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.

On Being Out in the City Early

May 2, 2014

The air is still crisp. The morning quiet.

The dawn was greeted by yoga and plant-tending before you head out to an early morning meeting. You cruise down the hushed streets--one part a half-awake bustle to get to work, another sleepy-almost-the-weekend energy. Country music plays softly on the radio, punctuated by spurts of local news. You cruise past the railroad tracks downtown into the oldest part of the city. Your way is paved by adobes and the bright colors of a city not afraid of its own loudness.

You find yourself early for a breakfast meeting--happily next to your favorite bakery. You cross the street, already anticipating the homey comfort of this little shop almost as old as the city itself--there are others yes, but only one real panaderia. The smell of freshly baked bread greets you as you walk through the door. You are seduced by the rows of fresh loaves and empanadas stacked one on top of the other.

What a morning! What a treat to have some spare moments to get fresh bread for your morning toast. What a treat to have some time for a cappuccino. What a treat to be out in the city before anyone but you and the bakery is entirely awake. You order a multigrain loaf and your drink, then decide to splurge on a cherry empanada for later.

Outside, you settle into a patio chair and savor your fancy coffee, feeling almost as if you are back in Venice, savoring a morning cappuccino before the day sweeps you up in a flurry of art viewing and sightseeing. You enjoy the caress of the cool morning air on your skin, the soft chatter of birds and one or two other customers. As you finish your drink, you watch the city shake off the last of its sleepiness just as you shake off yours.

Enchantment Learning & Living is an inspirational blog celebrating life’s simple pleasures, everyday mysticism, and delectable recipes that are guaranteed to stir the kitchen witch in you. If you enjoyed what you just read and believe that true magic is in the everyday, subscribe to my newsletter below for regular doses of enchantment. Want even more inspiration? Follow me on Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter. Here’s to a magical life!

On Lingering Over a Cup of Coffee at a Cafe

April 12, 2014

It is your favorite cafe and the perfect morning to linger over a cup of rich coffee.

It is still cool out, but the day already hints at the warm afternoon to come. The mountains frame the city in the distance, and the blue sky is streaked with ribbons of cotton. It is a lazy day, meant for lingering over your morning brew and maybe later puttering in the garden. But for now, you are content to nurse that cup and just be.

The coffee is rich and thick--bold cowboy coffee that wakes your sleepy cells up and yet soothes at the same time. You half-heartedly flip through the local newspaper, finding yourself, as always, paying more attention to your weekly horoscope than any of the more in-depth articles.

Eventually, you abandoned your tentative hold on the paper in favor of people watching--the couple holding hands to the right of you, the old friends catching up over breakfast, the late-for-work take-out worker bees. All are part of the gentle hum of the morning, the sweet cacophony of daily living.

You take one last sip of your coffee, now only an almost-cooled puddle at the bottom of your cup. Your thoughts turn toward gardening, maybe even reading a novel on your patio, your plants and the sunshine your quiet companions. Yes, time to rejoin the rest of the world in their steady industry. As you slowly make your way to the exit, you can still taste the rich caramel of the coffee on your lips. You marvel at such a taste and the gentle promise of a slow day ahead of you.

On Saturday Night at the Movies

March 29, 2014

You know for most people it is a simple jeans and t-shirt affair, just another night watching another big screen movie.

But for you, Saturday night at the movies will always conjure up visions of Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn in Bringing Up Baby or Barbara Stanwyck and Henry Fonda in The Lady Eve--the whole screen filled top to bottom with black-and-white glamorous hijinks. It is the layered history of a new form of storytelling; the theater, a continuous work of art made up of the imprints of each story whose reels have played upon that big, blank screen.

There is even a part of you that wants to don a mink coat and long evening gown for the event, your hair worn in the stylish waves popular among those the silver-screen vixens. You know, of course, that you would be as terribly out of place as you were stylish, but it wouldn't matter--you would be paying tribute to those old gods of the new narrative.

You ponder this as you prepare for your evening out, wearing a mix of old movie glamor staples and new movie-night-uniform jeans, happily anticipating the night's feature. You realize as you apply your last swipe of mascara, that each time we prepare ourselves for a movie--in jeans or jewels--it is part of the celebratory ritual of entering our modern day kiva to listen, to watch, to fill ourselves up with narratives--to heal.

On Returning to Work After a Break

March 23, 2014

It seems so far away: that last day where you stacked up all your papers, wrote your last email, and washed your tea mug. You had pulled out of the office parking lot, listening to country music, leaving your lesson plans and paper grading behind, if only for a week.

Between then and now there has been long afternoons reading novels, late mornings sleeping in, and stretches of hours cooking and yoga-ing and home improving. There were no high heels or stockings or tailored clothes. Only loose shirts and leggings. No hair wound into a perfect bun held together by too many pins--only long tendrils of hair splayed against your back, falling as they will.

As the hours unfold into days, you begin to let go of the little snags and hooks that clung to you during the last few months. You see them for what they are: little tiny ephemeral bits of your job and that come as go as often as the semesters. Slowly you begin to realize that these pieces do not make up you, do not make up your job. They are merely the dust and crumbs of your day.

Now you see, in the time between watching old movies and goofing around, that you have washed off that debris and, in fact, are looking forward to dawning your teacher clothes and your long necklaces and the many rings your naked fingers long for. It is time to return to your calling, time to once again enter the world as a force for good.

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

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.

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 Eggs and Ham

February 17, 2014

They are your much anticipated morning indulgence, a break from your usual chaste breakfast quinoa.

You fry up some hash browns while sipping perfectly dark, rich coffee. Corelli plays in the background as if in harmony to the birds' song outside your window. Then ham is next in the pan. You like it slightly seared, the heat caramelizing the outer layers of the sweet meat. You sift through the news while your morning breakfast cooks and take a moment to drift to your porch, savoring a lazy Monday morning, a rare treat gobbled up by teachers and students alike as the semester barrels forward.

Back in the kitchen, your hash browns are perfectly crisp, your ham expertly cooked. Carefully, you crack two eggs over the skillet, enjoying the sizzling noises they make as they hit the pan. You give them a quick flip, careful not to break the golden yokes.

You plate up.

At the table, you liberally sprinkle pepper on your eggs, then just a touch of salt. Your fork breaks into the tender yolks, spilling their thick liquid all over your plate. The hash browns soak up the juice, the ham acts as the perfect salty-sweet balance to the savory eggs. You devour every last piece of your ham and eggs, washed down with coffee until all that is left are faint golden streaks on your plate, a few wet coffee grounds in your cup, and Corelli in the air.

Because I Love Sunflowers...and Polka Dots

February 15, 2014

Flowers on my kitchen table...

On An Unexpected Friday Morning at Home

February 7, 2014

It is not quite the snow day you had hoped for the day before. Although the trees are still coated in white crystals and there are patches of ice on the grass, most of the snow has melted, leaving behind only bracingly cold air and a pleasurable hush.

Still, it feels as if it is a snow day. Your meetings have been canceled one by one, toppling like a string of dominoes after the first push. Afternoon plans have melted with the snow too for one reason or another. It is as if the world has granted you an honorary snow day: no important things to do or places to rush off to.

You linger over your morning coffee, aware of the fact that you would be applying your last swipe of mascara and hurriedly stepping into your shoes now if you still had those meetings. Instead, you putter around the house makeup-less in a cozy cardigan.

You are hesitant to fill up this time stretched out before you; you want to continue to feel the abundance of this moment as you fill the kettle with hot water for tea and then step out onto your patio to breathe in the winter air.

There will be plenty of other Fridays to venture from your home and flit from one activity to the next. But today is not that day. So instead you linger on your porch to savor this unexpected gift and the sweet slowness of the morning.

On Introverts

February 5, 2014

You know who you are.

The quiet soul in need of home, a good book, a cup of tea to replenish yourself. The one who knows that a mellow evening listening to jazz records in the comfort of your pajamas is a legitimate Saturday night plan.

It is not enough for you to simply be out with strangers--seeing and being seen--filling up your time in an effort to be busy or important. No. That way leads only to tiredness and a dry, brittle feeling deep in your bones. If you must surround yourself with anyone, it will be your fellow introverts, the kindred spirits who understand the intricate world that unfolds in solitude. They are the ones you can linger over a pot of tea with or share in a yoga practice. The ones who relish time spent together but understand--even appreciate--when you need to curl up on your couch, just you and a novel.

Other would say you are doing nothing when you turn inward. But they do not understand the luxury of letting your mind roam unfettered, unfurling in the silence and tenderly probing one thought after another, then drifting beyond the borders of this world into others.

In these silent hours, you begin to cast off that dusty brittle feeling in your bones like an old coat, filling your body up with stories and dreams and the gentle murmur of a heart content.

On Mondays

February 3, 2014

They are the ugly duckling of weekdays, lacking the glamor of Saturdays or the flirty hope of Wednesdays winking and hinting that the weekend is just around the corner.

But Mondays. Mondays. If you are willing to peel back the beat-up old exterior like scraping off faded decorative paper from your walls, you will find the fresh patina of promise. A crisp, spring green frond unfurling into the workweek, delicate leaves licking possibility. The week is as yet untouched by extra hours at work or unexpected busy evenings.

Oh, Mondays. They are unabashedly ready for the bustle and industry of the next five days, leaving long naps and late nights in the wind as they jump and dance through the week on a full battery. You are completely recharged, gliding through your day, ready for anything. You have not yet begun to feel the gentle tiredness in your body and mind as you do on Thursdays, a sign of a week done well.

You know Mondays are one of the great unsung pleasures of the world, too often lost in the shadow of the weekend, made from its louder, flashier siblings. But Mondays, Mondays. They are the dependable pleasure of your afternoon cup of tea and your evening yoga; your daily walk and time at your writing desk.

Mondays. They merely go about their day, asking only that you sometimes pause and take in their quiet possibility.

On Brunch

January 26, 2014

You sleep in today--much longer than you had expected to. You relish the sleepy feeling, the delicious laziness of a long night spent dreaming, the happy promise of a free day.

The day calls for a breakfast as leisurely as your waking. You toy with the idea of waffles, but quickly dismiss it as too much work, too much to focus on. Eventually, you ease yourself out of bed and claim jeans and a sweater. The sun and fresh air lure you outside with the promise of a morning walk to the store, your mind finally settling on fresh fruit and a pastry for breakfast, maybe an omelet. You walk down the street, coffee cup in hand, appreciating the birds' song, the steady hum of light traffic.

The market has the same unhurried bustle as the street outside. You peruse the fruit spread out like edible jewels before you. Add some blueberries to your basket. They will pair well with the almond croissant you decided to commit to after examining the seductive confections lining the pastry case.

On your walk home, your brunch menu forms in your mind. A scrambled egg stuffed with vegetables. More coffee. Your fruit and pastry. Vivaldi is serenading you as your eggs sizzle in the pan. The only thing missing is the paper spread out before you, the world's events broken into columns and captions. Instead, you decide to let your mind breathe, free of words, of information for the moment, indulging in the slow breakfast preparation and the gradual unfolding of a lovely meal.

On Long Weekends

January 20, 2014

There is no school today. Still, the fact that you get to sleep in on a Monday gives you the sense that you are playing hooky--giving up on rules and restrictions and deciding to play the day away while others toil their way through nine to five (although you love your nine to five too).

The day is an open book. Where to go...what to do?

The sunlight beckons you out of doors, while the kitchen calls you to conjure up meals--here some breakfast quinoa, there a salad safely tucked inside a mason jar, perhaps even some roasted veggies for dinner. You toy with the idea of crafting, coating paper in glitter and ink, wrapping unused jars in ribbon--a holder for your loose buttons and ephemera.

You briefly entertain the idea of getting ahead on your work, from revising old prompts to organizing cabinets--but quickly dismiss the idea. It would only spoil the day. And you know the thought is only brought on by some vague sense that you should be doing something useful, productive, keeping up that facade of busyness.

No, today is not a day for extra work, but for indulging in those weekend-like pleasures Monday doesn't usually afford--a leisurely breakfast, a morning in the kitchen, an afternoon at the park and visiting family. There will be plenty of other Mondays to refine those lesson plans, to enjoy your cruise to work, but for today you savor the long stretch of time rolled out before you that will be filled on a whim, moment to moment, each impromptu plan a distillation of pure enjoyment.

On Saturday Mornings

January 18, 2014

You get to sleep in today.

The birds and sunlight wake you up instead of the too-eager alarm clock that usually intrudes upon your sleep. You linger in bed, the soft knitted blanket a cozy hug around you, relishing the open day before you.

It entices you with its lack of a real schedule and, as you mull over potential plans, you resist committing to any firm blueprints for your Saturday. That would be sacrilege. In fact, the only thing you're ready to commit to is lingering over a strong cup of coffee on your porch this morning.

Letting the sun's rays wash over you. You stand firm, the better to soak up the light, like a lizard or turtle sunning itself, not wanting to move for fear the warm rays will roll off you like water instead of sink under your skin to warm your very bones.

It is entirely possible you will do nothing today. You say "nothing" for it isn't the splashy outings and big events that weekends are so famous for--the ever important social schedules that let others know how busy or significant you are--but the solitary daydreaming and quiet reading of not-so-serious books, the conjuring in the kitchen or the writing desk. All this nothing that actually does something: it nourishes the soul and heals the mind and body--and allows you to enjoy a good martini in your pajamas on Saturday night without fuss or ceremony.

Your mind returns to your cup of coffee on the porch. Your body is full of the sun's caresses, but your coffee mug is in desperate need of a refill. You turn your thoughts to breakfast--something decadent, a treat after your weekly oatmeal--and the lush enjoyment of a schedule-free day spread out before you.

On Cruising to Work

January 16, 2014

The sun is just breaking over the mountains.

Each building, each tree, each lamppost, seems to spring to life under the playful prodding of the morning light. It is only you and a few brave souls gliding through the streets at this early hour.

Your body sings with the light energy of the morning as yet unblemished by time; this clean slate is tickled by the sound of country music wafting over the radio. Your favorite song comes on and your crank it up just a little louder, waking up that last sleepy part of yourself as you sing along to the twangy tune.

It is as if the mountains pull you towards them, towards the sun, with their own magnetic force.

In this moment, you feel like a true New Mexican, as you crank the music louder still, letting the rhythm wash over you like the sun's rays. Your foot presses the pedal just a little more, revving the engine as if in time to the beat of the music. You greet this workday as you do every other, with the ritual of cruising down your streets, the streets you've known all your life, the streets that carry you through each hour of your day.

You signal to turn into the parking lot of your work, stopping just short of the mountains, the sun. You lower your radio--you must keep up appearances of being a Serious Professional, after all. You turn off the engine and emerge from your car ready to take on the world.

You could dance through your day, ready for anything.

On Sundays

January 12, 2014

A day in the kitchen.

There is no other way Sunday should be spent. You linger amidst your pots and pans, oven and stove, concocting medicine for the week in the form of hearty winter soup for your dinners and lentils with roasted veggies for your lunches. You even tinker with your herbs and spices, lazily dreaming up another tea blend--a treat to finish off your evenings before drifting off to sleep.

It is a day of devotion to nourishing yourself and your loved ones, filling up your soul as you fill your belly, fortifying yourself for the week ahead.

A nap is in order while the soup simmers on the stove and the roasted veggies cool. You allow yourself to drift on the couch, an abandoned book limp across your chest. You relish the afternoon quiet and sink into the deep pleasure of no real agenda, no need to be on for anybody, no reason to wear restrictive clothing.

Tomorrow you will greet the world, ready for the noise and bustle--yes, even ready to wear real clothes with zippers and buttons on them. But for now, you let the smell of your winter stew tickle your nose as your mind dances between the dream world and wakefulness.

It will only be the promise of a bubble bath that inevitably lures you from the couch and the ritual of homemade pasta for dinner that steals you from the delicious hot bath. The slow easy pace of the day and luxurious family dinner will always be your restorative tonic to start the week.

On Early Morning Yoga

January 9, 2014

The world is not yet up.

It is only you and the sliver of moon and your yoga mat.

You are careful at first, listening for the little snaps and pops of your joints. You feel your way through your sun sals one breath at a time, gently courting the golden morning light before it has fully woken; you coax it out of bed as you coax yourself from the warm covers with the promise of clean energy, one breath at a time through the flow of your morning devotion to earth, to sun, to life.

Each day the body is different. Today it is slow moving, relishing the way the spine elongates in the first downward dog of the day, feeling your palms and heels press against the mat, fingers and toes splayed. Each day is a new dance, a delicate tango of lunges and bends and twists; the mat is your dance partner, allowing you to fall into the rhythm of your body. Your breath is a soft symphony that greets the day, reminding you that you are alive. Each day you gently peel the moon from your skin and wrap the sun around you.

It is your moment for you, before the sun rises, the world beings to move, and you get swept up in the current of life.

On Hibernation

December 7, 2013

This time of year always brings out my inner bear ready for hibernation.

Although this can be the time of year for bright lights, big parties, and excessive shopping, I find that all the noise makes me pull inward rather than tempting me out of my hobbit hole.

Instead, I turn to the quiet beauty of an unexpected snow storm that turns the city into a giant snow globe, with fat snowflakes kissing the landscape and reminding its inhabitants that winter is a time for hibernation--quiet reflection, joyous introversion.

I relish the hush in the streets, the tree branches coated in velvet snow, the sky a crisp, clear turquoise. I look forward to the pot of rosemary and rose hip tea that I drink as I dress my holiday tree, the sharp scent of pine filling my home and making me long for a day of snowshoeing.

Others try to tempt me from my home with office parties or noisy shopping trips to malls, but my inner bear keeps telling me hibernate, hibernate.

I fully give into my guilty pleasure of introversion, finally, when I see the temperature won't be above 16 degrees for most of the day and that another snow storm promises to grace the city soon. It is too cold to go out for cocktails; the streets might be too icy when the sun sets. I don't need more things, especially not from a mall, just the comforting warmth of fuzzy socks and a mug of tea in hand.

I retreat to my home, my hobbit hole, my bear cave, happily toasty warm under my knitted blanket, enjoying the gentle hush of a winter day spent in cozy contemplation.

In the spring I will awaken from my dream state in search of daffodil bulbs and adventures, but for now, I do what the bear does: I hibernate, I draw inward, I wrap winter around me like a cloak and linger in the natural beauty of this meditative season.