Archive for the ‘Zen Out’ Category

Happiness is a posse of friends and a dozen empty Champs bottles.

Joy joy joy. Our holiday party was a success, complete with shrieking kids clattering up and down the staircases at midnight. Our guests trekked in from Gotham, Brooklyn and considerably further away in Jersey, which was so sweet. And the catering – which Hubby fully orchestrated – rocked.

You gotta love outsourcing. And a tag team of energetic nannies to corral those tots like a herd of raging buffalo.

After a massive nap this afternoon, I’ve had a chance to reflect. And here’s what I found unusual about the chit-chat last night: There was much talk about how my great friend Alev, who has written for Momover several times and just moved back to the States from the Netherlands, hasn’t aged a bit over the last six years. “You’re just not seeing me in harsh daylight,” she demurred. “Trust me, I look older.”

This is my theory about Alev’s youthfulness: She’s a really happy person. She loves being a mom and she doesn’t want the stress of a super-intense full-time job. There’s nothing like being mellow and relaxed to take five years off your face.

Or maybe it’s because she’s spent so much time in Europe. Between a dozen post-college years in Paris, followed by the stint with her hubby and kids in The Hague, she is the most Euro-y American pal I have.

It’s a huge cliché, but one probably steeped in at least partial truth, that Europeans aren’t as work-obsessed as Americans. But that can also be said for other parts of the U.S. that aren’t in proximity to New York. And that I can say with complete certainty. Why? Because I hail from the heartland, lived in New England for 10 years, moved to NYC to go to college and never left.

This morning, there was a kindergarten class playdate at a park by us. (Yes, on a Sunday at 9 a.m. In December. On the East coast. Brrr.) And as I sat on a bench, shivering and trying to read a few pages of Keith Richards’ kooky krazy autobiography, I caught snippets of a blistering conversation about careers. It was the mom of one kid talking to the dad of another kid, and it was exhausting.

Oh, where am I going with all this? I absolutely don’t want to posit anything ridic, like that women who stay home with their kids and aren’t freaking out about work are categorically more beautiful than women who kill it – corporately or in their own business – and have to deal, daily, with high doses of stress. Because that is just straight-up inanity. Inane, and cruel; tons of moms work because they don’t have any choice.

I’m just drawing a conclusion about my pal Alev, who hasn’t come within a 10-mile radius of a Botox needle in, oh, forever. She’s just relaxed and happy. And that reads youthful – even in blinding sunshine.

I've used this image 90 times, but it's so spot-on.

I went to a fun, super-informative event on Tuesday night, and before I dive into the vegan substitute meat of it, I want to give a shout-out to all the parties who made it happen.

1. Well+GoodNYC, the extraordinarily kick-ass wellness website, which organized it. Lordy I love that site, and not merely because I live a hop, skip and a jump from Gotham. The overlords, Melisse and Alexia, just really know their stuff. They have like PhDs in Spa + Spinning.

2. Red Flower, the fantastico organic beauty brand, which hosted it at its adorable SoHo shop. I need to go back when it isn’t dark, and we aren’t meditating, because the décor is amazing - all recycled chopped-up chairs and whatnot. It sounds weird, but trust me, it is groovy. That night, we were also toasting the launch of three to-die-for soy candles: in the land of milk and honey; nothing but everything beautiful; and of the wilderness, my favorite. They’re available at the shop, and at Barneys and they are yummy and very, very large.

3. Gingersnap’s Organic, a new East Village resty and shop, which catered it. A purveyor of “conscious cuisine,” all the food is raw, vegan and gluten-free. And delicious, which I’ll personally vouch for, because I ate my bodyweight in snacks.

4. Elena Brower, founder of Virayoga, who led it. A very charismatic chiquita, she is producing – and starring in – a new docuseries called On Meditation, which will air early next year on TV and the World Wide Interweb. I will keep you apprised of that; I’m dying to see the entire series myself.

Okay, so Elena’s tips, which she dispensed liberally both during and after the actual group-meditation part of the evening.

Although I’m a copious note-taker, I didn’t whip out my little pad during the session, for two reasons: One, my eyes were closed, and writing can be tricky – albeit not impossible – when your eyes are closed. And two, I just really wanted to focus, because I hadn’t yet meditated that day.

Thus, I will be paraphrasing and re-capping, rather than spewing out verbatim quotes. I hope you’re okay with that.

And since I’m feeling “listy” today, here goes:

1. You don’t need to go to a mountain-top to get into the zone. Park your –s on that couch, and don’t even think about that lone cereal bowl in the sink. Trust that you’ll get to it later. One of the goals of meditation – and I use the term “goal” loosely, because meditation is not about specific, quantifiable achievements – is to be able to drop down into it anywhere, any time.

2. Place your left hand over your heart and let your thoughts drop down. “Think of it as a mini-download,” said Elena. I loved this tip. It’s great to put all those racing images, all those nagging bits and pieces of daily intel, into one symbolic spot. And then forget about them for the time you’re meditating. If they pop back into your mind, gently nudge them back out again, and re-train your focus on your breath – or my personal obsession, my trusty ocean soundtracks.

Per Elena, we should be taking more cues from our hearts, and fewer from our heads. “Boss,” she said, pointing to her heart. “Secretary,” she said, pointing to her head.

3. Without being too rigid, establish a mini-ritual. If you can kinda sorta meditate at the same time, in the same place and in the same position every day, it just helps you slip into a meditative state all that much more quickly and easily. I also personally find that certain scents are useful too, whether it’s patchouli or something oceanic or, now, my new Red Flower Of the Wilderness candle!

4. Five minutes is fine. Five minutes is fantastic. Some days you’ll be able to go longer, which is wonderful. I just noticed that for myself, since I made my birthday resolution last month to try to meditate daily, I’ve easily been adding a minute or two every day. The more you do it, the more you want to do it.

5. With time, it will grow from a challenge to a full-tilt craving. Eventually, you won’t feel like yourself without meditating. You’ll be longing to go “home” – that safe, cozy and grounding space within you that meditation creates.

I had no idea there were actual whirling dervishes.

Because of a few plot twists, I’ve had almost eight weeks off. Off and on, that’s my new lot in life. I worked like a dog from January until July of this year, then took the rest of the summer off, then worked really hard for about six weeks again until early October, and then “rested.”

I say “rested” rather than rested, only because I’ve been working on all manner of unpaid projects. Fun stuff, future-y stuff. Stuff that doesn’t pay the bills, but also doesn’t stress me out.

Work-wise, I’ve fully embraced the Gig Economy. I have zero desire for a permanent job, one that would require me to be firing on all cylinders twelve months a year. I can fire on some of my cylinders twelve months a year, but not all of them.

So instead, I like to pretend that I’m a glamorous actress who works on a film or two a year, and then she rests. Or “rests.”

But as much as I like my new-ish sitch, there’s an itsy bitsy problem: I get rusty between gigs. And all of sudden, I need to get seriously unrusty. Next year is shaping up a lot like 2011, and I’m solidly booked from early December until late June. Which is awesome, and I’m grateful for the work in this crummy  economy.

Still, I noticed today that I have a work-related nervous tic. A good tic, I guess, but a tic all the same: I clean and organize and straighten when I’m anxious.

For instance, after I bought that gorge new desk for my office in the summer, I just threw stuff in the drawers willy nilly and left it there in a big heap. Alright, not all of it was willy nilly. But there was one nightmare drawer with approximately 10 million receipts, bank deposit slips, business cards, etc.

So when did I suddenly decide that the nightmare drawer simply had to be completely revamped? This morning, of course, after I accepted a new rush assignment.

I guess there are worse habits than organizing your way out of office-drawer chaos. And I did feel better after I took care of it. I needed to catch up on my receipt filing, and I did.

But it was so weird, and meta, to sort of observe what I was doing and put a label on it. “Oh, you’re organizing six months of receipts right now because you’re completely freaked out. And you’re completely freaked out because you know that you’re staring down a half-year of heavy labor before you can take it easy again.”

I guarantee it was all the meditation I’ve been doing that gave me that detachment, to not beat myself up and to just give myself permission to clean and organize and straighten and then get back to that rush assignment. To trust that I’ll get unrusty, and everything will be groovy. Because I know everything will be groovy.

And on that note, I’m toodling off to meditate. Night-night.

You, lovely image, will soon be on my office wall.

Forgive me, dear reader, as  I toggle back and forth between two super duper important topics today: 1) The painfully slow, but actually happening, redecoration of my home office and 2) my newly re-upped discipline around meditation, and how it’s already having a positive impact on my life.

Why the toggling? Because, as you’ll soon glean, the two super duper important topics are entwined, much like turkey and stuffing. (I didn’t go too nutso on Thanskgiving, by the way, and I’ll trust you didn’t either. A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips…)

First, stare hard at the gorgeous image above. That, I’m happy to say, will soon be mounted on my office wall. It’s called “Storm Rolls In” and was shot by photographer Jodi Cobb off the coast of Alabama. If you’re into gloomy, dangerous ocean – as I obvi am – I think you’ll agree that it is a stunning picture. Bad things are about to happen, and the muddy navy and gray hues are spectacular.

I bought the 40 X 30 version, and as soon as Hubby paints the “accent wall” behind it (in “Geyser” by Martha Stewart Living, a decidedly uncheerful teal), I will bid adieu to the current artwork residing there -  a quartet of watercolors of Duchess of Devonshire types nabbed from Tepper Galleries – and put it in storage for our eventual move to the New England version of Barbie’s Dream House. I’ve loved having my fashionable, fan-wielding ladies around to keep me company while I work, and in the future, I can envision a chic little sitting area with them as the backdrop. But right now, it’s time to pack them up and dive into the ocean.

Which brings me to my meditation practice.

I’ve blogged previously about my borderline addiction to ocean meditation CDs, as well as my tendency to gaze at the crashing surf on YouTube. As much as I dig those, however, and as much as I consider meditation to be a prime source of mental and physical health, my own “practice” has been spotty in the past year. Thus, endless guilt. I know meditation is incredibly healthy, so exactly why haven’t I been doing it on a regular basis?

Well, for my birthday earlier in the month, I made precisely one resolution: To meditate every day, even if it’s only for a few minutes before my concentration sputters and I’m mentally rocketed back into my busy life. From researching the meditation chapter in Momover book, I’d learned that it’s very much about ass in seat (or on a schmancy meditation cushion) every day. Better to meditate a little daily than to attempt some monster session once a month.

The everyday approach helps you to get into the zone that much more quickly, and also to provide a tiny dose of the relaxation that meditating is so great at imparting. Breaking up your daily stress cycle – that constant churn of having to do this, and having to do that – is key to building your immune system, and just generally helping you feel like you have the world by the you-know-whats.

My daily practice entails listening to my current fave ocean meditation CD while I move through a number of sea-themed tableaux. I’m at the top of a gorgeous, Architectural Digest-worthy lighthouse, with a 360-degree view of a roiling Arctic Ocean; I’m in Hawaii, watching the surf crash into a cave formed by lava flow; I’m sitting on the beach at a resort in Bora Bora, gazing out at a thatch-roofed hut; etc., etc.

There are more images I “visit” – beaches I’ve actually been to, shoreline I actually know – and sometimes those work their way in too. And since I’ve been keeping a log (I know; I’m so OCD with my logs and journals), I can see that I’ve been steadily increasing the time I spend moving through these “seascapes” in my sessions. (I don’t set a timer, although I know many other meditators do.)

But here’s what I’ve been pondering: Is what I’m doing meditating? Or visualizing? And should I care? Is one somehow “better” than the other?

When I field-tripped to the Blum Center for Health a while back, and took a guided meditation with Elizabeth Greig, director of the Mind Body Spirit program, she told me that what I do is basically a mashup of meditating and visualizing, “and it sounds great.” I was encouraged by that, and still am.

If we’re splitting hairs, meditation is “passive” thought awareness, and visualization is “active” thought awareness. But visualization, as I’m sure you’re aware, can also help you achieve goals by helping you form an intense vision of something you want to manifest. (This is the best book of all time on visualization; if you don’t already own a copy, buy one stat.)

But what I’m doing in my walk-in closet, eyes closed and earphones on, isn’t visualization in the classic sense. Why? Because I don’t really want to live in a lighthouse, even one as posh and luxe as the one I’ve created in my head. And maybe I’ll get to Bora Bora with Hubby at some point, maybe I won’t.

Nope, I just like to visit every day. Surf in a little stressed or distracted, and surf out relaxed, refreshed and Zen.

Deep thoughts are contained in these pages.

Before we get started, may I please take a sec to cast a spotlight on my fellow birthday buddies? Lauren Hutton and Martin Scorsese. Two very cool cats. A cool Scorpio girl cat and a cool Scorpio boy cat. Not that I’m biased, but I consider Scorpio to be the most bitching sign in the zodiac. We are all that.

So the thing about Scorps is that we’re often fixated on re-invention. We like to switch it up. Keep things moving. Keep ourselves moving. And even if you’re only a casual reader of this itty bitty website, you can glean that I like to tinker and fuss with the Me Project.

Sure, I might sit on my fat –s from time to time, knitting and watching RHOBH (Monday’s ep was a jaw-dropper; the “win” goes to Pinky), but mostly I can be found engaged in all manner of activities.

Like recently, when I hauled myself to a Nalini Method class at Rupa Mehta’s newish digs on the West side of Gotham. I hadn’t seen her for roughly a year, when I last took her class and was so sore I couldn’t move for days. Wowza.

This time, I was in slightly better shape (thank you P90X, thank you endless running along the Hudson River), so I wasn’t quite as stiff and rickety in the ensuing 48 hours. And that’s a good thing, because I had some work to do: Reading Rupa’s inspiring, original book about the “weight of words” and picking a single one that would serve as a catchphrase and guiding principle for my entire life.

Pressure much?

For the record, Rupa’s “one word” is CONNECT. Her chipper business colleague – Shannon – has chosen CULTIVATE.

Those are meaningful. Substantial.

But I wasn’t after substantial. I was after superficial. Superficial with a fairy-dust sprinkling of edge and discipline. And after wracking my brain for my “one” and only – I am a word person; words are my joy and my livelihood – here’s what I came up with:

CRISP.

CRISP as in: Buttoned-down. Organized. Decisive. Focused.

Sometimes I embody those values. But not nearly enough. Certainly not every day.

My desire to be CRISP doesn’t mean I’ll be morphing back into the workaholic I was in my swingle and pre-baby years. N-e-v-e-r again will I be so career-obsessed.

But can’t I be CRISP about blasting through my To Do list in the morning so I can hang out with the Wee Lass in the park all afternoon? Or keeping my lovely home a zero-clutter zone akin to a cold, impersonal hotel? (Swoon. Love cold, impersonal hotels.) Or attempting to learn French for the zillionth time? Or getting over my driving phobia so I can spirit us away to the town pool at a moment’s notice, and not have to rely so heavily on Hubby?

Clearly, I’ll be getting a lot of mileage out of the multi-dimensional CRISP.

After I told Shannon what my “one” was, I asked him (that’s not a typo; Shannon’s a dude), to pass it along to Rupa for her feedback. And she emailed back both her thoughts on my choice, as well as a handy-dandy definition of my word:

“Whenever someone comes to me with their word, I love to look up the definition. I love that Dana is driven to have it together and be buttoned-down, but what I also find interesting is her humble, driven energy to be fresh and new, hence her site and life goals. And, she seems to be able to make decisions and follow her passion in her unique way which all fall in line with the definition of crisp. She’s not afraid to be different and I think her word reflects that too:)”

*************************************************************************************************************

I likey. I’ve always wanted to be slightly intimidating, and to cut people off mid-sentence, crisply. But I haven’t quite nailed the crisp writing bit. At least for this blog. In my “real” work, I’m not nearly as chatty.

I thought it was very sweet of Rupa to take the time to suss-out my wacky word. And before I forget, I want to let all you mamas know that for the 9:35 and 10:45 am Nalini Method classes, she’s offering free on-site childcare (complete with creative movement, art and story time throughout December).

Okay, I’m nipping off for a pedi as part of my dawn to dusk birthday celebration. While I’m out, be sure to pick your “one word.” It just might help you re-org your very existence.

Can you imagine hitting the hay here? Dreamy.

I just read two excellent pieces on the borderline-tragic phenom of mothers who can’t sleep. One was in the New York Times, and corralled a number of different voices, many of whom discussed their more-than-occasional reliance on OTC and prescription meds. The other, in the November issue of Town & Country, is an intensely researched first-person account written by a good pal and former work colleague of mine, LA-based journalist Christine Lennon.

Both articles pull no punches about the negative impact our kids have on our nightly Zzzzzs. Whether they’re beseeching us to come check under their bed for monsters, or simply – through their very existence – cramming our heads so full of data that we can’t shut down when we need to, there’s virtually no question that they’re doing a number on our deep sleep.

Thankfully, I don’t have the first half of that problem; the Wee Lass is a champion snoozer and almost never wakes up during the night. But I’m absolutely part of the “three a.m. club” referenced in the Times, the growing horde of moms who nod off easily, but then wake up – and stay up – in the dead of night.

Most of my insomnia can be placed neatly into two little boxes – it’s either hormonal (and so cyclical I can practically map it on a calendar) or situational, i.e., some minor life-drama is upsetting me to such a degree that it wakes me up so I can “solve” it. What a crock. I’ve never solved one damn thing at 3 a.m., except maybe a craving for DoubleStufs or ginger ale.

Christine’s struggle to get more shut-eye led her to test-drive a gizmo called a Zeo Sleep Manager, which monitors the amount of time you spend in the REM state vs. the fragmented, light stuff that doesn’t do jack for making you feel rested. And immediately, she started trying to beat her score from the previous night. The chief way she did this: By prioritizing her sleep over the zillions of diversions and distractions that shortcircuit our eight to nine good solid hours.

In the sleep chapter of my Momover book, I’m positively evangelical about sleep-prioritization. When we treat it with the respect it deserves, I say, it will pay huge, massive physical and emotional dividends. And I completely practice what I preach; I’m usually in bed by 9, and completely zonked out by 10.

The trick, for me, isn’t unplugging as much as it is staying unplugged.

In an effort to Zen up my bedroom, I just gave my nightstand a complete overhaul. It’s one of those cabinet-with-a-door numbers, with tons of space underneath for books. And since I’m a huge reader – and I’m forever sampling a few pages of this and a few pages of that – it was crammed with a vast assortment of fiction, non-fiction and memoirs.

But I made an executive decision that almost all of the non-fiction – especially the business | career books – were getting the boot out of my bedroom. I’m on the fence about some of the memoirs. If they’re too depressing and disturbing (that means you Glass Castle and Lit), they need to find a new home on a shelf in another room. If they’re quasi-uplifting, like A Place of Yes, they can stick around. For now. But at the slightest hint of doom and gloom, they’re gone.

So what stays? A pile of thrillers and chillers I’ve started, stopped and started again, including Paris Requiem and the boxed set by the Game of Thrones dude; my precious Seaside Knitters mysteries, and books on spirituality and meditation, especially if they’re soothing, like 5 Good Minutes in the Evening. Also making the cut: Trippy stuff about karma and the afterlife.

The big idea: To lift myself out of the mental rat race and go someplace else for a while. And then drift off, with a tank full of dream-fuel that has absolutely nada to do with tomorrow’s To Do list.

This pic of gamma brain waves is gorge, n'est ce pas?

I woke up this morning thinking about Olivier Theyskens, the Belgian fashion wunderkind.

(Actually, he’s getting up there in years, so he’s not quite so kind-y. But he’s so damn talented that he’s eternally wunder-y.)

It’s not so much that I was thinking about Olivier’s work – although it’s amazing, and I’m thrilled he’s now helming Theory, one of my all-time favorite brands.

Rather, I’m obsessed with something former Barneys honcho Julie Gilhart mentioned about him in that gi-normous piece in the Times that ran back in August.

“He knows how to manage his mind,” said Julie, who has known Olivier since he was a Wee Lad of 19 and has major insight into what makes him keep on truckin in the insanely fickle fashion biz.

It’s kind of crazy that one line in a verrry long profile, published 10 weeks ago, would stick with me like that, right?

Well, it would be nutso if I hadn’t already given mind-management an enormous amount of, well, mental space. I devoted an entire chapter of my Momover book to it, and I pretty much consider the successful execution of mind-management to be nothing short of the key to happiness. Really and truly.

Though it takes a tremendous amount of discipline, it basically boils down to our inner dialogue, and the way we chit-chat with ourselves all day long. And don’t even try to tell me you don’t chit-chat with yourself all day long, because I will NOT believe you.

It’s like those adorable Maybelline commercials, with Christy Turlington and her little foundation “eraser,” telling us to bounce our self-defeating inner chatter.

Personally, I have my Dark Dana days and my Light Dana days. Dark Dana is grumbly and growly, and doesn’t do a boffo job of managing her mind. Light Dana just gets on with it, finding little pockets of fun and joy, even when, just five seconds ago, she was completely ballistic and batshit-crazy about something work- or otherwise-related.

So how to have more Light than Dark days? By stopping yourself dead in your tracks whenever your mind starts to head down the rabbit hole. I think we all have a lot more control over our inner dialogues than we’d like to admit, or own.

Unless you’re one of those naturally perky types (and if you are, we hate you…kidding), it’s hard but incredibly worth it to try to manage your mind. You know what helps? Meditation.

In fact, meditation helps with just about everything. Om.

The Wee Lass needs this book, stat

It’s a rainy Sunday in Gotham, and am I kicking back with the paper and a cup of half-caf Chock? In my dreams. Instead, I’m knee-deep in the Wee Lass’s playspace, trying to bring order to sheer chaos.

We’re sort of on our way. We just got her bedroom closet all tricked-out, California-style, so now it looks like a glam, clothes-only mini-boutique, just like Mom’s.

But now all the toys and clutter that were crammed in there have to find a new home. That is, if they’re not already shoved in a Hefty bag or a box headed for Salvation Army.

Although I wanted to get her involved, I must have been on crack to think that she would want to help me figure out how to systematize the new Cubeicals set-up Hubby hammered into being yesterday afternoon.

But beyond lobbing a few compliments our way – “Wow, you guys really switched it up around here” – and being overjoyed to find a few long, lost treasures, she officially couldn’t care less.

I so don’t get this. When I was little, I was obsessed with keeping my toys and Barbies and books and clothes – basically everything I owned – totally organized. But then again, my daughter has waaaaaaayy more of everything than I did. Not to make anyone bust out a hankie or anything, but I was poor. My daughter isn’t, and I’m really happy about that.

Still…all the stuff…

Please, I know I’m not the first parent to get semi-overwhelmed by the mountains of itsy bitsy crapola. For moral support, I just read this great blog post on Frugal Dad. The author, Jason White, writes about wanting his children to have more than he did, which I can totally relate to. And he, and his commenters, offer many excellent suggestions about how to keep a lid on it.

Reading that made me calm down a smidge, and to remember that in any given moment, we can choose our reaction to the events in our lives. Happy, ballistic, anxious, whatever – it’s our call.

So I’ve made a decision – for my physical and mental health, because stressing-out is the single worst thing we can do to ourselves – to try to just accept the fact that the Wee Lass isn’t me. She isn’t poor, she has too many toys, and she has zero interest in whether they’re organized to a fare-thee-well.

And I can still be happy. I may follow her around with a Hefty bag for a few more years, but I can be happy nonetheless.

A certain someone in a Momover Lady masterpiece.

Oh my. There is a waaaaaaay too much horrible stuff happening in the world at the moment. I’m afraid to turn on the TV, or flip through the news on my iPad, and I literally can’t get this un-cheery Clash song out of my head.

All the more reason why I’m happy to be having an Anti-Real World Summer. Because I’m not working (well, I’ve got the house torn to smithereens, organizing, but I loooooooove that), I have taken up full-time residence in my Mommy Cocoon.

I’m cooking (shocker), playing part-time nanny to the Wee Lass when she isn’t in day camp, and falling head over heels in smitten-ness with crafts. Last week, after jamming myself into a last-minute viewing of the beyond beyond beyond Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Met, I had the you-know-whats to pick up a potholder-making kit at the gift shop.

More on the potholder-making kit in an upcoming blog post; I’m struggling and I’m hoping you like-minded crafter mamas might be able to help me.

One project I didn’t need a lick of assistance with is this cute scarf I whipped-up for my little lady. Yes, there’s a sizeable hole toward the bottom, cleverly disguised by the festive fringe. But still, ya gotta admit that it came out just fine, right?

I may make the matching purse, if I can find the same yarn separately. If I can’t, I may just buy another one of the kits. I’m like totally down with stock-piling all the kiddie craft kits. They’re a great way to get going, and they remind me of my dirt-roads-and-ponies Oklahoma childhood, and my Native American granny and her a-ma-zing handmade quilts.

And her not-so-groovy Barbie clothes, too, which she sewed on a machine!!!! While I preferred the store-bought gold lamé pants for my Malibu Skipper, even at that young age I could appreciate the love my grandmother put into those teensy-weensy get-ups.

And trust me, my granny lived in the Mommy Cocoon. No real world for her.

Skyscrapers and pint-sized yachts mix suprisingly well.

Chez Moi is a little topsy-turvy at the moment. We’re having the Wee Lass’s bedroom painted and closet tricked-out, we’re sprucing up the third floor hangout zone (and P90X Central), and I’m taking full advantage of this Mercury retrograde by excavating and organizing every square nano-inch of this place.

The pantry just got a total re-org, and as soon as I finish this blog post, the fridge is getting stripped down to its ice cubes. Brrrr….

What’s with all the clutter-busting? A) I live for it, as the number of posts filed under “Obsessive Organizing” would attest to. And B) I have the time to do it.

In fact, I’m so in the zone right now with this stuff that I’m actually taking a home study course with organizer-extraordinaire Sue Rasmussen. I’ve blogged about Sue before, and I love her tele-seminars. So I figured she could help me with the ultimate challenge – my home office. It’s been neglected for about six months now, and it’s beyond time for a massive purge and revamp.

(More on that in an upcoming post. I just ordered these Kathy Ireland wooden filing cabinets, so yippee, I’m on my way…)

Adjacent to my home office is my walk-in closet, which brings me to the actual point of this blog post: Meditation.

For quite some time, I’ve meditated in my closet. And I have a little shoe cubby filled with all my props – my ocean CDs, my Sleep Sheep boom box, etc.

But lately, because it too needs major editing and TLC, it just doesn’t feel peaceful in there. Certainly not enough to Zen-Out and focus the way I want to.

So after dropping the tot-lette at camp this morning, I took a cue from so many of my neighbors, who routinely meditate right on the river every morning. And I have to say it’s pretty perfect for that. The Hudson is a tidal river, which means it sort of acts like the sea, with cute little waves lapping the rocks. I had one of my ocean CDs with me too, but it didn’t feel like over-kill at all.

Indeed, for your own meditation practice, I highly recommend a double-whammy of water. Unbelievably calming and Zen-ing.