Enchantment Learning & Living Blog

Welcome to Enchantment Learning & Living, the inspirational space where I write about the simple pleasures, radical self-care, and everyday magic that make life delicious.

Rose-Tulsi Breakfast Quinoa

March 11, 2014

So I am addicted to my weekday morning quinoa for breakfast. I cook it just like oatmeal but find the hearty little grain holds me better than your average oatmeal. It's simple. It's healthy. It's homey. It's full of good-for-you fats and proteins while being gluten free. How can breakfast get any better? Still, even this perfect weekday breakfast can use a little twist now and then to shake things up. I got totally inspired byNatural Vitality Living's Overnight Earl Grey Porridge--what a wicked combination of the soothing morning oatmeal with the sophistication of Earl Grey tea. Even better, I thought, would be tea like Rose-Tulsi, a blend of rose petals and holy basil, to infuse my breakfast quinoa with the taste of spring. Top that off with some Greek yogurt and fresh berries and you have the perfect recipe for a good morning!

Ingredients

2 cups water

1 cup quinoa

2-3 tablespoons honey (to taste)

2 heaping tablespoons or two bags Rose-Tulsi tea (I used Organic India Sweet Rose Tulsi Tea found in most health food stores)

Toppings of choice (I like plain Greek Yogurt and fresh berries)

I typically cook this on Sunday and store it the fridge for the workweek. It stores well and makes for a hearty breakfast on the go. The night before, bring the water to a boil and steep the tea for at least five minutes. Remove the tea bags (or strain the loose leaf tea) after steeping and allow to cool. Mix the quinoa and cooled tea together in a resealable container and let soak overnight in the fridge. In the morning, cook quinoa on medium heat for approximately 15 minutes or until grains are soft. Stir in honey to desired sweetness. Serve with fresh fruit and yogurt for a delicious, satisfying breakfast!

Makes 4 servings

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The Daffodils on My Nightstand

March 10, 2014

They sit, so cheerful, on your nightstand.

You heard them the other night, when they were still closed buds in your vase, slowly crackling and giggling as they began to poke out their heads from the paper-thin coat that held them in place. One crackle. Two. Then, as if the cautious opening of the flowers was no longer enough, they burst open, all sunshine and brightness, leaving their brown husk behind.

They are the first thing to greet you in the morning--that dose of sunlight before even the sun itself is up. Big bold petals cradle their loud trumpet shaped center as if it were a fragile porcelain tea up and they, the saucer. In the center of each flower sits the furry, pollen-coated stamen perfuming your room with the sweet scent of spring.

They chase winter away, promising warmer days and flower-strewn gardens. Soon, they say, soon. Soon you will be able to pack up your winter coat and shed your winter layers. Soon you will be able to walk barefoot on the grass and picnic on fresh radishes and sprouts and berries. Soon. But until then, you have me--that bright cluster of flowers on your nightstand.

On Getting Lost in the Desert

March 9, 2014

Driving down to the Westside was not your ideal Friday plan--not even on your top ten list of things to do in Albuquerque. Sure, you love the bosque and cruising down Montgomery over the river and down to the petroglyphs. But that ritual is a far cry from actually having to go somewhere down there and be somewhere by such and such a time.

Nevertheless, you found yourself doing just that: navigating the Westside in an attempt to get to an office meeting. You were very proud of yourself. You left a whole hour early, just to make sure you got there on time, just to leave that little wiggle room for the unexpected twists and turns of the part of Albuquerque that is so foreign to you it might as well be its own city.

It is lovely at first. You drive past the bosque, over the river and turn on Unser, cruising past the petroglyphs into the wide open expanse of the desert. But the open space does nothing to cure your tunnel vision: you must get to the meeting. As you keep driving, a slow sense of unease bubbles up inside of you. You can't seem to find the turn off to Universe, can't find Rainbow either. It is as if the desert has buried its street signs under the bright morning light.

And so you keep driving down Unser, past one Walgreens after another, one housing development after another, until all the Westside blends together in a stream of buildings built over-night. You feel like you stumbled onto the set of a modern Wild West show where everything looks like hastily slapped up storefronts with nothing behind them. Eventually, you lose even that. Any inkling of civilization is left behind and you find yourself on a one-lane road driving deeper into the desert, the mountains ahead of you the only witness to your useless sense of direction. You have never seen this part of the city before and it is as if you stumbled across a lone stretch of land invisible to all in the city except for those willing to get a little lost once in a while.

It is only when you reach the end of the road--literally a dead end in the middle of nowhere--that you pause and examine your directions again. The meeting has already started. Yet despite your need to get back on the road and find your way to civilization, you take a moment to pause, to breathe, to enjoy the desert quiet. It is a gift, you realize--getting lost. A gift from Coyote, that desert trickster that sneaks up on us just when we most need to unplug from our narrow vision and get a bigger world view.

There, alone in the middle of the desert, you realize your life is more than just being a perfect worker bee and getting from one place to the other. It is sand and stone, air and light, mountain and breath. You take this revelation with you as you pull back on the road and find your destination.

Signs of Spring No. 2

March 8, 2014

Ahhhh spring...sweet, sweet spring...

On Double Yolks

March 7, 2014

The skillet is hot--as hot as the bluegrass playing in the background, as hot as the coffee in your cup. Today is a day for a bold breakfast. You shake off your usual weekday oatmeal in favor of eggs over easy, chorizo, and toast, a perfect gourmet diner breakfast made all the better for coming from your kitchen.

You crack one egg and pour it into the pan, then another. And there it is, in the second egg: a fat golden double yolk. The orbs sit piled atop one another as if caught kissing before they could disentangle themselves. You marvel at how so much yolk could fit into such a tiny little eggshell such as the empty one you now hold in your hand.

You watch your eggs cook, and a sly voice inside your head--the one who loves a good story, a good superstition--coyly whispers that double yolks are good luck, harbingers of double the grace, the plenty, the fortune. These are the stories of old wives and crones and witches that you are half-tempted to believe if only because these fat yolks nestled together in front of you seem nothing short of magic themselves.

You flip your eggs and decide to let your fanciful imagination run away with you. Double yolks are good luck. Yes, you commit to the idea. Already, as you plate your breakfast, your mind turns to the possible adventures these double yolks foretell.

Signs of Spring No. 1

March 6, 2014

And once again, spring is upon us!

On Healing a Shoulder Injury

March 5, 2014

It is an exercise in patience.

You feel the twinge of an old injury--one made years ago from overwork and an addiction to busyness that still haunts you. It comes and goes in time with the rise and fall of the semester.

The overachiever in you was once tempted to strengthen that shoulder with weights and more complex yoga postures and more time on fancy workout machines. You know now how futile that all is. It only buries the pain deeper inside your tissues.

No. The answer to your injury is at once more simple and more profound than that: you must listen to your body. Your shoulder, like a wing stretched too tight around your back, is remembering how to unfurl itself, how to let one feather after another relax its grip on your ribcage and do what it was meant to do. Let it reach skyward even as you lay your roots in the earth.

Your shoulder. Full of infinite strength but too often asked to carry more than it should. With each feather that unwraps itself from your body, each gentle exercise that allows you to move your shoulder back into its place, you let go of the weight that has held your shoulder down for too long. You let go of the memories embedded in the socket, the feelings your body remembers but that your mind strives to forget.

And at the end of your work you are left with this one answer, this one truth: your body heals only when you stop trying to forget. When you stop. When you listen. When you truly let yourself mend.

On an Afternoon Walk

March 4, 2014

You hadn't planned to take a walk.

There were things to do, tasks to accomplish. But the afternoon called to you, beckoning you from your perch at your desk, luring you outside to bask under the tender caress of the soft spring sun like a kitten stretched out under a plot of light by the window.

It is fresh air you needed. You know that now that you are walking--the cool breeze with the faint hint of spring in it, the smell of dirt and dry grass and sunlight. You take in one long breath, then another, and another, letting your chest expand with this intoxicating air.

Gradually, you become aware of other things--the birds singing: finches, doves, sparrows pleasantly clamoring for attention all at once. The sharp cries of a hawk, too, are a welcome presence as you stroll around the park. You watch people walking their dogs or playing sports or circling the park just as you do. Admire how the sun seems to melt away their cares; even the normally frazzled soccer moms look fresh, vibrant with the promise of spring in the air.

With each lap, you admire the homes--especially the tenderly cared for adobes--and the grounded, calm energy they represent. Soon it is time to wind your way back to your home, the cares of your work left scattered on your desk, all but forgotten by you.

On Driving Home From Work

March 3, 2014

The road is spread out before you.

Aretha Franklin is playing on the radio and the sun is shining. You've finished grading all your papers. They lay in neat stacks on your office desk, just as you left them. Each file has been put carefully back in its place and your computer has been turned off. Your mind drifts back to the evidence of your industry, but can't linger there for long.

Your thoughts move from emails and lesson plans to the possibility of a long walk or an afternoon yoga--but even there, you cannot linger. Your mind doesn't want to focus on anything except the sound of soul in your speakers and the smooth sailing of your car as it cruises down Montgomery.

You let go of your professional to-do list as Aretha Franklin makes way for Otis Redding. The mountains take up all the space in your view mirror and the rest of the day stretches out before you.

You are half tempted to keep cruising down Montgomery, just listening to music and breathing and being--far enough at least to see the river and the Bosque, and maybe, if you're lucky, the faint promise of spring in budding trees. But your body wants to move. It wants to dance and wiggle after a day of focused movements, so you turn home, lowering your music as you go, and slide your car into its space.

Somewhere between revving your engine in the school lot and parking your car at home, you've moved from teacher to simple human being. You shake off the last of your day as you lock the car and carry your teacher tote inside, mind already on the roasted vegetables for dinner.

On an Afternoon Spent Reading in Bed

March 2, 2014

It is the perfect day for it. The sky is coated in thick gray clouds; the air is cool and moist. The weather practically begs for you to turn inwards and indulge in an afternoon of reading in bed. You put on the kettle. You prepare the tea tray. You change into comfy jammies and wrap your knitted blanket around you, ready to forget about the world for a little while.

You don't commit to one book, however, or the lush enjoyment of losing yourself in a single adventure. Instead, you give yourself over to the luxury of many worlds spread out before you on your bed, each book a passport to another life. You read some of one, then another, content to flit between your favorite characters as if you were hosting a dinner party and they were your honored guests.

Eventually, when the pot of tea is empty, and each book has been turned through--some more than once--you allow yourself to drift, comforted by the soft texture of your knitted blanket, the quiet hush of the day, and the collection of books in disarray on your bed. You close your eyes and, as sleep takes you, feel the afternoon unravel into evening.

On the Doves Outside My Window

March 1, 2014

Every morning they greet you with their cooing and cuddling.

They perch on the thick branches of the naked tree just outside your window, warbling and fluffing their feathers and flitting around each other in an ancient mating dance. Those two are your writing companions, punctuating each of your sentences with their full-bellied song. This time of year, the leaves of the tree do not hide their presence--and so you see them, in all their glory, as they go about their day, flirting, singing, flying.

You need no other music but their song and the flap of their wings as they wind around each other, circle the tree and dart around other birds--their neighbors the finches and sparrows. They remind you that spring is almost here, that the earth is already preparing for the new season, that seeds are sprouting in the ground, getting ready to push their little heads skyward.

These doves are proof that life is more than just one keystroke after another, but a continuous dance, a never ending song, a bright burst of flight over the tree, out of range of your windowsill, and towards the mountains. They are your evidence that life is in the quiet moment where you pause and simply listen to the doves' song and watch as they playfully chase each other from branch to branch and then take flight.