......scraping

Yogis,
I opened wide for the initial inspection. The tiny handheld mirror and long pic went in and passed slowly over every tooth. ‘Clean as always!’ the hygienist exclaimed. ‘This will be a quick appointment.’ Now this is not how it has always been.  

Every six months like clockwork I head to the dentist for a cleaning and checkup. It’s never been my favorite activity as my teeth are not the strongest part of my body. My mouth is a lifelong construction project. More fillings than I can count, crowns, root canals and an implant. Even a Maryland bridge put in when I was about ten that the dentist marvels at each time he sees it. A true relic.

The gentle scolding at the end of the appointment for my plaque buildup has also never been a highlight. I brush very well twice a day, eat healthy and keep up with my appointments. You need to floss more……you should get an electric toothbrush…..brush longer……mouthwash. I will, I promised, knowing full well nothing was going to change.

Until I began tongue scraping.

I can’t remember how I ended up with a tongue scraper but 4 or 5 years ago I decided to start using it. After every brushing and rinse I grab for the scraper. Placing the metal horseshoe end toward the back of my tongue I pull toward the front of the tongue a few times. Final rinse and good to go!

After about a year I noticed that the little lecture at my appointments became shorter. The scraping of tartar off my teeth was nowhere near as tedious. And my mouth felt great. The improvements continue.

Tongue scraping is an ancient ayurvedic practice which probably began being done in Europe by the affluent in the 15th century. It wasn’t until the 20^th century that tongue scrapers began to hit our US commercial market and is still not practiced by many. But the benefits for such a simple routine are plentiful.

It removes many unwanted bacteria from the tongue. Breath is better. Less plaque (halleluiah!) which can equate to less cavities. Reduced inflammation of the gums. Improved sense of taste. In general, better overall dental health.  For about a $7 investment. I’ll take that any day!

The other thing I notice is that scraping gives me instant feedback on myself. There are times where what comes off is not very attractive, indicating I have probably not been eating my healthiest. Other times it is clear and almost nonexistent, telling me I’m on the right track. And once it became habit, my tooth brushing doesn’t feel complete without it.

A new year approaches so consider adding this simple and easy practice to your day. As my mom always says…..what’s the worst thing that can happen?

Go for a metal one (we don’t need any more plastic in our bodies) and at first start scraping from the middle of the tongue and over time as your mouth gets used to it you can start further back.

The dental field does not seem to have embraced tongue scraping in their protocols so you most likely won’t hear it from them. And with dental insurance becoming almost obsolete and costs rising, consider this my public service announcement.

Would love to hear how it goes,
SARAH

.....O Christmas tree

Yogis,
Getting ready for the holidays is a month-long event. Each week holds certain activities on the to do list that have to happen. Putting up the lights……hanging a wreath…..digging out the cookie tins…..buying the wrapping paper….sending a tip to the paper delivery guy. This week’s calendar included a day for getting the Christmas tree.

What a funny thing. Heading to a temporary lot set up with a sea of different trees, selecting the one that is right, tying it to the top of the car and bringing it home where it will take up residence inside the house for a few weeks. But how is it that we know which is the right one?

When I was growing up, our ‘right’ tree was always one that was not too tall, quite thick and definitely Christmas tree shaped.  We had a vision in mind and were particular that the tree matched that image. That job often fell to me and my dad.  

I have memories of us heading out in the dark after he got home from work. We would stand up every tree in the lot and more than once did not find the right tree. On we would go to the next lot. And so on…… One year I think we even went home treeless and tried again the next day. We knew what we wanted and weren’t going to settle for just any tree.

I carried this with me into marriage much to the chagrin of my family. Being a mom of three boys, every tree that was stood up for our inspection looked perfect to them. No one shared my need to find just the right one. They would humor me for a bit but if the shopping started to become extended they would begin to wrestle and bicker with each other forcing a quick decision.

For a couple years I thought it would be a good idea to make tree shopping part of a family outing and would head an hour north and add in some holiday activities and a lunch. The trees were a little less expensive and it would put us in the Christmas mood. That only lasted until the year we pulled onto the highway and one of our sons was literally sobbing in the backseat that they didn’t want to go. U-turn. Ho, ho, ho.

I watched other families as they arrived at the fire station Monday night. Some do as we do and look at several trees. Others say yes to the first tree put in front of them. Some want tall, some want narrow. Scotch pine, Douglas fir, Frasier fir. Everyone has an opinion. Are they also making their decisions based on their upbringing? Are my childhood friends who always had the very skinny tall trees with only white lights now sitting in front of one of those in their own homes?

I have mellowed a bit. The tree should be about nine feet tall, have a nice shape and no gaping bare spots. Typically, I can select a tree from four or five we are shown. My idea of right has softened and each year as the tree sits with me in the great room and wraps me in the smell of a forest, I fall in love every time.

I have also dropped tinsel from my repertoire,
SARAH

.....detour

Yogis,
It’s Friday morning and I’m packing for a quick weekend trip to visit friends in Pennsylvania. The plan is to leave by noon because as you probably know, any later is asking for trouble on a Friday on Interstate 95. I check my phone for directions to see what it is looking like and notice that it has me veering off I95 north of Baltimore. Uh, oh.

We weren’t leaving for a couple of hours and assumed that whatever the obstacle was would surely be cleared up by then. Imagining a detour creates that small pit in my stomach since I know 95 and can almost drive it with my eyes closed at this point.

Noon comes. Car loaded. Phoebe nestled into her bed behind me. I pull up the gps again……..no change. Certainly, in the hour it takes us to get north of Baltimore all will be resolved. Off we go!

Smooth ride north and through the tunnel. Making good time. Coming out the other side, a highway sign flashes brightly ’95 North – all lanes closed at Delaware border.’ Shoot. My phone tells me to exit fifteen miles up on a road I have never traveled.

The remaining hour and a half of the ride winds us through countryside and as soon as I relax my mind’s irritation with this unplanned detour and loosen my grip on the steering wheel, things change. I begin seeing cleared open fields and rolling hills. The way the sun lights the tree tops. Old bridges and quaint small towns. I find myself starting to like this new route.

Instead of eighteen wheelers on my left, cows grazed. Rather than rest stops we passed old barns.

When driving on 95 I am comfortably numb. No thinking. The miles click by as each looks like the one before and after. When we keep traveling the ‘known’, the mind gets bored and wanders off on a trip of its own. We stop seeing. On this brand new path though, I noticed how alert I became. More aware. More awake.

Red shutters on the old stone house.  A Christmas tree farm. The hawk perched on an electrical line.

In life, like our weekend road trips, most of us take what feels most comfortable. Whatever is easiest and quickest. We know the turns and what to expect. But when we are forced to take a detour (or at times choose one) everything becomes a bit more vivid. And how often do we look back at life and say ‘thank goodness!’ I was forced to veer into another lane?

By the time we pull up to our destination I am hoping I canfigure out how to take that same route back home on Sunday. Suddenly the thought of I95 is undesirable. I had been asked to travel a new path and realized it was a gift.

What other detours can I take?
SARAH

......passing the baton

Yogis,
It’s a wrap. The remnants of leftovers have been eaten. The house is swept. Bed linens stripped, washed and folded. Rugs shaken out……check. Turkey platter packed away……check. The french bulldog is named best in show. Thanksgiving 2022 is now in the books.

Thanksgiving is a unique holiday. It has its own personality and long-standing traditions, yet as soon as the table has been cleared of cranberry sauce the baton is handed to Christmas. Not even a full twenty-four hours exists from that moment forward that doesn’t share its time with thoughts of mistletoe and holly.

Turkey? Pumpkins? Autumn colors? They all quickly begin to look faded and out of place while red and green lights with garland are wrapped around the downtown light posts. Christmas tree lightings, carols and the frenzy of black Friday replace naps on the couch while watching football. Must I shower?

Some years it really gets on my nerves. Couldn’t we relish that warm feeling of family, good food and laziness for just another day or two? Is that an unreasonable request? But for some reason I am ok with it this year.

Maybe it’s the hope that Covid will not be one of our guests this year. Or that the sun has been so bright in the sky this past month. Perhaps it’s because there are four full weeks instead of three and change between holidays as Thanksgiving fell a bit early.

Whatever it is, on Friday after gathering with the whole gang once again to do left-overs we took a walk into town (Rehoboth) with Phoebe to see the Christmas tree. The streets felt filled with joy. There was a line for the world famous French fries as Santa’s little house on the boardwalk was awaiting his arrival.

A small lit Christmas tree in a front screened porch caught my eye and told me I should begin searching for the right one for our little house.

Temperatures dropped quickly as the sky darkened, but the orange light of Mars shone bright. As I looked around it was as if I was watching families walking out of Thanksgiving and into the pine scent of Christmas. I know it happens every year but this year I felt like I was in lock step with them. Ready for the baton to be handed. Like maybe I could even simplify the holiday season finally. Really? At least a little…….

Santa's house at sunrise 

Thanksgiving night is the launching pad for a whirlwind of a month, but I am ready. Good-bye pumpkin pie……and hello peppermint bark!

Grateful for it all,
SARAH

.....and grateful to all of you who read my Sunday notes

.....the impossible

Yogis,
There is a neighborhood in Washington DC called Adams Morgan. A culturally diverse area with a large Latino population and two main streets lined with restaurants, stores, bars and small businesses. This section of DC comprised a big chunk of my first sales territory with Xerox.

Earlier this month I began weekly tutoring for an adorable first grader. His school sits in the heart of Adams Morgan. As I have been driving around in search of those elusive parking spaces and walking past the old buildings, many memories are flooding in.

The year was 1983. Fresh out of college and 21 years old I completed training and was made a New Business Marketing Rep (a fancy name for door-to-door salesperson.) My job was to sell copiers and typewriters to the small businesses along these defined city streets.

Back then you were required to report to the office at 8 am sharp, makes some calls, do some paperwork and then head into your territory for the day. The car console filled to the brim with quarters for the meters and my briefcase in hand, I would knock on doors. In a suit. With stockings. And high heeled pumps.

Now for those of you who had to squeeze your feet into pumps daily, you will be able to relate. You are walking along, looking oh so professional, when suddenly your shoe stops and you walk right out of it. The skinny heel stuck in a grate or between the cobble stones. You hobble back to release it and hope the heel isn’t broken. And of course, you always had the clear nail polish in the car for that sudden run in your stockings that got longer and more unsightly with each step you took.

Six months later, add a pregnancy to the mix.

Now I am walking up and down the stairs of these rowhouse buildings, at times carrying a typewriter, with an increasingly protruding belly. Still in heels. And speaking of pantyhose…….I can still distinctly feel that sensation of the waist band suddenly beginning its descent, not stopping until it was beneath the rounded belly with the stockings hanging down between my legs. As I continued on with my sales pitch to the decision maker it felt like I was wearing a diaper. I didn’t miss a beat.

Three times I worked through my pregnancies, heading back a mere six weeks later as if there wasn’t a scrawny helpless infant at home who had only recently exited my body in dramatic fashion. The same one who had me up at 2 am that morning. The same one who had me in tears alone in my car.

Pumping in the public restrooms. Milk drawing a bull’s eye pattern on my blouse while in a meeting. The occasional smell of spit up on my wool suit from the morning feedings. Looking for a pay phone to check in with the babysitter.

I look back and think ‘how did I possibly do it?’.

My cousin is in the thick of it right now and recently posted this quote from Tina Fey.

“I think every working mom probably feels the same thing: You go through big chunks of time where you’re just thinking, ‘This is impossible - oh, this is impossible.’ And then you just keep going and keep going, and you sort of do the impossible.”

Yes. It was impossible, but yes we keep going. Because we have to. Because we are strong. Because the world desperately needs us women. This note is a nod to all of you out there. I see you.

Or the day I realized I was wearing two different color shoes,
SARAH

.....anticipation

Yogis,
It begins to come into focus about a week ahead. I start to imagine everyone walking through the front door. Seeing the wide smiles and hugs all around as we gather in the kitchen. Visualizing the lively mood during appetizers as we catch up on a year that now sits in our rear-view mirror. Imagining the amazing spread of lobster, tenderloin and potatoes in my mind’s eye and the ceremonial tossing of the Caesar salad. That warm feeling of being together to celebrate us for the 34^th…..or is it 35^th year.

Saturday was our annual Lobsterfest, where ten of us converge for five hours to eat, drink, talk, dance and love. Lots and lots of love. But it always begins with the anticipation.

This year as I visualized adorning the table with small pumpkins, fall mums, fresh cut herbs and candles, I began to see something new. Twinkle lights lying down the center of the table. Online I go and $11 later I have a ten foot strand of small warm white globe lights which I weaved around the table toppers. They did not disappoint. In fact, I believe they will stay there through the dark of winter.

Two days ahead I sat in front of my Spotify to begin constructing a playlist that would get even the most reluctant dancers up out of their chairs. Seeing us all pushing in the dining chairs to clear our dance floor. Of course, the crowd favorites like Get Lucky and Blurred Lines went in, but I pictured some new energy being brought in. Songs like I Love It and Sweetest Pie. They did not disappoint. After one particularly exhilarating dance when the song ended, we all spontaneously broke into applause. Applause for us and for our joy.

Anticipating the laughter. Imagining myself bent over or even snorting from those stories of our younger years told one more time. The way we all know each other so well that our individual quirks and inside jokes never disappoint. Laughter like we have is absolutely one of the best medicines for whatever ails you.

Finally, the anticipation of late night where we feel we have eaten and moved enough and we can all settle together. Lights low. Music turned down. I can feel it.  It did not disappoint. We have two new chairs in the sitting nook of our great room where everyone was drawn to sit in a circle. Phoebe curled up in a ball getting her final pets. Reminiscing. Talk of young grandchildren and others on their way.

While I shop for flowers, I feel the anticipation. While cutting herbs. Washing the table linens. Putting chocolates in a bowl. Laying out the cheese platters. Lighting the candles. Each step filling me with the sights, smells and sensations of what is to come.

Thank goodness I have the anticipation for the several days leading up to Saturday because those five hours are gone in a blink of an eye. As the coats go back on and goodbyes are shared, I realize that no matter how high the bar is set in my vision, the event never disappoints.

I wake up Sunday morning a bit bleary eyed but bursting with gratefulness.

Still feeling the warmth that days ago I anticipated,
SARAH

.....acorns

Yogis,
Our small beach house sits surrounded by pine and oak trees. Big old trees that are great producers. As great producers they then also must be fantastic autumn droppers, and this was their weekend to let go. Acorns and pinecones falling at an incredible rate on the roof, driveway, gutters and everywhere in between. Like a rainstorm they clank on the metal roof next door and rumble as they roll, often having me glancing over my shoulder to see who is there. Twenty-four hours a day.

Last night I lay in bed with the window open. Plop…plop…plop on the roof above my head reminding me of large teardrops. As if the sky and trees were finally allowing themselves this time to grieve as life begins its slow down. Fall is the season for grief.

Grief is hard. We want to push the inevitable off. I’ll get to it. But do we really want to wait for springtime, with its brightening days and bursts of lifeforce to grieve? Or maybe summer while eating an ice cream cone on the boardwalk? No…… As the nights become longer and the leaves float downward, we too are meant to let go. If not in fall, when?

And isn’t that what grief is at its essence? A letting go? A pouring out.

Grief arrives in small and large packages. A loved one. Our youth. A relationship. The end of summer. The daily tragedies of life. A missed experience. The way something used to be……

We claim we dislike things that are shallow, yet when it is time for grief we high-tail it for the shallow end because grief holds tremendous depth. It scares us. It’s uncomfortable. Unknown. If I swim into the dark of grief, will I be able to make my way back.

But wouldn’t life without grief be missing its texture?

We grieve because we loved. Two sides of the same coin. They travel hand in hand and cannot be separated. And when grief arrives, she will be patient for a while for us to acknowledge her, but only for so long. She yearns to be processed. A step at a time. Fall offers us this doorway.

Fog. Leaves crunching under my shoes. The flock of blackbirds in the tree. A late yellow butterfly floats by.

Another acorn falls.

Feeling it all,
SARAH