This past spring, just two days before i would be getting shoulder surgery, my friends emily and jessie took me to my first vinyasa flow class, encouraging me that it would still be beneficial and fulfilling even though my arm restricted me from quite a bit. That evening my world was opened up to a very different kind of yoga, and i LOVED it. I've learned the culture of bikram i embrace wholeheartedly and that of vinyasa... don't so much overlap. I won't argue why, because for me, i'm looking forward to accepting, with open arms and bengal tiger strength, as we say in bikram... both of them.
This particular class em and jess took me to had an amazing soundtrack during the 90 minutes of practice. I watched emily's strong, limber body to my right master unfamiliar poses while my unreliable and unstable shoulder prevented me from even trying. With such calmness, i didn't care in the least. This practice was about getting from it what i needed in that moment, and in that moment i needed to allow myself to be proud. Proud for going despite my physical restrictions, and proud that the fears and anxieties of finally having this surgery, that were very much real to me, were about to be faced.
As the final postures came to a close, and this ridiculously awesome (in my opinion) Lean On Me Mashup played below, my eyes welled up a little. I stared down at my mat, very aware in that moment that i was taking steps, somewhat unsteady, but nonetheless, certainly forward. And these steps thanks to my friends, but equally thanks to me.
xo,
cw
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
rodolfo the tailor
i shop picky and with intent. if something doesn't look perfectly right, i don't buy it. i may love so many things about it, but if it doesn't frame, drape, or lounge itself over every inch of my body as i envision in my head it should, then it is a no-go; a very clear decision. i have always been this way when shopping, often to the exacerbation of my friends that i have "a warped mind", but nonetheless it is how i work. contemplation in the fitting room is generally a result of price, care instructions (what even IS dry cleaning?), or having not-so-frequent but wise moments deciding do i really need this?
my dear friend kay has mentioned the boston-famous Rodolfo The Tailor, numerous times in my presence or in passing conversation. with the exception of 2 bridesmaids dresses, i'd never been to a tailor for regular-clothes purchased at-will and thus not for vow witnessing resulting in an abundance of tagged facebook photos, eh hem. it was kay who reminded me of rodolfo as i stood in the mirror at anthropologie, a big brown belt around an oh-so-cool patterned dress that was just too bulky and billowy. i was so bummed, it was a great price and a color and pattern very CW. after i opened the door with sad eyes for her to see my let down of the WAY too big for an extra small and close but not-so-perfect fit, she remarked with certainty, "just get it tailored, claire". And with that novel idea, i opened up my world to Rodolfo The Tailor.
i took myself to Copley Plaza during the eve of Friday's heat wave. in my usual fashion, i had my schedule planned out - speed walk to Rodolfo's, feed meter, get yoga mat and speed walk and try not to die in this heat at Bikram Yoga, (that my heart needed more than anything). as i walked into his little shop, i was met by a tan italian with smiling eyes and a well aged face who exuded this steamy stallion-esque vibe but not at all in a creepy sort of way. he more than pulled off the half-buttoned shirt look with his hairless chest exposed, covered only by a giant silver cross on a chain that clanked another chain behind it. with sweat dripping down my tank top slowly toward the small of my back, and my lulu lemon headband now too far back my scalp due to the determined pace i walked with, he said with his italian accent and enthusiasm to the face of a new customer, "hello young lady, welcome to my shop!"
Rodolfo greeted me with the kind of smiling eyes you imagine at a huge dinner table, pouring wine and talking loudly amongst beautiful people busy passing pasta and warm buttered bread. i stepped to the left, waiting for a his current transaction complete. i watched him pull his glasses down to the tip of his nose, lower his head, and point harshly at the chest of a young man, telling him "if he hems the decorative stitch out of a pair of trousers, he has ruined the masterpiece of the art that is so subtle, the most beautiful part of the pant."
Rodolfo the Tailor had just lived up to his legendary status raved by kay and by countless yelp reviews. This was a man of true craftsmanship, and oh how i value and appreciates that sort of stuff. i waited my turn, put on my dress, and opened the fitting room for him to come in.
Rodolfo, all kinds of professional but stumped by this particular construction stepped away after some investigating. "miss. if you more comfortable finding seamstress that fine but i will need to lift dress up and get my tools. i want to tell you this to think about. okay?" What he was saying, with his itailian voice, slightly broken english, frustrated brow and now crossed arms... was that he had to lift the dress up and get underneath it. up, as in over my hips, and underneath, as in close to my skin.
"oh! i don't mind at all."
and i didn't. this was his skill, and i was desperate to not search for another solution to this 3-month old purchase, and i was in good hands. "i am headed to hot yoga after this - everyone wears next to nothing." and with that, he laughed and lifted the dress up so that he could separate the lining so tightly and unnecessarily sewn.
i stood there, looking at myself in the mirror - my semi-embarrassing yellow underwear with little blue scottish terriors (5 for $25 at victoria's secret; yes that's right) and my slightly tanned but more-so burned stomach from a scorching run in louisville, kentucky the days' travels earlier... bare for us both to see, and i laughed in my head at my reality.
this is my life, i thought. and this is funny. i'm standing, in my underwear, with an italian man clutching my rib cage with one hand as he uses all of his focus and one of his brilliant tools to unhook a seam carefully and not too far, setting pins with precision. there was nothing inappropriate - this was his craft, his art, and it had to be handled delicately and with my silhouette in true form (aka, no shorts on under the dress), in his effort to make something right, something fit.
as Rodolfo worked his hands through the dress, i faced myself in the mirror atop his wooden stool and in my underwear, my eyes met with the summer tan that i crave, but also highlights my unique insecurity that those close to me know. i got to thinking about the concept of a tailor, the things that i choose and that i want, can be shaped and fixed perfectly just for me. it may seem silly, but what if tailors existed beyond the anthropologie dress? if only they could adjust a person a little, preserving that beautiful stitch line while altering a hem, letting it fit better, and deserving of this care because it was so close to being perfect, and just wasn't there.
if only our hearts could be tailored, as we stand with an open mind in our underwear, letting old seams and patterns be destroyed only to create new, better fitting ones. if only the original material, design and intent could be kept, just tailored a bit.... and with craftsmanship, focus and art, creating new seams that are strong and that will hold... allowing something to fit, and to fit absolutely perfectly.
maybe the pauses, the fade of someone or something important, maybe that's tailoring at work, adjusting a fit so that it can be tried on again. or maybe the lemons life pounds at you, or the challenges to get through something that seem impossible, maybe those are a tailor of sorts for our hearts.
maybe they're not. maybe tailors have pins and threads and are just people like Rodolfo.
regardless. come wednesday, i'll have a dress from anthropologie that will fit me much better than when i first tried it on.
xo,
cw
my dear friend kay has mentioned the boston-famous Rodolfo The Tailor, numerous times in my presence or in passing conversation. with the exception of 2 bridesmaids dresses, i'd never been to a tailor for regular-clothes purchased at-will and thus not for vow witnessing resulting in an abundance of tagged facebook photos, eh hem. it was kay who reminded me of rodolfo as i stood in the mirror at anthropologie, a big brown belt around an oh-so-cool patterned dress that was just too bulky and billowy. i was so bummed, it was a great price and a color and pattern very CW. after i opened the door with sad eyes for her to see my let down of the WAY too big for an extra small and close but not-so-perfect fit, she remarked with certainty, "just get it tailored, claire". And with that novel idea, i opened up my world to Rodolfo The Tailor.
i took myself to Copley Plaza during the eve of Friday's heat wave. in my usual fashion, i had my schedule planned out - speed walk to Rodolfo's, feed meter, get yoga mat and speed walk and try not to die in this heat at Bikram Yoga, (that my heart needed more than anything). as i walked into his little shop, i was met by a tan italian with smiling eyes and a well aged face who exuded this steamy stallion-esque vibe but not at all in a creepy sort of way. he more than pulled off the half-buttoned shirt look with his hairless chest exposed, covered only by a giant silver cross on a chain that clanked another chain behind it. with sweat dripping down my tank top slowly toward the small of my back, and my lulu lemon headband now too far back my scalp due to the determined pace i walked with, he said with his italian accent and enthusiasm to the face of a new customer, "hello young lady, welcome to my shop!"
Rodolfo greeted me with the kind of smiling eyes you imagine at a huge dinner table, pouring wine and talking loudly amongst beautiful people busy passing pasta and warm buttered bread. i stepped to the left, waiting for a his current transaction complete. i watched him pull his glasses down to the tip of his nose, lower his head, and point harshly at the chest of a young man, telling him "if he hems the decorative stitch out of a pair of trousers, he has ruined the masterpiece of the art that is so subtle, the most beautiful part of the pant."
Rodolfo the Tailor had just lived up to his legendary status raved by kay and by countless yelp reviews. This was a man of true craftsmanship, and oh how i value and appreciates that sort of stuff. i waited my turn, put on my dress, and opened the fitting room for him to come in.
Rodolfo, all kinds of professional but stumped by this particular construction stepped away after some investigating. "miss. if you more comfortable finding seamstress that fine but i will need to lift dress up and get my tools. i want to tell you this to think about. okay?" What he was saying, with his itailian voice, slightly broken english, frustrated brow and now crossed arms... was that he had to lift the dress up and get underneath it. up, as in over my hips, and underneath, as in close to my skin.
"oh! i don't mind at all."
and i didn't. this was his skill, and i was desperate to not search for another solution to this 3-month old purchase, and i was in good hands. "i am headed to hot yoga after this - everyone wears next to nothing." and with that, he laughed and lifted the dress up so that he could separate the lining so tightly and unnecessarily sewn.
i stood there, looking at myself in the mirror - my semi-embarrassing yellow underwear with little blue scottish terriors (5 for $25 at victoria's secret; yes that's right) and my slightly tanned but more-so burned stomach from a scorching run in louisville, kentucky the days' travels earlier... bare for us both to see, and i laughed in my head at my reality.
this is my life, i thought. and this is funny. i'm standing, in my underwear, with an italian man clutching my rib cage with one hand as he uses all of his focus and one of his brilliant tools to unhook a seam carefully and not too far, setting pins with precision. there was nothing inappropriate - this was his craft, his art, and it had to be handled delicately and with my silhouette in true form (aka, no shorts on under the dress), in his effort to make something right, something fit.
as Rodolfo worked his hands through the dress, i faced myself in the mirror atop his wooden stool and in my underwear, my eyes met with the summer tan that i crave, but also highlights my unique insecurity that those close to me know. i got to thinking about the concept of a tailor, the things that i choose and that i want, can be shaped and fixed perfectly just for me. it may seem silly, but what if tailors existed beyond the anthropologie dress? if only they could adjust a person a little, preserving that beautiful stitch line while altering a hem, letting it fit better, and deserving of this care because it was so close to being perfect, and just wasn't there.
if only our hearts could be tailored, as we stand with an open mind in our underwear, letting old seams and patterns be destroyed only to create new, better fitting ones. if only the original material, design and intent could be kept, just tailored a bit.... and with craftsmanship, focus and art, creating new seams that are strong and that will hold... allowing something to fit, and to fit absolutely perfectly.
maybe the pauses, the fade of someone or something important, maybe that's tailoring at work, adjusting a fit so that it can be tried on again. or maybe the lemons life pounds at you, or the challenges to get through something that seem impossible, maybe those are a tailor of sorts for our hearts.
maybe they're not. maybe tailors have pins and threads and are just people like Rodolfo.
regardless. come wednesday, i'll have a dress from anthropologie that will fit me much better than when i first tried it on.
xo,
cw
Monday, July 18, 2011
she knows it's too late as she's walkin' on by....
 |
| amsterdam street. my hair is better now and my bag too... |
"I’ve learned that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next." - Gilda Radner.
XO,
CW
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
