Note to Self:

You are enough.

You are not defined by a single action.
You are not the floating ash off the
fire set by others' gossip.

You are not the worst of your days
or the weakest of your moments.

You are not the knots in your neck
or the pit in your stomach or the
lump in your throat.

You are not infallible,
indestructible, immune to hurt.

You are not in control.

You are honest and caring.
You are the pride in your parents
eyes and the joy in their hearts.

You are the best of your days
and the brightest of your moments.

You are the air in your lungs
and the beating in your heart and
the force in your action.

You are resilient, sensitive,
willing to learn.

You are enough.

Bagels: A Micro Memoir

Jewish + Sunday on Long Island = Bagel Breakfast

An actual photo of the bagel I ate this morning. #noregrets #worththecarbs

When I was a young kid, few things were more thrilling to me than hopping in the car with my dad early on Sunday morning for "a bagel run." It was a brief outing, sometimes just my dad and me, and other times my sister came too. But she liked to sleep late, and I was always a go-go-go kid. We lived in a smallish town on the north westerly coast of the island. There were few chains or franchises, the businesses were mostly family owned and operated, and many of them were along the main drag that ran from the north end of town to the south. Middle Neck Road was the place to go for Cheeses of the World, Lazar's Chocolate, any number of real New York pizza joints, and lots of other shops and restaurants. But down on our end of town,  there was a section with a local pharmacy, Tabatchnick's, and The Bagel Store. That's right. We had a bagel store called The Bagel Store. And that's all it was, a counter with a register and a bagel-making operation. There was a neon bagel light on the front window, and you could smell each of the contributors to the everything bagel when you approached the door. Fresh bagels with onion, garlic, sesame and poppy seeds, salt, and caraway seeds. Our bagel shop was famous for the bagel twist, which was essentially bagel dough braided into a twist and coated with the everything toppings. It was even better than a bagel. We would untwist it into pieces, toast them, and schmear cream cheese on each little piece. Dads would wait patiently in line with the Times under their arms, some with children in tow, others solo. I would stand in line with my dad while he picked out an assortment of 13 bagels- always a baker's dozen- and a couple of twists. The 13th was usually a snack for me on the rest of the journey. If I was lucky, it was still warm. Then we would go next door to Tabatchnick's and my dad would pick out the reddest, ripest bagel-sized tomato he could find and a red onion, while we waited in line to buy lox, and sturgeon, a delicious smoked white fish. Occasionally he would allow me to pick out a treat too, a doughnut or deli-fresh baked item. Sometimes I would get a candy in a clear deli container, not the kind that arrives in the store packaged, the kind that sells by the pound. These were benefits you only got if you tagged along for the early morning bagel run.

The memory is priceless. I went to bed last night (Saturday) thinking about how much I'd like to have a fresh bagel in the morning, and I resolved myself to do a bagel run. With the low-carb movement, bagels are getting a bad rep these days and it's a darn shame. We don't need their doughy goodness everyday. But once in a while, maybe one Sunday out of the month, a bagel run is well worth the carbs. It wasn't quite a New York bagel, but I found one SWFL bagel store that comes pretty close. With fresh whipped cream cheese and a local sliced tomato, it really hit the spot. And after toasting an everything bagel in my home, I get to enjoy the nostalgic scent of my childhood all day long.

Grounded

I woke this morning, startled by the sound of my mom emptying her dishwasher. We had a nice weekend visit, but waking unexpectedly on a Sunday is a strange way to start the day. I shuffled out into the living room and plopped down on the couch, trying to blink clear my allergy eyes and my sleepy brain.

I leaned back into the couch and closed my eyes completely, placing my feet on the floor. I was wearing socks so the tile felt comfortably cool, rather than shockingly cold. And my shoulders dropped, and my breath felt relaxed, and the fog started to lift. There was something so satisfying about the sensation of the solid, cool ground under me at every pressure point on the bottom of my feet. It's difficult to explain, but in an instant I felt the origin of the word grounded.

My head cleared and I felt present. Here. Now. The ground beneath my feet, rising up under me and pushing against my feet will keep me steady, keep me strong. It was a seemingly simple, yet internally complex feeling. I felt in touch. I felt grounded. I was present.