What does meditation look like?

Be honest. When you saw the title of this blog, a vision popped into your head. Something probably like this:

But I've been thinking: If meditation is for ME, to help ME, does it have to look like this in my world? I've sat like this in yoga class before, enjoyed it in yoga class before, but honestly, I don't sit like this outside the classroom. I think I am going to do it, but then I never do, for various reasons ranging from not enough floor room to my feet falling asleep. Does that mean I am never going to meditate?

The short answer -- no. I've noticed that naturally I fall into more of a contemplative state when I moving in a way that I don't have to think about. And I have to be outside. Like swinging on a porch swing, or jogging down the street. My mind is just enough occupied with the movement that it pauses the racing thoughts and I can just be. Not necessarily empty of thoughts but letting thoughts pass and being in the present. 

Meet my newest meditation tool, Bessie the Beach Cruiser. I designed her myself at Affordabike, and she is a pure vision of turquoise and white meditation with a smile. 

So don't be stuck in how you think you should do something or what that something looks like. Just think about what feels right to you. And find a space where you can just be, whereever and whatever that looks like.

What if the mountains aren't there?

We had the first cool days in Charleston this past weekend. It was ahead of schedule, but it got many people thinking about knee-length boots, football, and large bowls of spicy chili.

For me, I started thinking about leaves changing in the mountains, how that must be already happening, and how many people make their annual pilgrimages to high elevations too ooh and ahh. But what if the mountains were not there? I don't mean paved over by outlet malls; I mean not there.

For many in some of the deepest hollers and hideaways in the Appalachian mountains, this is a reality, and it's called mountaintop removal. It is a modern technique for mining coal, and the coal companies in places such as West Virginia say it's safer and good for the economy.

For those of us, and that's most of us, that don't live in that world, it is a controversy that too many of us find too painful or too complicated, so we turn away. Carl Galie is asking us -- through his art -- to turn back, to look again.

I had the chance to talk with him about his commitment to wild places and rural communities, and about his approach to photography. See some of his photos of coal country's vanishing places here and read about what sets apart his calls for change.

Love letter to art

Good art makes me giddy. I can't really say when I first started loving "art" -- maybe it was during those heady undergraduate days when NODA in Charlotte was still called North Davidson, and I would gallery crawl into a heady mix of art, architecture, and spontaneous drum circles. I was really into the drum circle a lot more back then, I guess, although I do remember a little of the art.

If I had to pin a moment, an actual moment, that art mattered -- to me -- it would have to be weekday in Winter oh, now close to a decade ago. I was sad the way people get sad. You know, people who have decided at some point that what they were doing was wrong, that they have to jump ship and start over. Start again. Regret. That kind of sad.

I found myself again in that section of Charlotte, bright winter sun glinting against the sidewalk and no drum circles or live bands or promise of being hip. The street outside the gallery was quiet with occasional traffic, and undeniably deserted yet cheery.

I popped into a well-known gallery, wandered to the middle, and stood. There it was. A huge painting, probably 36x40 of a Carolina field, after dusk, the grass glowing fireflies. I should be a better student and tell you who painted it, but I can't remember, although later I went back and asked, looked it up, and still can't remember.

That painting seemed to be about everything that was pure, was good and simple, and there I was, wanting it so bad I ached. I didn't have a table in my apartment, but I wanted that painting that was way out of my price range, that was everywhere I wanted to be, everything I wanted to feel about the world and couldn't.

I liked art cerebral-ly before that; I have loved it ever since, and next Thurs., Sept. 22, I will write an event love letter to it. The Beehive presents Buzzworthy, a one-night gallery event for young collectors, fills the lobby of The Terrace Theater on James Island, and all the artists and their artwork will be there because of that one winter day, when I fell in love with art.

The zen of okra

The smell of frying okra makes me think of my grandmother so much, it takes my breath away. I remember her okra, her perfectly coated pieces that were not charred, not raw, but somehow the most divine the next day when they were room temperature.

It's probably my last okra of the season, and I really haven't had enough. I didn't pickle them, didn't put them in the "big plans" jambalaya I had ideas for at the beginning of the summer. No, every time I got the pods, I cut them in rounds, I fried them up, just for myself, coating them lightly in Martha White cornmeal mix, and then I ate my fill. I ate them with sandwiches, leftover pork chops, and just two days ago, hummus and carrots. I don't care; to me, it doesn't have to "go" with anything -- everything has to go with it.

I remember my Granny's Formica countertops, and how the electric skillet would sit to one side, filled with okra already fried, just sitting there with the heat off. I miss her, the way her hand would wipe the crumbs off the counter beside that electric skillet. But I am happy, because I always have the smell of okra. And I always have the memory of her.

Bitters Enthusiasm

I often see that in many aspects of life, being "smart" or being "discerning" means being "critical" to a lot of people. How many workplaces have you been in where the main bonding activity is complaining about the job?

I love people who sincerely love their job -- often their enthusiasm is infectious, and I respect that they embrace the work. Especially when the results, are the elevation of spirits into an art form. Yes.

This past weekend, I took a class at The Cocktail Club on Bitters 101 the old fashioned additive to Old Fashioneds that I didn't know was so in fashion right now. Jasmine Beck and Jon Calo had all kinds of info., and Jon's knowledge of bitters, how it is made, its long history, and the heretofore-personally undiscovered knowledge of the various brands (what, more than just that dusty one in the back of the bar with the yellow top?!) appealed to my inner home chemist.

Jon Calo in his natural environment, in a perfectly stocked and gleaming bar

A good teacher makes a student feel that they can accomplish, and Jon and Jasmine broke down their alchemy in cooking terms. I love to play mad scientist in my kitchen, whipping up jellies, some pickles, and even on one occasion, dandelion wine, so I'm excited to come up with my own bitters, Steph's Special Blend. I mean, there are celery bitters and plum bitters, so why not a concoction with my favorite aromatics, including cardamom, basil, lavender and perhaps some rosemary?

What do you mean?

Communication. Lately, I have been focusing a lot on my often ineffective communication. Yep. Me. Writer, publicist, and super-talker. We can be saying so much and actually be saying nothing that we want to say, intend to say!

This has come to light recently in many aspects of my life, but one especially poignant one. I am teaching a beginning quilting class through The Beehive to a group of three ladies who have never spent much time in front of a sewing machine. I have quilted for 10 years and have teaching experience as a former college instructor, so I felt pretty comfortable starting the class. Hint: beware of being too comfortable.

Some of my quilts at a show in 2010

After just completing the second session last evening, I realized, I am having a lot of trouble communicating. It's not that they are not "getting" it (they are doing beautiful work!). They want to communicate, to feel my intent to share, to pass along my love for this thing that I have done for so long that I don't even notice what I am doing.

It's not that I'm using so much quilting jargon (such as "y-seam" or "dog-ears") that I am speaking another language.

It's that I can't find the word at all.

For me, quilting has been something ultra-personal, my own thing. I learned a little from people, a lot from books, but mainly it's been me in a room by myself for the last 10 years developing my own technique. Now I am opening that world up and trying to teach my approach to others.

I am happy to be open. I am happy to be vulnerable. I am happy to have the wonderful, open, patient ladies in the class. And I am happy to be learning right along with them. They are wonderful companions for the journey.