The sky reflected in a new window

After fifteen years of living in this house, Mark and I finally bit the bullet this fall and put in new windows on the front of our forties-era house. For quite a while we’ve had mismatched windows on the façade, with some new windows where we’d renovated rooms and some old, where we still had the house’s original steel frame windows.

Partly we’d left the old windows in place for cost reasons. Windows are shockingly expensive! But also partly we’d left them in place because I loved them. I’ve written before about my attachment to the old swing-out casement windows. With their small panes and wide swing-out style, I always felt like Snow White opening the windows out into space. The black-painted square leading dividers were a real design feature of the house’s distinctive and sort of retro-modern look on a street full of colonial Cape Cod style cottages. For the first ten years we lived here I fended off all itinerant window salesmen with vigor. (If I only had a nickel for every time I opened the door to hear “We were doing work in your neighborhood and noticed you still have some older windows…”)

But in the last two years even I had to admit that the windows were past their natural life span. The single-pane metal frames leaked heat and cold like sieves, and in winter were so cold ice crystals formed each night on the inside of the panes. The condensation would melt with the sunrise, only to drip onto the wooden sills, rotting them out unless we left stacks of old towels on the sills to protect them. Sound also came right through, so we heard each car and conversation passing on the street. The screens were battered and ill-fitting after sixty years of constant use. And each fall there was a string of repair work to be done to fix panes that had been cracked by the constant flexing of the metal frames with changes in temperature.

At last we had the time and the cash to make the change, but I admit I gave my go-ahead with a lot of trepidation. Windows are such an essential part of the style of the house, would I still be happy after the work was done?

I shouldn’t have worried. The window installers did meticulous work and we are now enjoying the interior quiet that the low-e windows provide. I’m even happy with the outside look, now that all the windows match and have a clean appearance. I’ll be even happier snuggled into a warmer, cozier house this winter. And with the price of heating oil having jumped so much this year, we will definitely be glad to have a more efficient home. I hope now we can rest up from the summer’s extensive renovations and just enjoy the house. At least until next year. Anybody know a good roofing company?

As at Omega, which I wrote about last August, he was merciless in a compassionate way. Once he zeros in on something he believes you need to work on, he won’t let you get away with anything. In my case, that’s posture in tadasana and extension in forward bends. The first day I was doing pretty well. I know he was smiling at my “See Kofi? I’ve been working so hard,” effort. The second day I was tired and had a harder time maintaining it. He caught it right away and started correcting me once more. “This is more like yesterday,” he’d whisper after guiding my slumped spine into a better position. More work is needed, but I still am clearly better than before working with him two months ago.

An interesting thing happened to me late on my last day with him. Towards the end of the afternoon practice we were all in paschimottanasana, a seated forward bend with straight legs. Even after five years of yoga practice forward bends are very challenging for me with my long legs and tight hamstrings. I was doing my level best to keep the spine extended as I folded forward, and moved my sternum away from the pubic bone to get more length. Suddenly a feeling of emotional upset came over me, like I was about to burst into tears. It didn’t fade, but continued through the final ten minutes of the practice. As I lay in shavasana at the end of class I was struggling to keep my composure. I couldn’t figure it out—I wasn’t in any pain, there was no reason I could think of why I should have the feeling that I might cry at any second.

I didn’t feel any better as I rose to roll up my mat. Kofi had spotted my trouble and asked if I was okay. “I don’t know,” I told him. “Something about that paschimottanasana upset me.” He impressed me all over again by knowing precisely what was wrong. A spasm of the diaphragm. He had me go into a backbend over a bolster and weighted my hips with a sandbag, but the sheet of muscle at the bottom of my ribs continued to flutter uncomfortably. So he got me up into a handstand and had me drop back (with his support) to put my feet on the seat of a chair behind me. At first I thought “OMG! My body won’t go that way!” But then it released and I was able to hold the pose for several seconds. He brought me back down and had me go into the backbend two more times, each time with greater ease. Then I felt exhilarated, not weepy. All was well.

This morning I couldn’t wait to tell my story to my students. More evidence that the body-mind-emotion link connects in all directions. Not only does our mind affect our body, with mental tension creating physical ills. The body directly affects the mind and emotions. In my case, a tightness in the breath signaled emotional upset to my mind. I literally couldn’t tell the difference between an emotional pain and a physical one. They felt the same. So keep smiling. When you frown your body thinks that something is wrong.

We got through the day on Saturday with a few minor drips in the sun room from around our chimney flashing and were counting ourselves lucky. But all too soon. Sunday morning I stepped off the last step downstairs and the carpet was distinctly damp. Oh no, not again!

So we’re back on the all-too-familiar fan and dehumidifier drill, with the carpet pulled up at the edge. The good news is it wasn’t nearly as bad as the last flood in 2006 when we had 13 inches. Just a bit of seepage under the front wall of the house, so I think the new stone work outside helped. We’ve been through this before and the carpet is drying pretty quickly, so I guess we’ll live. But it’s a major pain in the patooty, nevertheless.

Mark and I are donors to the Mount Vernon Ladies Association, the non-profit organization that owns and administers George Washington’s former home. We try to go out to visit the site at least a couple of times a year. Both of us are fascinated by Washington and his role in American history. He’s one of those remarkable public figures that stands up to close scrutiny. In fact the more I read about him, the more admirable he comes across. Managing to win the Revolutionary War despite all odds against one the world’s great military powers. Serving as the nation’s first president and the only one ever to be elected unanimously. Twice. Then stepping down to private life despite widespread sentiment that would have made him president for life. What new nation ever had such a figure as its founding father?

In addition to the very enjoyable museum, there are many new exhibits at Mount Vernon that relate to the life of the slaves who lived there in Washington’s time. The multiple farms owned by Washington relied upon the labor of more than 300 slaves during his lifetime. Some 100 of them lived on the Mansion Farm, where George and Martha lived. There’s a newly built slave cabin down the hill from the mansion on the bluff, a simple one-room wooden structure with a loft for sleeping, situated beside the fields. It’s very similar to the kind of simple houses early settlers of all kinds lived in. I thought the topic of slavery was well handled, though I’d be interested to know what African American visitors think.

The day we went was sunny and clear, with low humidity. The kind of day we often dream of during a Washington D.C. summer but almost never get. We spent part of the afternoon happily just sitting on the grass in front of the big house, watching sailboats passing up and down on the Potomac below. A glorious day, and one I hope to repeat at least once more before the summer is over.

This came along at just the right time for me. I was feeling kind of burned out after a six-month stint of teaching five classes a week. Because I was pouring so much energy into my classes, I was really neglecting my own personal practice. To have the luxury of a full week where I had nothing else to do but work on my own form and strength was heavenly. My great friends Fritz and Donna joined me to carpool up together and we had a ball, hanging together like the three musketeers the whole week.

The teacher was Kofi Busia, a yogi I admire tremendously. I wrote about him with enthusiasm last year after meeting him for the first time. Fritz and I had planned ever since that time to try to go to one of his longer workshops as soon as we could.  I love his teaching because he’s not only extremely knowledgeable about yoga asana and a million other topics (music, sports, physiology, you name it). He’s also a really warm human being. Sadly, that can’t be said about all well-known yogis. They tend to be intense, serious people and not always the kindest or most approachable. Kofi believes that yoga should make us better people, not just bendier people. It’s so typical that his website has no photos of himself, only of his teacher, BKS Iyengar.

The Omega Institute is like summer camp for grownups. It’s a little slice of new age heaven, with locally grown vegetarian food. It’s in the upper Hudson River valley just east of the Catskill Mountains. While forty of us were there for the yoga workshop, other visitors there for topics like Buddhist meditation, watercolor painting, songwriting, shamanism and “past life regression”. One afternoon the whole yoga class burst out laughing as we heard the most bloodcurdling screams coming from the past life workshop. (I don’t know if I’d want to know about my past lives!)

My practice has been tremendously influenced by that one week. It may be some time before all the ways it has affected me become clear.

Chilled Cucumber Soup
(makes about one quart)

2 large cucumbers, peeled, seeded and cut into chunks
1 clove garlic
1 c. greek style yogurt (such as Fage)
1 c. regular plain yogurt (may use 2 c. regular yogurt if greek style isn’t available)
1-2 c. buttermilk (depending on how thick you like your soup)
1/4 cup mixed fresh herbs: mint, marjoram, thyme, you pick
salt (don’t skimp here, it takes at least 1t., and maybe 2)
black pepper

Garnish: minced hard boiled egg, snipped chives

In food processor or blender, buzz up one cucumber and the garlic clove to a rough paste. Add salt, pepper, yogurt and blend on pulse. Add herbs and the second cucumber and pulse to blend, but leave a bit of texture in the soup. Add buttermilk to thin to the desired texture. Chill for at least an hour. You may add a few ice cubes to speed chilling of the soup, but don’t dilute it so much you make it watery. Garnish with the chopped egg and chives.

In the bottom of the tenth the D-backs go ahead, 5 to 2. The Nats come back and tie it up again, but again they are unable to eke out the winning run. No-one in the park has left or sat down since the ninth inning. Finally, in the eleventh inning the D-backs score one more run, which the Nats couldn’t match. Game over, sigh.

But it was a great night anyway. Jamie’s five-year-old daughter caught a tee shirt AND got onto the jumbo-tron, and there was much enjoyable junk food consumed. All in all, a terrific summer night.

This Spring raced by, filled with a heavy schedule of consulting and yoga teaching. At last the yoga studio session has finished, and I’m looking forward to a break from teaching. I’ve committed to just one class per week during July and August, which should allow a bit more breathing room in my weeks. I plan to use the extra time to catch up on some overdue writing projects, re-invest in my own personal yoga practice, and hopefully post to the Jam a bit more regularly. Most of all, I want to slow down and enjoy the summer by spending more time with friends and family.

We had the unexpected pleasure today of hosting our good friend and neighbor Chris Apostolou and his father for lunch. Chris’ father is a spry Greek gentleman with a gift for cooking. He’s sent many traditional pastries and other goodies our way through Chris, and today he finally accepted a long-standing invitation to drop in.

Mr. Apostolou emigrated to America from the mountains of central Greece in the early fifties, with no English and just $60 in his pocket. He’s a fantastic story-teller and an inveterate leg-puller. I was charmed to learn his name is Pericles! Greek names are so wonderful. I’ve met other Greek-Americans with names like Socrates or Athena. It’s enough to give a person a cultural inferiority complex.

We lingered over lunch for a couple of hours, listening and laughing over Mr. Apostolou’s stories of working as a haphazardly trained waiter at high class hotels like San Francisco’s Fairmont and Washington’s Mayflower in the fifties. His best punch line: “And how do you want your steak tartare done?”

If I worked in an office I’d never get to have lunches like that.