Today on my walk through the Central Park Ramble, I spotted a bench with the following dedication imprinted on a gold plaque attached to the top rung:

Yesterday is history,

Tomorrow is mystery,

Today is the present.

This “haiku” says it all:  This moment is the only one in which life is actually happening.

I think I will ask that the same message be tacked to the bench I’m donating via a bequest to the Central Park Conservancy in my will. 

A message worth repeating since it’s so challenging to remember…

I’ll admit it, dear Reader, I’m a late adopter.  Learning new technology doesn’t come easily to me and I resist it.  (The good news is that by the time I get around to opting in, the gizmo has gotten cheaper, lighter, and more efficient.)

Frankly, over the last six months I began to feel increasingly embarrassed that I didn’t have the newer, better, lighter iPhone.  Everyone seems to have one (or another kind of Smart phone) and be glued to it.  Not having google at my constant beck and call was feeling stranger by the minute, and did I dare be among the diminishing numbers parted from e-mail for hours at a time?

So two weeks ago, after spending a strange 1 1/2 hours accomplishing nothing at the Verizon store, I dragged myself to the Apple big box and stood in the bright lights, reminding myself how lucky I was that the latest iPhones were in stock.  After all, everyone I asked was so excited about the 4S, with Siri to boss around and all the other wonders that this new model offered.

I had the vague idea, I guess, that the iPhone would somehow simplify my life.  Isn’t that what new technology is supposed to do?

Well, dear Reader, you can probably hear what’s coming.  I hated the “getting to know your iPhone” intro they offered at the store.  I found the keyboard way too small and the print on the screen even smaller.  Almost every thing you had to click or slide seemed counter-intuitive to me.  I grudgingly slogged through the lesson with the amazingly patient young instructor (who no doubt cannot even conceive of life without an iPhone), but as soon as I got home, I tucked the gadget on a closet shelf and proceeded to ignore it for the next two weeks, taking solace in the familiarity of my old cell phone–which I rarely use, by the way.

So guess what?  Tomorrow I am going to return my iPhone.

 I am pleased that this little experiment will have cost me only a modest amount of time and a small re-shelving fee.

Here’s what I learned:

1) I don’t want to spend my free time even tempted to look at another screen.

2)I actually LOVE taking frequent breaks from e-mail.

3)I don’t need or want to have instant access to more information.  I already have access to more information than I can comfortably handle.

4)I don’t want to become one of those people who checks Facebook during intermissions at a Broadway play.

5)I don’t want to be part of one of those couples that sits eating dinner, each in his own virtual world.

6) Best of all, I now know that I can live a happier and more fulfilling life without an i-Phone.

Now the iPad:  that could be another story…

Flowers emerging from my shadow. Photo by Lorna Sass

Dear Reader:  Do you find this question startling?

I don’t know about you, but I don’t ask myself this question very often–if ever.  I have spent most of my life trying harder and “improving” myself (whatever that means), rarely stopping to acknowledge how much of a new, improved version of me I’ve become.

This fact came through to me when I read an e-newsletter from Marci Shimoff, author of the fine books, Happy For No Reason and Love for No Reason.  Marci herself says that she was brought up short by this very question when it was asked of her by a colleague who heard her lamenting a perceived lack.

So, I’m thinking, even someone who has spent her very long, accomplished, professional life helping others find inner peace and wisdom continues to focus on what’s wrong rather than what’s right.  I admire Marci for her honesty, and you know what?  It’s not such a big secret that here’s clearly an epidemic of  “I’m not good enough,” going around–and it’s catching.  (When was the last time you heard someone say anything nice about themselves?  We were taught that was bad manners…)

What is this yucky habit of hating ourselves that we humans all have?  Would we ever dare talk to a friend the way we talk to ourselves?  (Actually, I’m not sure all humans speak meanly to themselves or if it’s just those of us who grew up in the “new world.”  When someone asked the Dalai Lama about self-hatred, the translator had a rough time finding a Tibetan word for that concept!)

Recently I received another e-mail announcement, this one from the deeply thoughtful and kind Buddhist teacher Tara Brach, announcing the videos of her newest dharma talk:  Trusting Your Basic Goodness.  I listened to it a few days ago and felt comforted, as if I’d been given permission to luxuriate in a love bath, relaxing into the warm water of knowing what’s right with me. 

I think I’ll go take that bath right now.  Even contemplating the prospect makes me take a very deep breath and brings peace, comfort, and a smile into my heart–peace, comfort, and a smile that I am happy to share with others.

Photo of agave by Lorna Sass

We are leaving Sonoma after a glorious month of sunshine, freshly-picked produce, and magnificent cactus and succulents of all kinds growing with abandon as if they had all the space in the world–which they do.  We are heading back to snow, cold, and boxed arugula flown from here across the country to New York City.

Dear reader, I guess you can tell that it’s hard for me to get excited about the prospect of going home.

My friend Gerhard Bock, who lives in nearby Davis and blogs about planting a succulent and bamboo garden in his front and back yards, knowing how I share his madness for these beauties, offered to send me home with some plants and cuttings.  How could I say “no?” 

I couldn’t resist the idea of bringing some of California home with me.

Yesterday I started packing.  Well, truth be told, I started packing in my head a few days ago.  I knew that the cuttings would easily fit into my suitcase.  What presented a real challenge was the large agave plant he offered me and I couldn’t refuse.  It took up half of my 24-inch suitcase.

I went to sleep last night feeling relieved that I’d managed to fit the agave plant in.  Then I remembered what I knew all along:  I really didn’t have the space for this large, handsome beauty in my NYC apartment.  Furthermore, I decided it would be cruel to consign the agave to a pot when it would be much happier growing right here in California where it had a chance to spread its roots in the kind of soil it was accustomed to.

This morning, I took it out of the suitcase.  I felt an immediate sense of relief,  I will gift the plant to a friend with a large garden.

And I will go home lighter but still very much enriched by all we have seen and done here–and with cuttings of other beauties that will –with a hope, a prayer, and some tender loving care–take root after their cross-country jaunt.   And the I’ll have daily reminders of the great pleasures of miniatures.

From Sandy Beach to Mare Island, CA//Photo by Lorna Sass

There is something about the beginning of a new year that beckons loudly for us to start afresh.

Yet, aside from watching the ball drop in Times Square, most of us lack a meaningful ritual for marking the end of one year and the beginning of another.

As a Life Coach, I love creating techniques to help my clients have a vivid experience of moving consciously from one phase of their lives to the next.  Whether it is starting a new year, changing jobs, careers, or locations, I encourage them to identify and leave behind what no longer serves them, creating space for stepping into larger, more expansive lives.

And what better time than the start of a new year to say a formal “goodbye” to what is past, and a welcoming “hello” to the new life adventures ahead. To create a sense of completion around 2011 and a ritual beginning to 2012, I invite you to try this quick and rewarding visualization exercise:

Sit comfortably in a quiet space and imagine the old year as an island you are about to leave.  Before getting on the sailboat that will take you to a new island, think about the stresses and strains and whatever other challenges from this past year you would like to leave behind.  Jot the leave-behind items down on a piece of paper. Carefully burn this paper (in a sink, for example), or tear it into tiny pieces and throw it away.

On another piece of paper, write down the rewarding aspects, acquired wisdom, and other gains of your current life that you’d like to take to the new island.  Hold this paper close to your heart as you imagine embarking on the ship. Imagine the long, smooth journey to the new island taking place overnight while you sleep and deeply rest.

Awaken to see the new island, sunny and magnificent, stretched out before you.  What does it look like? Imagine all of your favorite trees, flowers, and animals on this magical island.

Walk down the ship’s gangplank with your arms wide open to embrace the surprise and delight of this new time and place. Have a good look around.  What adventures and discoveries await you on this island?   What dreams can you make come true here?  Write these down.

Then notice which dream on your list you feel the most passion for.  Which takes priority over all the rest? List the mini-steps it would take to make this dream become a reality in the coming year. Take one step each week until you make this dream come true.

Wishing you all an ease-full, healthy, adventurous, and magic-filled 2012.

Pt. Reyes National Seashore//Photo by Lorna Sass

It seemed like a good idea at the time: leaving my NYC apartment and staying in a house surrounded by vineyards in Sonoma, CA.  That was three or four months ago and the plane tickets were bought.

In the intervening time, I became more and more involved in my NYC life.  In fact, I went from feeling ill at ease in the concrete jungle to falling back in love with the intensity of street life, the vast cultural options, and my daily walks in the Central Park Ramble. 

In the days preceding my departure, I felt like a carrot digging its roots more deeply into the soil.  I resisted packing and the thought of getting myself on an airplane felt alien.  In short, I didn’t want to be the carrot that got dug up.  Why couldn’t I just stay home?

Well, that wasn’t a practical option, so here I am in Sonoma, with an organic vegetable garden in front of the house and all the stuff of someone else’s life inside.  Yesterday we had a delicious lunch from the taco truck in the gas station in Napa.  Last night we feasted on lacinato kale harvested just a few minutes before it hit the pot.  Today we are going to one of my favorite places on earth:  Pt. Reyes National Seashore.  It’s free to get into this magnificent park, giving me the feeling that some things are really right with the world.

There’s no Metropolitan Museum  just a ten-minute walk away, and I have to get into a car to buy a quart of milk.  There are choices, but they are different choices:  Not what museum shall I go to today, but what walk shall I take, what book shall I read?

It’s a different way of living, and it gives me a fresh perspective on my life back home.  Even though I miss the familiar comforts of my own four walls, I’ve decided to spend some time hanging out with the carrots in the front garden, getting a real taste of the soil in this parts.   I wonder if, by the time I leave, I’ll be dug in so deeply that I’ll have trouble yanking myself out of here…

One thing I know for sure.  As I’m getting older, I’m feeling less yankable.  And I’m ever so glad to have built up a storehouse of magnificent memories from visiting places near and far.  These memories have nourished the soil of my life so that when I can travel no longer, I’ll have the strength to dig deeper and deeper roots, knowing that coming home to myself is the biggest and more exciting travel adventure of them all.

Photo by Lorna Sass

The other day a client came to the coaching call breathless, announcing:  “I’m drowning in work.”

“You’re drowning in work,” I reflected back.

There was a long silence.

Then she said, “Wow, what am I telling myself?  I know that the words I say become my reality.”

She then listed a few more favorite phrases that she often said:

“I’m swamped.”

“I’m deluged with e-mails.”

“I’m always trying to keep my head above water.”

Curious, all these watery images…and familiar statements that I’d often heard passing through my own lips.  The cautionary Sondheim lyric: “Careful the things you say, children will listen…” floated through my mind.

One of the many aspects of coaching I find so rewarding is that I get frequent reminders to examine my own “stuff.”  The moment my client had spoken, I recognized that I often used the “swamped,” “deluged,” and “drowning” metaphors in my own life.  But how could I be drowning on the 7th floor in the middle of Manhattan?  And there’s no water to keep my head above except in the bath tub.  No worries there!

So what can I say to myself that is really true?  What is a water image that will create the kind of ease-full days I want to live?

Here’s what I came up with: Whenever I notice that I’m in fast-forward, swimming against the tide, or otherwise struggling to stay afloat, I’m going to stop, put my hand over my heart, and take some deep breaths.

Then I’m going to imagine myself floating in a warm ocean, saying:   “The water supports me as I flow through my days.”

How about you, dear reader?  What  words will become your life? 

Photo courtesy of yoganonymous.org.

What does a person do about heartburn?  Take Zantac, of course.

At least that’s what everyone, including two doctors, suggested.  So I went on the drug and sure enough, I wasn’t aware of any heartburn most of the time.

However, being of a skeptical nature about drugs, I searched the internet and found some very distressing news about the long-term use of Zantac. So after the recommended 14 days, despite the fact that the ENT doc said I could stay on it indefinitely, I decided to quit taking Zantac. 

It’s one thing to use a band-aid to cover an open wound, but the presumption is that the band-aid will come off once the wound is healed.  In my case the “wound” wasn’t healing because as soon as I went off Zantac, the heartburn returned.

I’d already given up coffee, tea, and chocolate (boo-hoo).  I was already taking digestive enzymes with each and a good probiotic every morning. What else was left to do? I diligently researched low-acid diets.  There was so much confusing advice about which foods to avoid, that I gave up in frustration and decided to call my friend and culinary colleague  Annemarie Colbin, author of the groundbreaking Food and Healing, and founder of the Natural Gourmet Institute of Food and Health.

After inquiring about my current diet, here’s what she said:  “Chew your food 35 times and drink a full glass of water after each meal.”

“What,” I thought. “That’s it?”

Dear reader, have you ever tried chewing each mouthful 35 times?  Let me tell you, it is quite an adventure.

First I noticed that it was extremely difficult to remember to chew food that much. My ancient habit had been to throw food down the hatch after mashing it only 2 or 3 times between my teeth.  I also had the bad habit of shoving more food into my mouth before the prior batch was swallowed.  What was the hurry?

I’m now 4 days into the chewing adventure and here’s what else I’ve noticed:

1)  When I’m eating, I find it difficult to just eat.  Give me a book, a computer, company for conversation…

2)  Paying attention to the textures of different foods can be fascinating once you get into it.

3)  When I’m chewing that much, it’s easier to take smaller mouthfuls.

4)  The food  becomes liquified (pre-digested) and slips down the gullet.  I barely have to swallow.  (This liquifying technique is a lot more efficient than using a masticating juicer and there’s no clean-up!)

5)  Sometimes I’m holding my stomach in when I’m eating.  Hmmm…what’s that about?

6)  It takes about 20 minutes to chew a full portion.

7)  There is something very peaceful about actually being there, paying attention when I’m eating.

And guess what?

The heartburn is much improved!

So, dear reader, the lesson I am taking from this story is to be where I am and do what I’m doing, wholeheartedly and with conscious intention. 

Given these conditions, my mind and body have an extraordinary ability to heal.

And it’s always healing to smile, so have a listen to this delightful thirties song about chewing, provided by my Sweetie, Michael Steinman, jazz blogger extraordinaire at Jazz Lives.  Please disregard what the singers are chewing on!

Some "strangers" built the Brooklyn Bridge. Photo by Lorna Sass

Yes, you read it right.

Who ever came up with the idea of teaching children not to talk to strangers?

Trouble is, this advice is based on fear and most people are good.

So in defense against that very small number of people who might do us harm, we learn at a very early age to never talk to strangers.  Then as adults, even though we have judgment and choice, we unthinkingly stick to this constricting habit and miss out on a lot of fun.

I started talking to strangers many years ago when working alone writing cookbooks was driving me a little nuts.  I started out real safe by talking to NYC bus drivers.  They were happy to chat when stopped at red lights, and got to find out what it was like driving a bus all day.  This conversation invariably left me feeling grateful to them for doing the good job they did. I also was reminded of my own good luck–that I had so much more freedom and flexibility in my schedule–not to mention that I didn’t have to sit in a bus for 8 hours and avoid running down J-walkers and taxi cabs that cut me off. 

Recently I started chatting with some Con Ed men and thanked them for keeping the water flowing and the electricity coming into my apartment.  They seemed surprised and amused, and I went on my way feeling grateful that I’m not using a deafening jack-hammer to tear up the streets and working six feet under in all kinds of weather.  It looks like a nasty job, though they always appear good humored and friendly about it.

For years I saw a strange looking person working in the token booth at my local subway stop.  I had occasion to speak to her a few weeks ago when I lost my Metro card and she was so sweet and compassionate that I now stop by and say “hello” whenever I see her.  This brief exchange makes my day so much better.  It wakes me up to my good fortune:  I get to go some place interesting while she continues to sit in the little booth.

On a crowded subway car a few days ago, there was an announcement to “Give your seat to the elderly or infirm.”  I was very pleased to hear this good advice and asked the young man standing next to me what he thought.  After removing one ear bud, he told me:  “I always give up my seat to old people and also to pretty girls.  That’s the way I was brought up.”  We then chatted a little more about his mother and I felt so warmly towards him that by the time I needed to get off, I wanted to give him a hug.  Instead I told him, “I’m really glad to have met you.”

I hope this little blog post will inspire you to speak to strangers and that you’ll let me know what happens by commenting on this post.

What you are likely to learn, as I have through life coaching and on the streets and subways of Manhattan, is that the whole notion of strangers is based on an illusion.  The other is us and we are them.  We are more alike than we are different And we’re in this thing called life together.

This bird picked a smart place to perch. Photo by Lorna Sass

I know this sounds funny–everybody breathes all of the time–but when I look back to the days before I started doing this particular breathing exercise, I realize that I started my day in fast forward, holding my breath.  I’d rush over to the computer and look at my e-mail, postponing my morning meditation and, by the time I settled down to meditate, I was already wound up and distracted.  After my meditation, I’d almost immediately resume a fast-forward pace.  This wasn’t working for me…

For the last few weeks, I’ve been doing things differently.  As soon as I notice a hint of awakeness in the morning, I settle myself on my back and place one hand on my heart and the other on my abdomen (this is extremely comforting in itself). I slowly take in a deep breathe through my nostrils to the count of 4.   I hold my breathe for the same 4 counts and then exhale to 8 counts through my mouth.  During all of this, I hold the tip of my tongue on the ridge in the top of my mouth where the hard palate meets the soft palate.  When I exhale, I press the air out from my abdomen and make a “shushing” sound.

My intention is to do this exercise for 10 minutes, but I usually end up doing 25 to 30.  It is a very delicious, calming, and expansive way to start the day, and I find that I  carry a more gentle rhythm as I move from one thing to the next.

My inspiration for staying in bed when I wake up came from Patricia Ellsberg, who mentioned in an wonderful on-line course I’ve been taking called Awakening Joy, that she starts her day by meditating in bed–sometimes for a full hour.  This idea seemed shocking at first, and then irresistible.  Thanks Patricia!