woman in Virginia who ran a deer rehabilitation centre. She advised me not to ring the local humane society, but rather, to “let nature do its thing.” Breaks like this are common in young fawns, apparently, and if the animal is at all mobile, and its mother is still with it, it stands a good chance of recovery. The best thing I could do, she told me, was to give him food and water: let him come to associate that grassy hillside as being a safe haven, a place he could come for sanctuary or help. “If he needs you,” she said, “he’ll find a way to let you know.”

Looking at it on paper now, it does seem slightly ridiculous: the idea of this wild animal going out of its way to seek help from a human, a creature they fear from birth. At the time, however, I didn’t linger on the logistics. All I knew was that as long as this little animal continued to find his way to my apartment, I would do everything I could to care for him. I knew it would be tough. I was a human seeking to make a difference in a world that wasn’t mine, after all. The only way this would work would be if somehow deer and human could meet halfway.

So I interfered as little as possible. When Mango and the fawn I’d taken to calling “Gimpy” came by, I’d feed them and during the particularly hot days this summer, I left out a basin of water from which they drank readily. There was a period of maybe two months when I didn’t see either deer, and while I worried, I had to trust that as long as nature was in charge, things would play out as they were meant to.

As it turned out, he’d managed just fine. When he returned with Mango in early August, I saw that as the woman in Virginia had predicted, bone had met bone, and while he’ll never have a fully functioning limb, the break had healed enough to allow him to put weight on that leg. In fact, when he’s standing still, you’d be none the wiser about the injury at all. Only when he begins to move does the slight limp give him away.

More than a year has passed now since Mango and Gimpy first appeared, and rarely a week goes by when they don’t visit. But I’ve never grown used to it. I hope I never do. I hope that in the months and years to come, each and every visit still fills me with the same sense of humility, wonder, and privilege that I feel now.

All too often we are reminded of the separation between our own human world and the natural world, reminded that these two worlds should not and cannot intersect without negative repercussions for one side or the other. Indeed, for most people, the closest interaction they’ll have with a deer is if they have the misfortune of hitting one with their car. It’s why I’ll never take for granted moments like the one I was witness to this past July when I lay on my tummy on the floor for fifteen or twenty minutes, hardly daring to breathe for fear of interrupting the scene that was playing out before me: Mango licking Gimpy’s injured leg as he nuzzled her back. A mother caring for her baby, the most natural thing in the world, and a reminder that for all our differences, we’re actually not all that different.

Perhaps that’s the draw for me. Why wouldn’t I chance a relationship with these creatures who live lives not unlike ours, but better? Innocent and pure lives free from the weight of worry and stress; lives that revolve around eating, resting, and nurturing relationships with those most dear to them. Lives in which decisions are driven purely by instinct and trust. How lucky am I to be invited into this exemplary way of being, if only for a few moments at a time?

And when it comes down to it, that’s why I keep the windows open and brave the autumn chill: to hear the crunch of forest floor under hoof—my cue to slow down, to ready myself for another foray into this realm that exists only at the point at which our two worlds overlap, for a few moments of perfect cohesion and beauty.

I step out onto the balcony and cross to the railings; on the other side the shy doe with the nick in her right ear and the baby with the bad leg are waiting. I drop to my knees and stretch my arm through the railings, apple slice in hand. And while neither mammy or baby hesitates, their large, brown and innocent eyes remain locked on me as they move forward. Then, going against everything their instincts tell them, they take the treat from my hand, sometimes even allowing my hand to rest for a few moments on their heads.

And that’s when I’m in it—that perfect place that exists only at the midpoint between our two worlds and only for as long as the deer are willing to extend to me their trust. It’s quiet there, the only sounds coming from the mouths of the deer as they munch their apples and carrots. And it’s still. It has to be. The deer are skittish, likely to bolt at any sudden or unfamiliar noise or movement, shattering the perfection of these moments. No matter how busy my day has been, or how much I’ve been running around, when I arrive at this place where our two worlds come together, I’m forced to slow down, and to stop. If these creatures can overcome their inherent fear of humans enough to grant me these few special moments, it’s the least I can do to respect and embrace the rules of conduct in their most simple, innocent, and uncomplicated of worlds.

But that’s just my view from the inside. On the outside, at that cross section where nature and civilization collide, look up on the hillside and what you’ll see is nothing more exceptional than a 29-year-old woman, down on bended knee, offering an apple in her outstretched hand, to a baby deer with a gimpy leg who willingly accepts.

Find Maura on Twitter at @maurawrites, and read more of her writing on her blog.

Illustrator Claudia Campazzo was born and raised in Chile and is also a classically trained violist and violinist. You can find more of her lovely work on her blog.

The Pleasure of Old Books

The Saturday before last I spent a very happy few hours at the Boston International Antiquarian Book Fair, having received this free admission ticket at the book festival at Copley Square last month. I'd really wanted to go to a talk on the history of espionage Sunday afternoon, but I was on duty during the day, so I just went to the "Intro to Scrimshaw" talk on Saturday. Scrimshaw is the art of etching or carving on ivory or bone, often sperm whale teeth (or the bones of other aquatic animals), so I felt a little weird going to this talk, even if the presenter (Stuart Frank of the New Bedford Whaling Museum) did clarify that these animals were never killed for their teeth. As a vegan this particular art form may squick me out, but my next children's novel is set in an 18th-century maritime community, so being there was very productive for me research-wise. (Funny how I couldn't attend the presentation on a topic I've already researched for a book that's long since been put to bed. I often feel like I'm being nudged in the most fruitful direction.)But did I buy any interesting old books? Why yes, yes I did.  Most of the stalls were quite high end—pricetags of up to tens of thousands of dollars for first edition classics and rarities alike—and for the first half hour or so I thought I'd probably come away empty handed. I found several books (on Victorian ghost stories, Scottish folklore, etc.) that are most likely available via Google books, so there was no way I could justify a $200 or $250 expenditure even for a beautiful edition in very good condition. I love old books, but I'm not a collector by any means. I'm way more interested in the actual content—so much so that my own library is completely marked up and highlighted, and therefore "worthless." Sweet, sweet irony.I eventually discovered Willis Monie and Penny Daly of Wellread Books, both of whom make a point of offering obscure antique books at affordable prices. I must have browsed this single stall for an hour. (These bookshops are respectively located in Cooperstown and Northport, New York.)Do you ever feel the magical lure of old books? I choose an interesting old tome, and I haven't paid for it yet, but it's already mine, it's definitely definitely mine....Then, with a queer little flash, I understand it chose me first.(At least it's tempting to feel that old books have secret lives and wants, especially when their former owners' names and date of purchase are written on the fly in beautiful penmanship. This book has been places. It has lived on other shelves, been held in other hands. Maybe it has traveled a long, long way to reach me.) Sisters of Sorcery, published in New York in 1976, with cover illustration by Edward Gorey. It has a "library edition" label, but I can tell I'm the first person ever to turn these pages. (Yup, I have already devoured it. So so good.) A Little Book of Courtesies by Katherine Tynan and Charles Robinson, published in London and New York circa 1906. A Child's Dream of a Star by Charles Dickens with illustrations by Etheldred B. Barry, published in Boston in 1903. Underwear and Lingerie, published by the Woman's Institute of Domestic Arts & Sciences in Scranton, P.A. in 1930. I'm looking forward to sharing these books with you in much greater detail in future posts! 

Birthday Surprises and Farmers' Market Goodies

 Last Thursday was my 33rd birthday. It feels a little odd to be writing that, not because I'm getting older but because (with all the yoga I've been doing) I feel like I'm getting younger! I'm continually amazing myself with all the cool poses I can do now that I didn't have the strength, balance, or flexibility for when I was a child. I took a wonderful Jivamukti class that morning with Nina Hayes, fellow MSVA grad and one of my new favorite yoga teachers. (I'm also taking her Mexican cooking class tomorrow night! So stoked for that.)That night I went with a bunch of friends to my favorite Boston restaurant, Veggie Galaxy. My two favorite things on the menu are the vegan mac (with nutritional yeast and turmeric, breadcrumbs, eggplant, leeks, and peas)—it's not gooey like "the real thing," but I do like to point out that "comfort food" is actually way more comforting when you know no animals were abused in the making of it.  The other thing I usually order is a frappe made with coconut ice cream—chocolate banana is my favorite flavor. "Out of this world," as my grandmother would say. I ordered one instead of cake for dessert, and look how it arrived!  Every birthday serves as a benchmark. What did I set out to accomplish over the past year, and to what extent have I been successful? How have I grown? How have I changed? What would I love to do next? Am I a better person than I was a year ago? This introspective process felt more relevant than ever given how much things have changed for me since my 32nd birthday. Just before I moved to Boston, I laid out a very clear picture of what I wanted my new life to look like, and it will surprise no one to hear that my life doesn't look much like the one I'd imagined.But I love this life, with all its uncertainties and "fine for nows." If some mysterious stranger offered to trade this life for the one I'd imagined, I would absolutely decline. You might say going out to dinner with my Boston friends was a celebration not just of my birthday, but of that imaginary choice. I can't even tell you how grateful I feel for the friends I've made here.* * *Birthdays are too important to keep to one day; I intend to celebrate for the rest of the month! (Have I ever shared my philosophy on birthdays, by the way? I've always been big on celebrating them because we are SO BLESSED to be able to do so. I went to high school with several people who will never celebrate their 30th or 25th or even 21st birthdays. It isn't a day for wishing you could turn back the clock; it's a day of gratitude for all the time you've been given.)Anyway, since we're talking about tasty vegan food, I thought I'd share a couple of surprising items I picked up at the Roslindale Farmers' Market last Friday. The first is a teeny-bit-spicy relish-slash-dip adapted from an old Creole recipe:  I think I'll serve this with gourmet crackers at Thanksgiving. The second item (the real surprise) was carrot granola (!) from A.k.a. Marvelicious, which is as local as local gets (they're based in Jamaica Plain):  My Little Sister and I tried a couple of samples, including their pumpkin pie, which was fantastic. I was skeptical about the carrot granola, but it's actually really good. I'm saving it for Thanksgiving weekend, when I'll be doing all my own cooking for once.Speaking of farmers' markets, here's a photo I took after a browse at Copley Square several weeks ago (I meant to blog this, and forgot). You might as well caption it "You know you're a hippie when..."  I showed Alex the contents of my bag—dinosaur kale for juicing, dehydrated flaxseed crackers, and a knitting project using hemp (for crying out loud), all in a reusable market bag—and asked, "Am I a hippie or a hipster?" He confirmed that I'm a hippie, because hipsters are apparently way dirtier than hippies. At least according to Alex. 

In Which We Are Nearly Trampled by an Elephant at Midnight

(Continued from The Long Road to Rushaga.) We fell into our tents that night, tired and happy to be reunited sooner than expected. When Jill and I woke up the others were already off on their gorilla trek, and we had a languid morning—fresh fruit for breakfast and "showers" before walking back to Rushaga for a tour of the village.  The village walk was fun, if a little awkward at times. Inescapably you become—as if you weren't already!—a very silly tourist. That said, we really enjoyed watching the ladies dancing and weaving trivets and baskets. (I'd intended to post a video I took of the dancing, but now that it's time it doesn't feel quite right to put it up. Does this make sense? Maybe it will if you keep reading.) Everyone was very kind and friendly, and genuinely so, as far as we could tell.    This may look like poverty by first-world standards, but we got the sense that the people of Rushaga were quite content with their lives. Enuth, our guide, told us that everyone here is adequately fed—that all their basic needs are met.  Still, it was hard not to feel horrified by the state of their schoolhouse, and I was very awkwardly aware of how privileged (and therefore ridiculous) I must look as an American tourist. We're told on the nightly world news and charity infomercials that children all over the African continent are living and dying in abject poverty, and it's hard to tell how "typical" a place like Rushaga is when their situation just outside a national park no doubt greatly benefits their economy.What I'm trying to say is, I felt grateful all over again for the many blessings and opportunities I've been handed, but at the same time I didn't want to think of the people I was greeting as deprived in any way. An unresolvable paradox, I suppose.  After our tour of the village, Jill went back to rest and Enuth took me past the camp to the most perfect waterfall I've ever seen. On a hill across the narrow valley I spotted Spencer coming back from his gorilla trek and called to him that we'd be eating lunch soon, which felt a little bit magical—finding the familiar inside the unfamiliar—or at least way more coincidental than it actually was.   We had a lovely (if wonky) meal that evening—including freshly made guacamole served with potato wedges. Jill and I stayed up late having a heart to heart (they happen naturally enough when you are tent-mates), and around midnight one of the camp staff came over to ask if we had any pineapples in our tent.Wha? (Of course not. Rule #1 of camping = no food in the tent.) The man explained that an elephant had been spotted in the forest outside the village, but not to worry, they'd be awake and vigilant all night long. Elephants love pineapple, apparently.(Oh, and have I mentioned that there are no protective barriers between campsite and forest?)Jill and I kept talking for another hour or so, and then I got up to pee. Contrary to what the attendant had told us, no one appeared to be around or awake. A few minutes later, bladder relieved and all ready for beddy-bye, I reached for the tent zipper...and heard a stomping noise, and the sound of cracking branches and shuddering leaves, in the trees just beyond the campsite.I froze. And heard it again.SHIT! SHIT SHIT SHIT! We are about to be trampled by an elephant and we can't see a thing!Jill was still awake, of course. She followed me down to the cabana where our meals were served, and we only briefly wondered if we were overreacting. (Hells no, we weren't overreacting! A day or two before a mama elephant had nearly charged the Land Cruiser, an experience which dosed us with a healthy fear of elephants. We'd unintentionally driven between her and her baby.)Kate and Elliot came down a minute later, having heard the stomping noises for themselves. Spencer was wearing earplugs, but we finally managed to rouse him, and we all grabbed our sleeping bags and piled into an empty banda.  (A banda is a one-room hut; ours had three single beds in it. We made do.) From a journal entry the following day:At first I couldn't get settled in the banda—too much nervous energy—and when I realized Jill was chewing Nicorette to calm down and now had to figure out how to dispose of it, I cracked up giggling, and eventually Elliot cried out in exasperation, "I feel like I'm camping with a bunch of three year olds!"Sorry for keeping you awake, Sir Pooh. In the morning we ventured out of the banda to find our tents intact, but I don't feel the slightest bit ridiculous for being on the safe side. Besides, it's the best story of the trip. (All Uganda and Rwanda entries.)

The Magic of Myth

You know how much I love Squam Art Workshops. I'm a much happier and more confident person for having attended, and writing that feels like an understatement. When I think of founder Elizabeth Duvivier, who over the past two and a half years has become a very dear friend, I often remember a book my sister wrote a report on in elementary school called Magic Elizabeth. That's how I think of her, because she's given so many people the space and the love they've needed to reconnect with their creativity—to see themselves for who they are, not just who everyone else expects them to be.

It was Elizabeth, too, who encouraged me to dig into the work of Joseph Campbell, and you might remember how much I loved his interview series with Bill Moyers. Joseph Campbell's most famous words are "follow your bliss," and the knowledge, inspiration, and friendships I've received from Squam have made it much easier for me to act on that advice. You can just imagine how excited I was when Elizabeth told me about her new online seminar, "The Magic of Myth"! This isn't just Elizabeth's take on the hero's journey—it's ours. Our lives don't happen to us, we create them, and I'm so looking forward to discussing myths and archetypes and how we can apply them. I signed up for the seminar today, and if you decide to take it too, let me know in the comments! 

Eating Out in New York, continued

 I've been down to New York twice in one week—first for a Yaddo "family reunion" at the Brooklyn Brewery last Wednesday night, and then to see a very dear friend visiting from far away. Naturally, I ate a lot of gorgeous vegan food.  I haven't ever spent much time in Williamsburg, so I Googled to find a list of vegetarian eateries near the Brewery. Bliss Café was the most convenient—cute, romantically lit, and bustling even at 6pm on a Wednesday. I ordered a "bliss bowl"—steamed kale and other veggies with beans, rice, tempeh, and lemon-miso dressing—a simple but delicious meal, washed down with beet-carrot-ginger juice.  I've been treating myself to a lot of dessert lately. (My birthday is tomorrow, after all!) This brownie, alas, wasn't nearly as moist and flavorful as the vegan walnut brownies at the Armory café, but at least the coffee was top notch. Overall I can't say I'd hurry back here—the service was a bit "oh? you want to eat? all right then, you can sit there I guess," and I do prefer to patronize restaurants that are 100% vegan.  The Yaddo party was fantastic—I didn't sample the brew (although most of their beers are vegan), but I made new friends and reconnected with a few members of my original posse. After the event we moved to a dive bar down the street. I was taking the train back at 2:40am, but I didn't actually have all that much time to wait around beforehand!   I found a 24-hour deli near Penn Station selling vegan cookies. Much much better than that Bliss brownie, but it tasted disconcertingly like egg nog! So the spices were there, but not in the right proportions, I don't think. And not enough pumpkin, clearly. That said, it was going on 3am and I was hungry, so it did the job.Now on to visit #2:  Yesterday was one of the very happiest days of 2013, hands down (tell you why later). My friend and I talked for hours over a thoroughly delicious quinoa and avocado salad at Peacefood Café on the Upper West Side. We also ordered gingerade and chickpea fries, of course!  Polished off lunch with a Brazilian nut chai and a chocolate-dipped macaroon. You wouldn't know it was vegan, right? SO SO GOOD. I also have to give Peacefood a shout-out for some excellent customer service. I love it when a server actually says "Welcome! How are you?"   Alone again at half past nine, I headed downtown to a restaurant I used to love in my NYU days called Quantum Leap (Yes!), but I was disappointed to discover they now have fish on the menu. (New owners, probably.) So I went to Sacred Chow just around the corner (which I love, as you know), and even though they were about to close, they still fed me and didn't rush me out. Not only is their food really good (especially the tapas!), but their service is hands down the best of all the New York restaurants I have ever been to (not just the vegan ones). It is very rare to find a bustling restaurant where the staff make you feel totally comfortable about dining solo (and in the case of my first visit, taking up three empty seats). I said as much to my server, who replied that the owners made a conscious decision to make people feel welcome even if it meant losing a bit of money in the short term. Smart, right?—I keep coming back! Last night they had a Caldo Verde soup special, with kale and onion and potato in coconut broth, and it warmed me up beautifully.A bunch of us are going to Veggie Galaxy tomorrow night for my birthday, so I'll have to blog about my chocolate banana frappé next week! 

My Favorite Veteran, Captured on Paper

Today at the beginning of yoga class my teacher said, "Think of all the people who did all they did so that you could have off today."

And I cried a little.

My grandfather's shipmate sketched this portrait in 1943 (as you can see). He was twenty-three. This drawing captures him perfectly.

(I've been writing about him, actually. I'm not ready to show you yet, but I'm very excited for when the time comes.)

Let Go!

 When I was a kid, I loved to draw—loved it, loved it—so much so that it became an integral part of my identity. I was the serious, bookish, arty kid with glasses far too big for her face.At the end of fourth grade, though, something shifted, and I lost confidence in my ability. (Some other time I'll elaborate on exactly what happened.) "I guess I'm not as good as I thought," I said to myself. "But at least I'm still smart."A few years went by. My sixth-grade history teacher, who was also the gifted-and-talented art teacher, praised some drawings I did for a project on the Greek myths, although I didn't actually get into the G.T. art program until eighth grade. (I can't remember why it took two years, but most likely he encouraged me to apply for seventh grade, but I didn't, and then he encouraged me a second time, and that time I listened. Dear Mr. Jennings!)I kept making art all through high school, but I never reconnected with the confidence of my elementary school days. When it came time to apply to colleges, I had my heart set on art school, but I couldn't get a complete portfolio together in time. (Now you know why I majored in art history.)Mind you, I'm not regretting any of the choices I've made, or wishing I could have released my doubts and self-imposed limitations sooner. This is my path, and I own it—and to be perfectly honest, I'm a much better writer than I am (or would have been) as an artist anyway.Still, all these years I've wanted to go back and be that little girl again—to draw not so it would look as much as possible like the thing I was drawing, or so that people would praise my ability, but for the sheer joy of putting marker to paper. And this past Friday, I finally gave myself the chance.I was having an art day with my Little Sister. She suggested I try drawing with my right hand, and something went PING! "This'll be fun," I said, and pulled out another sheet of paper. Here is what happened next:  It's just a doodle—and yet it's so much more significant than that. I started at the center, making those pink and gray squiggles that reminded me of geological strata. La la la, those lines seem to say. Just drawing with my opposite hand. Nothing much to see here.Then I thought, "What if I were to forget that I'm drawing with my opposite hand? What would happen then?"Can you tell which part I drew next? I bet you can.  I've been reading and thinking and journaling a lot lately about limitations—virtually all of them imaginary. Just think of how many times we say to ourselves, I can't do that. I'm no good at that. My Little Sister only just turned thirteen, and I heard her say both of those sentences pretty much as soon as we opened up our boxes of art supplies. I can't draw. I stink at it.You say it, you think it, you believe it. But what if you were to let go of all that, and take an hour's worth of pleasure in proving yourself wrong? When you say you can't, you wall yourself off from whole new worlds of exploration and experience, whether it's in the kitchen or on a playing field or at an easel.You haven't seen the last of my wacky drawings, oh no. I'm going to use them to develop fabric designs, and who knows what else after that. I might also work on making my mind maps more colorful and lively. I'm so psyched to have purchased my first sketchbook since high school!How about you? What was the last thing to which you said I can't do that (even though you really wanted to), and do you think you can summon the gumption to do it anyway?

How to Smell Good and Taste Delicious

I'll never forget the time Olivia climbed into my lap, took a sniff, and announced, "Aunt Mealey, you smell bad." This was soon after I'd gone vegan, and I wanted to use a better deodorant than Lady Speed Stick (or whatever I was using back then). Unfortunately, when it comes to deodorant, in my experience "natural" is practically the same as "useless." Thus the stereotype of the "smelly vegan" became even less stereotypical. (Sigh!)"But how is deodorant not vegan?" Elliot asked recently.It's not vegan if it's tested on animals, I explained, and besides, who wants to apply aluminum chlorohydrate to their sensitive parts when there's a potential link between aluminum and Alzheimer's disease? Though studies remain inconclusive, you can read this article on the NIH website and pretty much decide for yourself: "Whilst being environmentally abundant, aluminum is not essential for life. On the contrary, aluminum is a widely recognized neurotoxin that inhibits more than 200 biologically important functions and causes various adverse effects in plants, animals, and humans." (There's also some hubbub about a breast cancer link as well, but no actual evidence for this according to the doctors interviewed by WebMD. Given the clear and obvious links between cancer of all kinds and the consumption of animal protein—have I mentioned The China Study lately?—it may be that many women would rather blame their antiperspirant than their diet.)At any rate, most commercial deodorants are no longer a viable option once you go vegan (and want to live a longer, healthier life in general). Like I said, first I tried some all-natural brand (I forget the name) that was completely ineffective, as poor Olivia can attest; then I tried Tom's of Maine, which was almost as useless. I love their toothpaste, but their lavender-scented deodorant found me almost as smelly a couple of hours after showering, and it left a pesky residue on my clothing besides. Until recently, I was using Trader Joe's cotton deodorant finished off with Lush talcum powder, which was somewhat more effective—but not as effective as I'd like.So where can you find a natural cruelty-free deodorant that actually keeps you smelling good (or at least neutral) for twenty-four hours? Is it even possible? All I can say is, thank Twitter for cluing me in to the vegan magic that is North Coast Organics!Not only does their Death By Lavender deodorant smell delicious AND keep me odor-free all day, but their customer service is absolutely wonderful. I don't know about you, but I don't generally receive a response when I tweet to companies (even small ones)—which, to my mind, rather defeats the purpose of having a corporate Twitter account—but when I tweeted to North Coast Organics that I was excited to try their deodorant, they thanked me for doing business with them, let me know when my order shipped, AND threw in a free travel-size deodorant stick!

@NorCoastOrganic Twitter rabbit hole! Making it a priority to follow #vegan businesses and bloggers. Thanks so much!— Camille DeAngelis (@cometparty) October 8, 2013

Yup. Best customer service EVER.Granted, it isn't an antiperspirant (which is why the commercial brands use aluminum—to plug your sweat glands) and I haven't had a chance to use it at the height of summer, but I think it's enough to say that I can go to yoga and run around for the rest of the day without showering 'til bedtime, and I still don't stink. It's oddly reassuring to know that my deodorant was whipped up by hand—the $8.99 price point seems totally fair, too, given its effectiveness!—and I like to catch a whiff of myself and feel satisfied that I smell like a field of Croatian lavender. (We brought back a bunch of handmade sachets from our visit to Hvar, and six years later they STILL smell good.)North Coast Organics also makes great lip balms—in my recent post on the Boston Veg Fest, I alluded to how difficult it is to find lip balms without beeswax or petroleum in them. I ordered both kinds, W.M.D. Cinnamon and L.S.Q. Minty, and I really like them. They go on grainy but soften up quickly, and the flavor is lovely. The $2.99 price point is very reasonable, too—the last vegan lip balm I found sold for $4.99 at Whole Foods, and I didn't like it nearly as much.There are other deodorant brands out there I haven't tried yet, but I'm not sure I'll bother! Which cruelty-free brands do you absolutely love? 

The Long Road to Rushaga

 After three nights at Queen Elizabeth National Park, we headed down to Bwindi Impenetrable Forest National Park. That day turned out to be longer and crazier than we ever could have anticipated! First we drove several hours to Buhoma only to realize that Kate, Elliot, and Spencer were signed up for gorilla trekking on the opposite side of the park, at Rushaga—meaning that we'd have to drive all the way around the park to get there. "Buhoma," Spencer sighed. "The campground of lost dreams." (Several days later we realized how this mix-up had occurred: Dorcas, our travel agent, had explained the arrangements to Spencer when she'd woken him up one night at 3am California time. I wouldn't have gotten it straight either.) The second snafu happened an hour or so en route to Rushaga. It became increasingly clear to Colin and Elliot that the brake pads needed to be replaced, and when we pulled over (in the middle of noplace, mind you) it seemed like we were as good as broken down. The kids had to face the possibility that they'd lose $500 apiece (gorilla trekking ain't cheap, which is why I opted out), and the prospect was a tiny bit painful.  Then another van came along with only two passengers—a honeymooning couple from Spain—and even though their guide saw our predicament as an opportunity rather than genuinely wanting to help, he got the job done. Jill and I said goodbye to my sister and the guys, figuring it would be at least twenty-four hours before we saw them again.Colin wanted to press on—to find a town with a mechanic—so we got back on the road not too long after they did. What's the worst that can happen?, I thought. We spend the night in the car. No big deal.  It was a strange afternoon and evening. Even though we really missed the kids, driving all that way through some absolutely gorgeous mountains with a squeaky brake was a weird sort of bonding experience for Jill and Colin and me. I felt calm because I knew everything would be fine. "I will get you there, and I will keep you safe," Colin said. And he did.  We arrived at Rushaga after nightfall, and walked down to the Nshongi campsite with our bags. The place was packed with a large tour group who'd done the gorilla trek that day, so much so that when the kids showed up the staff initially told them there wasn't any more room. We found them putting up their tents on the edge of the site, and Kate jumped in surprise when she saw me. It felt so good to be reunited much sooner than we'd anticipated.  We didn't get even one proper meal that day, but we made up for it the day after—and the kids got to see their gorillas!  There's much more to tell you about Rushaga, of course—Jill and I took a tour of the village, which was really lovely, and late that night we got the fright of our lives! 

How to be a Thoroughly Classy Bestselling Novelist

It was the look of a person realizing you were not who they thought you were—or more specifically, not who they needed you to be. It seemed to me I had a lifetime of those looks ahead; the world felt that full of endless opportunities to let people down, to break their hearts in little ways, in big ways too, each and every day.

(from Help for the Haunted)

  I've been meaning to write about John Searles's Help for the Haunted book launch for the past month and a half! I know John from Yaddo, and he features in many of my fondest memories there. At dinner every night he would (jokingly) ask me how many words I'd written that day, and at the Petty Magic launch another joke of his sparked the best moment of the party.John began Help for the Haunted in earnest during that Yaddo residency. Now that it was his turn again, naturally I had to hop on a bus down to New York to celebrate!  After a reading from the book and a hilarious intro on becoming a writer, John sat down with another bestselling author, Wally Lamb, to talk about how the book came into being. (I can think of one night at Yaddo in particular that may have inspired him—when an antique record player, which we'd tried to use numerous times to no avail, switched on all by itself!)  Listening to these two tremendously accomplished writers in conversation, I was really impressed by how humble and down-to-earth they both are. It's the egomaniacal novelists who seem to get most of the press—probably because of the human weakness for gossip—but I'm taking this opportunity to celebrate writers like John Searles and Wally Lamb, who spoke with refreshing candor about the challenges they've faced. Notice I said John began the novel in earnest at Yaddo—as in, there were several attempts before that (though all equally earnest no doubt). Help for the Haunted was nine years in the writing, which feels like an excruciatingly long time when your previous novels have been so successful. "Other people can write a book every ten seconds," John said. "I felt like a loser."Self deprecation is a slippery slope, of course, but John always kept a healthy balance. He's a great role model for aspiring writers: he believed in himself even when people told him they didn't think he had enough talent (don't we all have at least one story like this?), and though he's long since proved it, he continually reminds himself of where he came from. I'm so glad I got to attend the sold-out launch and celebrate his richly deserved success.  Can you think of other successful writers you love even more for their modesty? (Cheryl Strayed is the first name that comes to mind, but I can come up with more!) 

Where We Make: Bonnie Sennott

Bonnie Sennott is an artist and knitwear designer living in Amherst, Massachusetts. She blogs about her creative work at Blue Peninsula. You may recall that I am currently knitting her Pomegranate pullover, and I can't remember the last pattern I found so pleasurable or satisfying to knit. Bonnie has drawn inspiration from Squam Lake (where we met last year) for patterns like Deephaven and Rockywold, and here she describes another beautiful setting that creatively (and literally!) nourishes her.

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Although I have a studio (a spare bedroom), I can’t seem to confine my creative impulses to just one room. There’s work all over the house—sketchbooks on the dinner table, embroidery on the coffee table, knitting projects on the sofa—even on the kitchen counter!

But my home is a private space, so I thought instead I’d write about one of my favorite places to work away from home: the Bookmill in Montague, Massachusetts (population 8,400), a former mill that houses a used bookstore, café, and restaurant, CD store, and artist studios.

My Peppernut shawl artfully draped over a chair as I work on a pattern in the Lady Killigrew Café. 

Quirky rooms awash in light pouring through big windows; comfy, well-worn furniture; an ever-changing selection of books and notecards; good WiFi—all this makes the Bookmill a favorite hangout for writers, artists, and other creative folk (and booklovers, too!)

“Books you don’t need in a place you can’t find” is their marketing slogan. But it’s really not that hard to find. And the bookstore? Amazing! Lots of books I do need—I’ve found some great stitch dictionaries there.  On sunny fall weekends, the Bookmill can be crowded. But I always find a nook or cranny where I can knit or embroider. When my eyes or hands need a break, I head into the Lady Killigrew Café for an iced tea or fresh salad. I love the view from the café windows and how peaceful and at ease I feel there—so much so I named a scarf pattern after it.  As I stitch or knit while listening to the Sawmill River rush by, I find my mind quieting down—sometimes working there is like creating and meditating at the same time. It’s a beautiful place, and since I’ve been going there for seventeen years, it really does feel like a second home. 

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Where We Make is a series on creative workspaces. Read the submission guidelines here. If you'd like to contribute a profile of your own space, please email me at cometpartyATgmailDOTcom.

Sister of the Sibylline

 The Doctor Who historical episodes are generally my favorites—"Vincent and the Doctor" made me bawl both times I saw it, and I watched the opening scenes of "The Shakespeare Code" (in which a trio of witches devour a hapless young man) as I was beginning to write Petty Magic. And when I saw "The Fires of Pompeii," I knew I needed to be a Sister of the Sibylline for Halloween. The Sisters of the Sibylline are a nefarious cadre of soothsayers with eyes painted on their hands, and when they hold their hands to their (actual) eyes, they can communicate with each other across distances.

 I guess I could have gone all out with the jewelry and red dress, but I like that the costume feels more or less complete with just a red cape and some black-and-white face paint.

  

 I sewed the cape out of some cheap polyester (from Sew Low Fabrics in East Cambridge) using a free and easy pattern from FleeceFun.com. Intended for fleece, obviously, but it worked for my purposes just fine. I lopped off the pointy cape end, and finished it in a morning. Got so lazy that I didn't add any ribbon ties though—safety pins work just as well, haha!

 The plot of this episode is somewhat convoluted, but if you forget about the aliens and just focus on the human interest element, it's quite poignant. Donna and the Doctor have gotten to know a particular middle-class Pompeii family, and when the volcano erupts and everyone is running wild with panic, Donna is stricken to find them huddled together and preparing to die. The Doctor is about to leave, and Donna begs him: "Not the whole town. Just save someone."And he does. 

 I'm going to a concert at the Armory tonight. We'll see if any sci-fi nerds actually recognize me.

 

As for vegan candy, I treated myself to this tasty mint chocolate cookie:

  

Here's a bonus for you: Elliot in drag!!!!!

 They're characters from Game of Thrones. (I'm sure I'm the only person in America who couldn't have guessed that.)

Happy Halloween, everyone!

  

Boston Veg Fest

"If you use words like 'hate' and 'kill,' understand you are those words. That's who you are."

"If you like crossword puzzles, don't do them. Do Sudoku instead...As soon as you start to say 'I can't,' that's how a senior feels all day long. You have to stimulate that brain in unique and unusual ways."

—John Pierre

 I had a gay old time at the Boston Vegetarian Food Festival last weekend! I couldn't get there on Saturday, but I spent the afternoon there on Sunday, eating scrummy food, chatting with exhibitors, and listening to funny and inspiring presentations from John Pierre and Dr. Michael Greger. I also came thisclose to plunking down $449 for a Vitamix after tasting the samples, including an incredibly yummy peach sorbet. I will buy one eventually, it's just not the right time yet. I need a kitchen! I arrived with an empty stomach, naturally, so I first got myself a chocolate chip muffin from the Sabertooth Bakery and an equally delicious coffee with soy creamer from Café Indigo. Both booths had lots of tasty baked goods on offer.  I couldn't resist these bumper stickers at the Micah Books booth, where I got to talk with Roberta Kalechofsky, author of Thanksvegan and many other books. Turns out she's a fiction writer as well, but she's spent the past thirty years devoting all her writing energy to veganism, Judaism, and animal rights. (I can definitely see myself heading in that direction—writing about veganism, that is—but don't worry, I have a bunch of novels in me yet.) I stopped at the Two Trick Pony table to admire their clean and vibrant designs, picking up a set of holiday greeting cards. (I'm looking forward to getting that 'animal-friendly kitchen' print for myself someday!) I picked up a Teeccino sample from Vegan Cuts, ate some tasty butternut quinoa risotto from Root, and found out about the local chapter of a vegetarian spiritual organization called Science of Spirituality, who meet in West Newton. (I'll attend their Sunday morning meditation group this weekend.)I also got to meet Kristin Lajeunesse of Will Travel for Vegan Food, who is lovely. You should check out her blog if you haven't already—she spent almost two years traveling all over the country eating in vegan restaurants and connecting with compassionate small business owners. So cool!  I will admit that I bought a bunch of soap from Leap Organics because I love the illustration as much as the scents. (I also added my name to the list of people asking for beeswax-free lip balm.)    

Queen Liz, part 3

(Queen Liz part 1, Queen Liz part 2.) We stayed at two different settlements in Queen Elizabeth National Park—two nights in Mweya and one night at Ishasha. While we were stopped at the gate on the way in, a baboon with a hurt paw (a piece of barbed wire stuck in his skin! so sad!) sidled up to the car and seemed to be begging for food.I looked down and gasped. I had seen my first (and only, so far) baboon willie. It was bright pink and as long and thin as a drinking straw.  Ishasha is not renowned for its exhibitionist baboons, however. People go there to see the climbing lions.  Two lionesses asleep in a fig tree. (HOW AWESOME IS MY LIFE??)    The Ishasha campsite was in a pretty clearing in the woods by a river. Baboons and hippos in close proximity, but there were guards keeping us safe.      There were lots of highlights in Ishasha—the lions, our hearty alfresco dinner that night, and a nature walk with Bernard, who proved himself an excellent guide. I picked up a lot of animal facts (elephants are sexually mature at the age of twelve, and their pregnancies last 22 months; hippos spend 90% of their time in the water, and grow up to 3½ tons; colobus monkeys don't have thumbs), but my favorite part was when he explained why he believes the first Homo sapiens lived in Uganda. "When you are here," he said, "you are at home." A lovely thought.    (All Uganda and Rwanda entries.)

Halloween Psych-Up 2013

On Friday night my friend Ryan and I went on the Harvard Square Ghost Tour, which was really good fun. The tour guide, "Scaly Pete," was all decked out in Victorian garb and face paint, and he told his stories so well it didn't really matter if they were made up or not. He did tell us up front that only a couple of them were 100% true, but stories like the ghosts of an epic food fight are hard to cross-check since everything Google pulls up refers back to the tour! "Scaly Pete" also told us some interesting anecdotes about William James' psychical research I'd never heard before (not in Deborah Blum's Ghost Hunters, nor the other research I did for my children's novel), and I did find corroboration on the pink pajamas story. But I guess that tale of medical students hiding dissected bodies in the walls and renovation workers finding them in 1999 is made up too.We went to Veggie Planet afterward and had one of my all-time favorite pizzas, with rocket and olive tapenade and tofu mashed and seasoned to taste like cheese:(And a vegan root beer float afterward!)This Halloween I'm dressing up for the first time in yonks. I put on face paint today and got a mixture of alarmed looks and smiles on the T, haha. I'm blogging about my Doctor-Who-themed costume on Thursday, but until then (in case you haven't already seen it), here's THE best zombie story I have ever seen. (Seriously. You will like this even if you don't like zombies. It is that good.)  Gorgeous, right? Here's more spooky stuff from the blog archives:

Things to Do When You're Dead

Sheridan Le Fanu's Real-Life Ghost Story

Adam McOmber's The White Forest

The Ghost of Anne Boleyn

Screaming Skulls, part 1

Screaming Skulls, part 2.

My New Favorite Sweater, part 1

When it comes to knitting patterns, my eyes are faster than my needles. I buy a pattern thinking I'll cast on for it soon, but that almost never happens. I bought Bonnie Sennott's Pomegranate at June Squam 2012 and cast on a little over a year later, which is actually on the quick side for me. Ha. I'd been wanting to try Hempathy for awhile—it's a sturdy blend of hemp, cotton, and modal (rayon)—and I'm really enjoying knitting with it. Much easier on the hands than you'd think. I love it so much that I bought a bag of yellow Hempathy for a cardigan (which was my Uganda knitting—I needed something much easier than this!) (Cardi pattern by Gudrun Johnston—blogging about it eventually!)   I usually knit on the T, and I'm getting lots of comments from my fellow passengers. My favorite was this guy who'd just told someone else that he's a physicist. Then he turned to me and commented that the lace chart I was working from looked awfully complex. Ha ha! Lace charts are easy once you know how to read them! And you are a physicist!!  I'm aiming to have it done and ready to wear on my birthday (which is three weeks away). 

Yoga and Vegetarianism

I've been going to Back Bay Yoga almost every day since I moved to Boston at the beginning of April, and I've found the studio to be a very safe and friendly place in which to develop my yoga practice in earnest. I adore nearly all of their teachers, and have learned and evolved through pretty much every single class I've taken there.Recently my three-month unlimited membership ran out, and when they posted a new weekday morning line-up that didn't suit my schedule as well as the old one, I decided it was time to explore other yoga studios in Boston. I suppose I've gotten a bit too comfortable at Back Bay—I'll always drop in for classes on a weekly or near-weekly basis, and I may very well renew my unlimited membership at some point, but for right now I feel a strong nudge toward exploring new styles and learning with new teachers.

This is how I found myself this past weekend on the South Boston Yoga website. I'd heard they offer aerial yoga classes, which I was really excited to try. Imagine my dismay, however, when I spotted a paleo diet workshop announcement with a certified nutritionist!

There didn't appear to be any upcoming workshop on veganism to balance things out. More to the point, though, practicing yoga while eating animals is a contradiction, and once again I'll draw upon Rynn Berry's wonderful Food for the Gods to explain why:

Cobra, lion pose, pranayama and mudras. Anyone familiar with these terms for some of the physical and psychological techniques of yoga has probably taken yoga classes, and most likely remembers the feeling of peace and well-being that followed them. In India, the Jains, Buddhists and Hindus practice yoga, which is a set of practical exercises for attaining samadhi, or spiritual transcendence. The eighth hallmark of the ahimsa-based "vegetarian" religions is that they have attached to them a set of physical and psychological techniques for achieving ecstasy.

Professor Berry goes on to note that in the Western tradition "there is no yoga—probably because in classical yoga, spiritual progress is predicated on eating a diet of plant-based foods."That said, the "power yoga" we practice in studios all over the Western world bears little resemblance to "classical" yoga. As Dean Radin explains in Supernormal:  "...[Y]oga as it is known and practiced in the West today, as a quasi-spiritual athletic practice, can be traced not to Patanjali's Yoga Sutras, but to an amalgam of traditional yoga poses combined with Swedish gymnastics and British Army calisthenics."In my experience, most Western yoga teachers merely skim the surface of yoga's spiritual roots, mentioning "the heart center" or the "third eye" without getting into what any of this stuff actually means—an understandable omission given that most students are there for the workout. I can't ever recall hearing the word ahimsa spoken in a yoga class, and yet it is the most fundamental tenet of classical yoga: refraining from causing harm to any sentient being. Following this principle, of course, necessitates a pure vegetarian diet.I politely asked about ahimsa on the South Boston Yoga Facebook page. The next morning, I found my comment had been removed. I tried again, and after what seemed like an odd reply—"Basically, we are not an exclusive community, diet being one of the life choices that we do not persecute. This discussion can happen over a private message if you like"—my second comment was removed as well. Whoever is doing the social media for SBY clearly felt defensive, and chose to frame my logical questions as the intolerant harping of a hardcore vegan (e.g., using the word "persecute") rather than responding to my concerns in an open and forthright manner. I guess they're afraid that discussing the issue in public might turn people off the paleo class, but if they were to offer a vegan workshop too, they wouldn't lose anybody at all! I'm very sad that the SBY social media person chose to handle the situation this way.But I'm not writing this post to complain. Actually, as I was editing this entry I discovered that the paleo workshop has disappeared from the South Boston Yoga event calendar!Still, the issue has been raised, and I'd like to see it through: I've noticed that people on the paleo diet often justify their dietary choices by saying "I'm doing what's right for my body," and as a very happy and healthy vegan, it goes without saying that I consider this attitude a cop-out. (For a sensible take on cravings, read this great post from VeggieGirl. "It’s interesting that this type of logic is used to explain cravings for things such as meat, eggs and cows’ milk," Dianne writes, "but not when what’s being craved is vodka, coffee or donuts.") Furthermore, we shouldn't follow someone's advice just because they have a string of letters after their name; many medical doctors, after all, refuse to acknowledge the connection between the consumption of animal protein and the skyrocketing rates of obesity, heart disease, diabetes, and cancer in America.My real "beef" with saying "I'm doing what's right for my body" isn't about the meat eater in question, however, and I invite you to meditate on the following statement:

If a choice is truly right for you, it won't be wrong for anyone else.

 Even if you don't believe that a cow or pig or chicken counts as "someone" (and you know I do!), what of the human animals who must go to work every day to slaughter, process, and package their flesh? Consider this passage from Gristle: From Factory Farms to Food Safety (Thinking Twice About the Meat We Eat), edited by Moby and Miyun Park:

Insane, right? And this passage doesn't even touch on the psycho-spiritual effects of working in a slaughterhouse (whether it's a factory farm or someplace "local" and "family owned"). If conditions are this heinous for the humans, imagine how much more horrific it is for the cows on the conveyor belt. This is why we practice ahimsa.

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Sunday evening I went to a Jivamukti class with Nina Hayes (a fellow MSVA grad!) at Sadhana Yoga. Vegetarianism is one of Jivamukti's five core principles (video explanation by co-founder Sharon Gannon here; I'm also looking forward to reading her book on the subject), and at the beginning and end of class the teacher generally leads the class in a Sanskrit chant: Lokah samastah sukhino bhavantu. In English: May all beings everywhere be happy and free.Every time these words come out of my mouth, a lovely feeling of peace and centeredness settles over me, and the feeling was even more powerful given my frustrating experience over Facebook that morning. Nina also read this poem by Hafiz:

Admit something:Everyone you see, you say to them, “Love me.”Of course you do not do this out loud, otherwiseSomeone would call the cops.Still, though, think about this, this great pull in us to connect.Why not become the one who lives with aFull moon in each eye that is always saying,With that sweet moon language, what every other eye inThis world is dying to hear?

It all comes down to love, doesn't it? "Yoga" means "union" in Sanskrit, and to feel and spread and be love is to honor the interconnectedness of all living things. Nina says, "The teachings of yoga are clear in that if we want something in our lives, then we must be willing to provide it to others first. If we want to cultivate deep internal peace, freedom and love through yoga, our diet must reflect this."What do you think about the connection between yoga and vegetarianism? Is it fair to suggest that Western yoga should retain the classical yogic principle of ahimsa, or is the new power yoga "a different animal" altogether? Whatever your current diet, I'd love for you to share your perspective in the comments.And finally, I'd like to give a shout-out to South Boston Yoga for ultimately taking my concerns seriously—I really appreciate that. I feel like I can go for that aerial yoga class after all!