All movement originates in the core

In one season of life, when I was living in the East/Ukrainian Village at the corner of Veselka, I started doing Pilates 3x/week at New York Pilates. It completely changed how I stand, how I hold myself and how I move. I credited it as the reason for my “great posture” when a military couple leaned over to compliment me on it at dinner recently.

“All movement originates in the core.” The instructors said, each class, guiding us back to breath and center. It clicked, and I connected.

I think of it often, to center myself, to connect to myself, to move from the inside out. Am I entering this moment, this meeting, this movement from my core, with my core? Is this a decision I’ve connected to in my core, that deep, gentle, solid center line that runs through us, that glows, that connects us to our whole body, our whole spirit, our whole being?

Note: The origin of Pilates, created by Joseph Pilates during internment in WWI, is fascinating. (He studied animals’ movement to develop it!)

There is a gift in everything

I woke up early today (though, and, it’s all relative); earlier than I would have expected, earlier than was my preference. The gift in it is: a slower morning. Time to write this. Time to do my morning journaling with more presence. The opportunity to read some Rumi, and perhaps to finish packing before my Chicago trip tomorrow.

There is a gift in this, and there is a gift in everything. Today, the gift was evident early. Sometimes it takes time to be known; sometimes it’s a surprise. Other times, I’ve found the biggest gifts only when I look back and take time to reflect.

With gifts, too, it’s about accepting them, with gratitude and an open heart, rather than expecting them. It may not be what we wanted, but it always ends up being what we needed.

The little things are the big things

This one made all the difference for me in heavy pandemic times, when lockdown and COVID first hit NYC and I was living in a SoHo apartment that had brought me so much joy in rolling, raucous, rollicking pre-pandemic times, and from which I now realized I couldn’t see the sun. A friend said it on one of those FaceTime calls that were the only conversational connection so many of us had for too long.

When I realized, a month in, that I could access the roof, the world opened. I spent all my time up there, and I eventually moved to an apartment in Williamsburg with a terrace. More sunlight, seeing open sky, being outside. Really big things.

I said it again today to a woman who complimented my pink (“blush”) beach cruiser with beige tires outside a Peet’s Coffee in Marina del Rey. Here on the other side of the country, in my new home of the LA Westside. She was sitting having a coffee, her German Shepherd asleep at her feet. I smiled and said thank you, that the colors sparked joy and then, “The little things are big things,” without thinking, something I used to say when slowly sipping a morning coffee, when making moments mine, when slowing to do little things that seemed inane in my pre-pandemic life of rush, but became everything when everything felt huge and scary and beyond our control.

She said, '“They really are,” and then she paused, and we both kind of took in the moment together. “The little things really are the big things,” she repeated.