Cheers to 2019 and another chance for us to get it right!
”For last year’s words belong to last year’s language and next year’s words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning.” – T.S. Eliot
A New Year brings infinite new possibilities. A clean slate. A reason to erase past mistakes and start afresh. We all know that resolutions don\’t always stick. But for a shot at real happiness, try penning a set of personal commandments (an idea borrowed from best-selling author Gretchen Rubin.)
I would suggest writing them down and keeping them handy. This may make you laugh, but I have mine scribbled on a post-it note stuck to a long-expired Bed & Bath coupon. Anytime I\’m stuck in traffic, listening to Camila Cabello’s \’Havana’ repeat itself for the fourth time in a sixty-minute window, I find myself pulling out my handy-dandy list and ruminating on what\’s important.
Here\’s my list . . . to help you get started on your own:
1. More adventures
Creatures that Glow: My Adventures in a Bioluminescent Bay . . .
“Mom, you’re glowing in the dark,” says a high-pitched squeaky voice in my ear. I look down at my arms and thighs as I push up through the waves lapping at my feet, and discover they’re covered in shimmering stardust. Off to the left and through the swaying palms, I catch an occasional glimpse of the rising moon as it emerges from the ocean, full in its glory, beginning as a huge, bright, orange gold globe slowly fading to a mother-of-pearl disc as it rises higher and higher in the velvety night sky. Suddenly, the bay is lit by millions of illuminating microorganisms adding their bright light to the moon’s pearly white shine, turning the water around us to a glistening blue glow.
Welcome to Jamaica’s luminous lagoon!
The Skinny on Staying Skinny
One of my first jobs in college was as an aerobics instructor at the gym in New Delhi’s Surya Sofitel Hotel in the late 80s. It was the era of Jane Fonda, spandex leotards and leg-warmers, an era when “no pain, no gain” was the mantra, low-fat diets were all the rage and “step” was a noun. I would sail through a dozen high-impact Jumping Jacks, my twenty-something body quivering with effortless grace, while the rest of my class composed of forty-something-year-olds heaved and panted through the fitness routine.
Three decades later, that image fills me with envy. After two kids, a sluggish metabolism, and a body that feels decrepit, I\’ve found (like many others before me) that it\’s not easy to lose the pounds anymore. At cocktail parties and at meetups, the most common lament I hear from people is that they\’d like to \”exercise more regularly.\” Exercise is very important for health and mood (those aerobic highs aren\’t exaggerated!) and everyone knows this—and yet it\’s often tough for people to stick to an exercise routine.
Here\’s my cheat sheet on staying fit . . .
Christmas came early for me! Not only did it get published, but my essay \”A Cockroach in my Bed\” won an \’Honorable Mention\’ in the 46th New Millennium Writing Awards!! Read it here:
Twas\’ the day after Thanksgiving: reflections on what it means to be an American . . .
A few days before Thanksgiving, I took a train from San Francisco to the suburb of Pleasanton. It was one of those mornings that signal Thanksgiving is near—a cloudless sky, temperatures bracing enough to warrant diving into the coat closet to locate a scarf and gloves, and the sight of fallen leaves swirling in a neighborhood park as I walked to the Bart station. A billboard loomed above me, advertising a turkey dinner for only $39.99 at Marie Callender\’s.
I love the week leading up to Thanksgiving because of the anticipation of my family coming together again. I love the reminders on T.V., on radio, and on social media to be grateful for what you have and hold because it allows me a moment to close my eyes and thank the Universe that my house echoes with laughter and joy again.
However, this year as my family gathered around the Thanksgiving table our mood was somber. In what has become an eagerly awaited tradition, every sibling, every aunt, every uncle, every parent, every grandma, every kid articulates what “I’m thankful for this year.\” We sat down to dinner, the room full of the smell of curry and cinnamon pumpkin and around the big oak table we went, each taking turns to remember the year’s blessing.
“We are all blessed to have a home and a warm bed tonight, our families together, “ began my brother, clearing his throat. “Let us remember the people in Paradise, who lost their homes and their loved ones,” he continued gravely.
Does Hypnotherapy Work?
Imagine you’re seated in a big, deep, velvet-upholstered antique purple armchair. You look out the window across the street where the wind is blowing in gusts, whipping dead leaves around the parked cars, shaking store signs and rocking the streetlights high on their poles. You sit back in the chair and lift your feet to make yourself comfortable. Your eyelids grow heavy and your body slumps into the chair, eyes wide open, gazing into nowhere as you hear the gong: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.
Your subconscious takes over and suddenly you’re in a tropical paradise, basking in the sunshine, lying on your stomach in a teeny-weeny yellow polka dot bikini on a white sandy beach. You’re relaxed, filled with happiness and peace. A soft lilting voice penetrates the trance-like state you’re in, “Anoop, your mind is at peace like a lake with no ripples. Feel the warmth of your bed cocoon you into a restful state of mind.”
#Me Too . . .
He was her boss, the one whose bold signature was stamped on the checks she stood in line to collect from the cashier\’s office at 425 Locust Street. Twice a month, like clockwork. On the 15th and the 30th.
She drove straight to the bank after she tucked it securely in the inner pocket of the logo-embossed Coach handbag that had been a birthday gift from her husband two years ago. The first time she received her paycheck her eyes kept straying from the road ahead to peek into the pocket, once, twice, thrice to make sure, yes, it\’s still there. By the time she handed it over to the teller for direct deposit, her fingers were clammy from the effort of keeping it safe.
She was grateful for the job. Yes, she was. She\’d sent out 50 resumes just like her college counselor advised her to do. \”Keep trying,\” Mrs. Gomez said kindly, letting her wizened hand rest lightly on Anika\’s tightly clenched fist. Anika felt bereft when Mrs. Gomez removed her hand and forced herself to concentrate. \”It\’s the bad economy, the recession, dear. Nobody\’s hiring.\” Especially, not anybody with an accent. Anika could hear her inner critic chiming in.
Minding your cell-phone manners . . .
It was a blisteringly hot day in August. I waved to my son who had shimmied to the top of the diving board and was preparing to leap into the area of the pool where the 7-8 year-olds were collected. After a moment of cheering him on enthusiastically, as he was led away by the instructor of the beginner\’s swimming class at Livermore Aquatic Center, I let my shoulders sag. The next thirty minutes stretched in front of me in sheer monotony. I wish I had thought to grab a book or magazine to keep me company while I waited for my son\’s class to finish.
Tring, Tring. The number that flashed on my cell phone screen was that of my best friend and neighbor. The welcome distraction of a gossip-infused exchange of Who Wore What at last night\’s shindig beckoned. I glanced around furtively. An older balding man with a tanned face and large piercing eyes slouched on a bench behind me.
Yay!!! I got published!! Click on the link to read my essay \”A Cockroach in my Bed\” . . .
A Cockroach in my Bed
A Thousand Splendid Suns; the journey from the page to the stage . . .
\”One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs;
Or the thousand Splendid suns that hide behind her walls.”
(-Josephine Davis’ translation of Saib Tabrizi’s poem ‘Kabul’ written in the 17th century)
Last autumn, the #MeToo movement began in Hollywood and spread across the world, shining a light on sexual harassment and assault, and dominating the social-political scene ever since. In this climate comes a play which tells the story of three generations of Afgan women who are bound together by marriage, family and a secret past amid the war-torn streets of modern-day Kabul. Hosseini has stated that he was inspired to write A Thousand Splendid Suns after visiting Afganistan and speaking with the strong women who live in a country where their rights are often oppressed.