Dayna Macy’s Blog

Whether in politics, Hollywood, or in my personal circle of friends, I don’t care who sleeps with who. I don’t care if a politician is gay (unless he’s a homophobe in public, then all bets are off). So I just didn’t get what all the hoopla about John Edwards was about.

“Why all the fuss?” I asked my husband Scott, a journalist. “Who the hell cares, besides his wife and kids?”

Scott gently pointed out  that this man could have been Obama’s nominated VP, or even the nominee himself.  And had that happened — well, disaster. The democratic nomination derailed. John McCain the next President.

The country deserves better than Bush. Better than McCain, and, I guess, better than Edwards. It deserves Obama. If he wins, I will throw a party on January 20, 2009, and toast the end of an eight-year nightmare.

I picked my boys up from camp yesterday, and got them fabulous cupcakes from Love at First Bite — a cupcakery (who cares if that’s a word) smack in the heart of Berkeley’s “Gourmet Ghetto”. (The boys each wanted crushed oreo cupcakes. I, in a fit of rare discipline, declined). As we were walking back to our car, I told them I wanted to show them something cool. I pointed out the window of Mandy Aftel’s workshop, filled with antique perfume bottles. Mandy is a perfume maker, and I had interviewed her for a piece I wrote several years ago on cooking with essential oils. Just as I was pointing out the different shape bottles, the door opens, and out steps Mandy with her boyfriend.

“Hi Mandy,” I said,  reminding her of who I was. Knowing this was a rare chance to bring my boys into her perfume studio, I asked her if I could briefly show the boys her workshop. She very graciously said, “of course.”

I knew my boys would love her space, because it’s magical. She has a perfume “organ,” a three sided workspace that allows her to mix scents within easy reach. Stepping into her workshop is like stepping back in time, when alchemists and witchcraft reigned. My son Jack asked her if he could smell some rose scent, and Mandy began describing the difference between Moroccan Rose and Oman Rose, the difference between essential oils and absolutes, and top, middle or base notes. We smelled Frankincense, Oakmoss, Lavender, Tobacco, and my personal favorite, Black Spruce.

We spent about a half hour there, as Mandy kindly entertained my boys questions. Smelling her perfume mixtures is a completely different experience from anything you’ll find in department stores (I don’t wear perfume for this reason — they smell, and in fact, are synthetic), and while I can’t say I love all of Mandy’s fragrances — I find them all interesting (she’s coming out with a black currant fragrance this fall that is wonderful, deep, earthy, and berryish).

As we left, I said, “Fellas, you’ve just met a witch, and I mean that in the very best possible way,” to which Mandy gave us a big smile.

Magic is still alive and well in the world. And Berkeley seems to have a higher than average amount.

I am madly in love with The Xocolate Bar – a new chocolate store in Berkeley at 1709 Solano Avenue. Owned by Malena and Clive, a former metalsmith and glassblower respectively, their chocolates are deep, rich, and wonderful (my favorites are the Kalamata Olive truffle — salty and sweet, and the Cardomon ganache). Malena makes her own molds, and the results are gorgeous — a zaftig Venus of Willendorff, a spritely Bacchus, and lusty Kama Sutra tiles. And if that weren’t enough, the molded chocolates are covered with an iridescent shimmer. They even serve vegan chocolate (no carob silliness here!). And, they serve it all with great smiles and good will. The store has become a favorite hangout for me and my boys, and if you live in Berkeley or are just passing through, I urge you to stop by and taste their divinely inspired confections.

I had just come from Mandy Aftel’s perfume studio (more on that another time) where she had given me an absolute of Black Spruce (how wonderful is Berkeley?) I gave Malena a smell from the bottle and I had, what I humbly consider, a flash of genius — conifer chocolate for the holidays! Malena seemed amused and interested. Come December, we shall see if she and Clive have whipped up something foresty and sweet.

I recently wrote a piece for Yoga Journal titled “Eat Like a Yogi”. In the piece, I interviewed some of the top yoga teachers in the United States on what they ate and why.

I was inspired to write the piece because there are a lot of assumptions about food in the yoga world, namely, that if you are serious about yoga, then you’re a vegetarian.

I don’t agree. Vegetarianism is a noble path, but some people need meat in their diets. (And by meat I mean organic and humanely raised. No one who is the least bit aware could support factory-farming practices.)

There are those who disagree, who say that if you practice yoga then you must adhere to the tenet of ahimsa, or non-violence. And eating meat is a violent act.

Yes, but so is eating. I do think a vegetarian diet is healthy for many people, and much better for the planet. But I don’t believe in a one size fits all philosophy.

I have enormous respect for all the teachers I interviewed, including Scott Blossom, Gary Kraftsow, David Life, and Ana Forrest. All had different takes on what it meant to eat like a yogi, but all agreed that respecting food and bringing a sense of reverence to the table was important. I was especially moved by Ana Forrest’s words: “I honor the elk, buffalo, or moose by not wasting its life force or mine. I use that force to heal myself and others, and to teach, inspire, and help people evolve. My ethics about what to eat come down to my personal truth. Eating in a way that impairs your health and thinking is immoral.”

It’s often easier to see the world in terms of black and white, or to think that following a spiritual path means living only one way. It’s harder to feel your way into your own truth, and respecting whatever it is you find there.

I just got back from four days camping at Lake Siskayou, near the base of Mt. Shasta.

Six families from my boys’ school went. My family and I slept in a tent. I was dreading it.

Instead, I loved it. One dad, Greg, made fresh olive bread baked over coals — a technique he learned from the Bedouins in the Sinai. (This is the person who also brought an Olivetti typewriter for the kids to play with. You would have thought it the most magnificent video game ever created, the way the kids gathered round it).

What I loved most was swimming in the cold lake, looking up at Mt. Shasta. I felt so small in the very best possible way — part of something much bigger than I — a perspective often lost in the grind of daily life.

I loved sleeping in our tent (with a very plush air mattress), looking up at the big trees and stars. Big trees are healing.

Did I mention how great the food tasted, even when it wasn’t great food?

And when I came home, I loved our home even more. Our sometimes chaotic, always messy home now seems very beautiful to me.  And I am more appreciative of this wonderful, strange foursome that is our family.

What comes to mind when you read those words?

So I wonder what Michelle Obama was thinking when she wore a lovely, moderately priced dress made by a company of that name.

That she’s not a snob? ($128.00 isn’t much for a dress). That she’s destined for the White House? That she is, obviously, black?

I’m not sure — but she seems far too savvy and insightful not to have had something in mind.

I just came back from CT where we celebrated my niece Lindsey’s wedding to the fine young Doug Robertson.  She was a vision — beautiful, sweet, with the kindest smile you’ve ever seen.

Two days after the wedding, I took my sister and her other wonderful daughter Kyra, and my two sons to a local beach. I did not last long — the weather hit 103 degrees that day. But I did take off my beach wrap, and stroll leisurely into the water, which is nothing to write about, except that I didn’t wrap myself up as I usually do, mummy like in my pareo. Doing whatever I can to tastefully hide my body.

Nope. Life’s too short to not feel the warmth (okay, scorch) of the sun on my bare shoulders, arms and legs. What is most interesting, to me anyway, is that the less I care about how I appear to others, the more comfortable I am in my own skin.

I’m back now from the Yoga Journal Boston Conference where I co-taught a class with Bo Forbes on yoga, food, and body image. I was amazed that around 80 people showed up. Just goes to show how much people want information and healing on the topic (me too!)

At the end of the class, a woman asked how she can take care of herself around food when a) she doesn’t have time to cook and b) she’s not really that interested in food but knows she needs to eat well to be healthy. Bo said there are those that eat to live (like this woman) and those that live to eat (me). I said something like, go to Whole Foods or some other healthy store, buy prepared foods and enjoy them.

Then another woman in the audience raised her hand and said, “Isn’t it interesting that this generation doesn’t care about food? How dissociated and disconnected people become from cooking and how food is raised?”

I instantly felt tight, and saw other members of the audience visibly stiffen. I looked at Bo, who has many years of yoga teaching under her belt, with pleading eyes, like, “how do we answer this judgmental woman?” Bo took it on and said something like “Isn’t it interesting how much judgment we have about other people’s food choices. Just goes to show you how loaded this topic is for most people.”

Amen sister. The woman who asked this seemed to feel superior to the woman who wants to eat well but doesn’t have time or inclination to cook. I am always interested in observing how our egos shore us up in order to make us feel superior than others. And, I agree totally with Bo: just goes to show how much healing needs to be done in this arena.

Say what you want, but I believe that if you really need something in your life, the universe delivers.

I’ve been thinking, for at least a year now, that I need to begin a meditation practice to augment my yoga practice. My life is pretty busy, and work is sometimes chaotic. It’s always helpful if you can find the calm in the middle of a storm.

So when I bumped into my dear friend Jennifer last week and told her how much I wanted to learn to meditate, she asked, “what are you doing later?” Turns out, Jennifer wants to become a meditation teacher. And I became her first student.

She came over, and as I fidgeted, checked my watched, (and almost checked my email), she made sure I found a comfortable seated position (for me, it’s a chair). I was impressed by the care she took with this — she takes meditation seriously. And so I told myself to slow down and pay attention to what she had say. She taught me a simple technique in which you count backwards from 50 by twos, with every exhale on the even count. At the count of 20, pause, and then switch to an in/out breath for each count. When you get to one, you then simply sit and breathe.

What happened next was surprising and profound. I fell into such a deep state of relaxation, it was almost like falling into another reality. We sat only for ten minutes, but they were a great ten minutes. She asked me to do this every day, and so far, I have.

What I’m after is learning to sit with what is, and not hide, turn away, or distract myself (People Magazine anyone?) We can fritter lifetimes away with distraction and I don’t want to fritter mine.

I’m off to the Yoga Journal Boston Conference, teaching a class with Bo Forbes on how yoga can help wake you up around what and how you eat. I say teach, but really, I’m there to learn. It’s a Q&A — I’ll do the Q and Bo will do the A.

It’s been five years since the Jayson Blair scandal doomed Howell Raines’ career at the New York Times. In a recent interview with Editor & Publisher, he has this to say about the scandal: “I am proud of the fact that it [the internal Times investigation] set the standard for in-house inquiries. I feel proud of the fact that we had as close to a full investigation as any journalistic entity has done in my experience.”

Really? I have rarely ever read such egoistic, delusional spin. Maybe there was a rigorous internal inquiry, but of course, it was after the the Times, the paper of record, had already published many of Blair’s fallacious stories, even after having been warned by his staff members that Blair was making things up.

As someone who makes most of my living from public relations, I find his spin remarkable, transparent, and embarrassing. But it is a lesson in human frailty, and the deep desire of the ego to protect the self at all costs.