Now that I am of a “certain age” I have stopped caring about many things that once seemed important, like squeezing my writing into a pigeonhole. So I have allowed myself to write anything and everything that comes to me. All of the stories and characters come from some part of me – my 15 year-old self, my (ahem!) current self, and everything in between.

This album is dedicated to the memory of my parents, Phil and Lizi. To my two oldest and dearest friends, my sisters, Michele and Sherry. You have both given me so much – Words fail. To my “sister by another mother”– Lucie, who has been such a dear friend and unfailing support. To our favorite nomads, Jim and Marylou. To Carole, my very dear, multi-talented friend of 30 years. To Betty Blair and J.P. And la Belle Renée in Tennessee. To all of the Munson clan, and especially to Marjorie Munson who has been an enormous inspiration – She and Ed gave Art wings and roots. To our Yoga Blend family here in La-La Land. You’ve taught me so much. To all of the many people I love – You know who you are! And to our little tuxedo fur child, Le Petit Henri, who spent so many long hours in the studio co-producing from the couch.

A special thank you to Michele who provided the beautiful music for our song, “My Mother’s Eyes”. And thank you for singing it with me. The Bagelman Sisters ride again!

Finally, I have to express my undying love and deepest gratitude to my soul mate and genius musical guru, Honey Hands Munson. To Art, My Heart. (It pays to sleep with your producer!!!).

“All of the shadow and all of the light/All that is wrong and all that is right/All of this I give to you. /All of me loves all of you – I do!”

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So here I am, the ideal target demographic: mid-fifties, college-educated, devoutly liberal or progressive – I forget which term is in right now — vegetarian, “airie-fairie” kind of a gal. I remember the 60s with a little bit of nostalgia and a little bit of a shudder. You could guess how I have voted since 1968, and you would be right (I would be left!).

So. I’m leafing through this magazine rather mindlessly, and I stumble across the gleaming countenance of a beautiful woman looking to be, perhaps, Indian, and perhaps of a certain age. She is radiant, dressed in a sari. Below her picture is her “bio”, which describes her as a “Divine Spiritual Luminary”and a “Great Mystic”. I have the same feeling I have whenever I see a picture of the Pope, Queen Elizabeth, or for that matter, Mick Jagger. I mean, I know these people are extraordinary. I know they each possess a unique insight informed by a unique vantage point on the world. And each of them holds a mystique, an aura of power that transcends the mundane. They are icons, and as such, they command a certain respect.

But at some point, I’m sorry to say, a little voice in my head says, “Is it real, or is it just pretend?”. And if it *is* pretend, is that such a bad thing? Or, is it as real as I allow it to be? Or should I be offended by pretense that basically, sells us snake oil? Or. What if it’s not snake oil? Is the believing itself the real magic?

You see, I am very, very confused. Part of me wants so badly to believe it all. I want to just swallow the Divine Light whole and let it illuminate my very being, curing me of everything from cancer to cataracts, from indigestion to indiscretion, from ignorance to inertia. (Okay, I’ll stop now). I think there is a secret, and that once I *divine* this secret, all will be well.

But then I say to myself: There is no secret. There is only the truth that is staring me in the face. There is only this moment where I am sitting in front of my computer, confessing my self-doubt before an imaginary audience (which, by the way, seems to be my calling in life, whether I am writing a song, composing a letter, or sobbing in front of a therapist. All one and the same. Me, confessing). There is only here an now. And isn’t that miracle enough?

Namaste.

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For the record, Art and I don’t own any homes at the moment. We sold our home in 2005 and have been renting since, biding our time, waiting to decide whether and when we might buy a home again.
(A subject for another day). But you could argue that *we belong to* several homes. Let me explain.

We’ re back in Morris, Connecticut visiting with Art’ s mom, Marge. Now that I’ve been a part of this family for over twenty years (I considered us family to each other even before we were married nineteen years ago) – I feel that this has become another home. This is Art’ s ancestral home. And even though I am a relative new-comer, a second-generation American with roots in Eastern Europe, I feel accepted and part of the clan. This is home. And, oh, yes. Southern California is home. I’ve lived there for about 30 years, and my sisters and their families live there, too. My mom lived there for 30 years before she passed away in April, so – of course, I am now officially an Angeleno. (Is the feminine of “Angeleno” “Angelena”?). We are part of the culture of Southern California. We are health-conscious vegetarians. We practice yoga. We are musicians. We drink cappuccinos and lattes. We shop at Trader Joe’s and (occasionally) Whole Foods. You get the picture. In other words, we fit right in to what my father used to describe as “the land of the fruits and the nuts”. (Daddy was never one to be constrained by political correctness!). This is home.

And that brings me to my third home: Pittsburgh. I know I have described Pittsburgh to you before. The word “Pittsburgh” evokes such strong emotions in me that I am hard-pressed to describe it in a few words. Pittsburgh is paradoxically the place that resonates in the deepest reaches of my soul, and yet also repels me with equal force. I love it. I don’ t think I could live there – at least, easily – anymore. I ran as fast and as far as I could from Pittsburgh at seventeen and have never lived there since. And yet, whenever I hear of someone living in Pittsburgh or even visiting, I have a sense of bittersweet nostalgia. I miss the corner of Forbes and Murray, the easy back-and-forth style of conversation, Isaly’s sandwich shop, the earthy good nature of the people, my father’s family, whose ranks are diminishing, my grandmother’s cooking, the crisp autumn days. That’ s home.

Have there been other homes? Yes, to varying degrees. I lived in New York City for a year in my twenties. I loved the energy, the utter “city-ness” of it, the sense of possibility hanging in the air. That’s home.

But I also lived in New Mexico for a year and I loved it, too. I immediately felt a sense of home when I touched down for the first time in Albuquerque. The Sangre de Cristo Mountains sang to me. I loved the arroyos and the bright red chiles hanging on the porch. I loved the adobe and the cactus and the farrolitos at Christmas. I loved the wide open spaces. That’s home.

And then, too. I have a moveable home. That is my home with Art. If we lived in an RV with no permanent address, on a barge on the Mississippi, in a cabin on Lake George, in an igloo at the North Pole, that would be home, so long as we are together. That is my heart. That is my home.

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This morning I got myself to yoga class.

I have a hard time with making time for yoga (and anything else that might be deemed “self-improvement”). When I make my mental list of priorities, I have a tendency to put such activities at the bottom of the list. And then, too, I have a fear of becoming a Hollywood cliché – the self-indulgent woman in the sunglasses, totally obsessed with her own navel.

On the other hand, whenever I do go to yoga class, I find it extremely centering, relaxing, and reassuring. I don’t necessarily think it makes me a better person, but I don’t think it makes me self-indulgent, either. We have to take up time in our lives doing something, so some of it might as well be something that makes us feel better.

I have another motivation for going to yoga class, and that is my health. Evidence seems to point to the health benefits of yoga practice for everything from reducing high blood pressure to strengthening the immune system. Being a cancer survivor, I am especially interested in strengthening my immune system. That alone may be justification enough for taking time for taking this class twice a week.

But isn’t it interesting that I’m writing about it in an effort to defend my choice. There is a little voice inside that just hammers away at me saying things like, “You are so selfish”, and “What are you accomplishing, can you tell me that”? and “Who are you kidding? You can’t do yoga! You’re not spiritual enough” and “Even if you were spiritual enough, you would never be a) strong enough b) graceful enough c) persistent enough”. And, “Don’t you realize how many really ‘important’ things you could be doing – for someone else – instead of this”? And the ever popular, “What a waste of money”! There are probably a lot more such statements that go on just below conscious awareness.

My yoga teacher says that you can “invite that critical little voice in to tea”, instead of trying to suppress her. He says you can have a dialog with the “shadow side”. That rather than try to get rid of all those negative messages, we should embrace them as a part of ourselves. The idea is that if you try to put a lid on those thoughts and feelings, they’ll just grow underground and become more powerful. That makes sense to me, and yet it’s very hard to get my mind wrapped around the idea of “embracing” such a nasty persona.

But maybe I could answer that voice by saying that there’s room in my life for all of it. For being a good friend, a caring daughter, a loving sister, a wife to my husband, a writer, a dreamer, a citizen of the world, and a student of yoga. There’s room in my life for a lot more than that, too. But – remember that wonderful old game, Monopoly? You can’t even begin to play until you “feed the kitty”. The “kitty” is the fuel. Without that, you can’t even spin the dice. So in life, we also have to feed the kitty! If you starve the kitty, you won’t be any good to anyone!

May I suggest, dear reader, that you, too find some way to “feed the kitty”, whether it’s a quiet walk, reading a good book, taking a swim, or gardening. Or maybe, taking a yoga class. Namaste.

© 2005, Robin Munson

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