Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 15

The Secret to Trying Something New

By the time you read this, hopefully, I will have driven a cargo van filled with my craft show supplies safely to Deland Florida – 125 miles from my home.
 
By the time you read this, hopefully, the person who was supposed to help erect my canopy when I arrive at the park will have done so.
 
By the time you read this, hopefully, I will be busily engaged in preparing my booth for business – setting up my tables, arranging displays and posting my signs.
 
And, hopefully, tomorrow and Sunday, I will actually sell some of my jean jackets and my one-of-a-kind knitted creations and Mother’s Day gift baskets.
 
Hopefully.
 
What’s the secret to starting something new?
     Starting Early
 
     Working like hell
 
     Banishing the butterflies in your belly – When mine start to flutter, I engage in more work.
 
     Organizing, Organizing, Organizing………………………
 
     Asking for help – That is what neighborhood handymen are for – thank you, Bo! 
 
     Making lists – For example, I made a list of everything I needed to take with me to Deland and another list detailing in what order to load the cargo van. BTW, keep a notepad by your bed for jotting down middle-of-the-night musings, worries and ideas.
 
     Engaging in a dry run – I set-up my booth in the garage just like it would be at the crafts fair and then tweaked the displays and inventory.

 
     Preparing – I made sure I had on hand scissors, tape, screw driver, step stool, hammer, S-hooks and bungee cords for whatever unforeseen emergency arises. (Plus Advil)
 
     Researching – I read all the pamphlets and books I could find on how to successfully participate in a crafts fair, how to successfully price your items, and what to do if no one is stopping by your booth. (Crying in sheer frustration is not an option.) 

 
     Learning new things – Venmo, Zelle, the Square, and Pay Pal – it’s a about making it customer convenient.
 
     Reaching out to others – I asked questions of veteran crafts fair exhibitors and listened carefully, not selectively, to what they suggested and said.
 
     Doing what you do best and getting others to do what they do best – Thank you Barbara Shine for the graphics!
 
     Making friends with your vendors – Fast Signs, U Haul, and South Tampa Printing are the friendliest places ever.
 
     Talking about it and writing about it – Gives you accountability.
 
     Getting out of your comfort one – Renting a cargo van is at the top of that list – especially since I regularly drive a Mini!

 
     Not being afraid to fail.
 
     Hoping for a little luck.
 
     Praying for success.
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor
 

I Don’t Know Why This Gets To Me, But It Does

Fannie Landman didn’t live a long life.
 
She was born in Cincinnati, Ohio on August 9, 1912 and died on October 6, 1919 at age 7 years, 1 month and 2.8 days – from complications of Scarlett Fever and Septicemia, according to her Certificate of Death.
 
Her family, immigrants from Austria, were too poor to have her properly buried, so her remains were interred in a “pauper’s grave.”
 
Her mom and dad rarely spoke of their deceased daughter to their surviving children – I surmise out of guilt of not being able to afford a cemetery plot and stone, not out of any lack of deep affection and love.
 
In spite of repeated attempts over the decades to locate her burial site by determined family members and their descendants, Fannie’s final resting place was never discovered. Internet searches in later years revealed no trace either.
 
Fannie Landman was my husband’s aunt, his mother’s sister – who died before my mother-in-law was born. 
 
All that remains of Fannie is one picture, a death certificate and a tiny gold ring with an even tinier green stone.  
 


My mother-in-law, a few years before she died, bestowed me with a very meaningful keepsake – Fannie’s ring. When she gave it to me, she simply said, “Iris, I know you, of everyone in the family, will appreciate Fannie’s ring.” She was right.
 
I was clearly moved beyond measure by the loss of this little girl and by the fact there was no marker where we could come and place a stone. In the last couple of months, finally determining that her burial site was simply not traceable, my husband decided that he would start the process of putting a marker of Fannie’s life and death at the foot of his grandparents’ grave so that Fannie would have a presence – so that future generations of the family would know that this little girl existed.
 
It wasn’t enough for me.
 
I had harbored the fantasy of naming a daughter “Fannie” thus perpetuating her memory. Being blessed with five sons, I didn’t get that opportunity.
 
Years passed. The nest emptied. Health issues challenged us. We moved to a different state. Our kids got married and gave us grandchildren. Keeping Fannie’s memory alive still burned in my core – dormant but flickering.
 
Getting my first shot at presenting my funky knitted creations at a crafts fair in Deland, Florida unleashed my imagination. I spent hours fine-tuning the wares I would be selling. And one night, I bolted upright in bed, startled awake by a flashing banner infused with neon lights streaking across my brain:     Miss Fannie’s Formula for Fine LivingAha! My chance to imbue Fannie Landman’s short life span with a palpable presence:
     I would knit a series of dolls – each named Fannie.
     I would attach a small sign onto each one imparting some words of wisdom
     And each creation would be able to be hung-up on a wall.


 
I hope Fannie knows that another little girl – also born in Cincinnati, also born in the month of August, but many years later – still mourns her death, still sheds tears over the shortness of her life and is doing her best to hold her memory close.
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor

How to Get Out of a Jokerless Funk

I was looking through my “Joke Folder” in my computer. Maybe it’s just me, but it seems like years ago, when e mail was more of a novelty than an everyday nuisance, people utilized this tech tool to send jokes.
 
Nowadays I receive tons of E-mails bearing “enticing” subject lines:
       HelloFresh – new recipes are springing up
       Poshmark Info – save big on your wardrobe TODAY
       Nutribullet – see the new nutribullet Baby Steam + Blend
       Netflix – Iris, we just added a movie you might like…
       
All are enticing me to make, buy, try, and see.
None are enticing me to laugh. 
 
I’m in a jokerless funk. No witticisms. Clever ditties. Catchy comics DO arrive in my inbox, but unfortunately, they are riddled with the absurdity of today’s of political climate. Those are rampant. Hopefully, they are providing a safe outlet for bottled-up rage and aggressive hostility –a healthy escape from real time toxicity. But for me – all those partisan jests and wise-cracks are simply increasing my “consternation fatigue.” 
 
Research proves laughter can provide many physiological and beneficial impacts on our bodies, our ability to fight off disease and to reduce stress through the increased production of the hormone cortisol. 
 
People like to laugh and people like to hear other people laugh. Making someone laugh is empowering, sparks connection and enhances camaraderie. Who knows? It may even decrease our use of drinkable therapy and pill popping by diminishing some of our surface depression and promoting resilience.
 
Victor Borge once said, “Laughter is the shortest distance between two people.” I believe that when people share a laugh, connection and rapport are enhanced and the social, economic and cultural gaps are decreased. Barriers are broken down. People relax. New ideas and energy pour forth. The group solidifies.  
 
Years ago, to commemorate her 69th birthday, actress/vocalist Julie Andrews made a special appearance at Manhattan’s Radio City Music Hall for the benefit of AARP.
 
One of the musical numbers she performed was based on “My Favorite Things” from the legendary movie “Sound Of  Music.”
 
Here are the lyrics she recited:
“Maalox and nose drops and needles for knitting, 
Walkers and handrails and new dental fittings,
Bundles of magazines tied up in string,
These are a few of my favorite things.
 
Cadillacs and cataracts, hearing aids and glasses,
Polident and Fixodent and false teeth in glasses,
Pacemakers, golf carts and porches with swings,
These are a few of my favorite things.
 
When the pipes leak,
When the bones creak,
When the knees go bad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
And then I don’t feel so bad.
 
Hot tea and crumpets, and corn pads for bunions,
No spicy hot food or food cooked with onions,
Bathrobes and heat pads and hot meals they bring,
These are a few of my favorite things.
 
Back pains, confused brains, and no fear of sinnin’,
Thin bones and fractures and hair that is thinnin’,
And we won’t mention our short shrunken frames,
When we remember our favorite things.
 
When the joints ache,
When the hips break,
When the eyes grow dim,
Then I remember the great life I’ve had,
And then I don’t feel so bad.”
 
Ms. Andrews received a standing ovation from the crowd that lasted over four minutes and repeated encores.
 
Keep Preserving Your bloom and PLEASE send me some jokes,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor
 
PS: Julie Andrews is now 87 years old. I’m guessing humor works.

Down To The Wire

My weekly newsletter comes out every Friday at 3 pm. I started writing it when my youngest son Louie was about three years old and he is now pushing thirty-nine. So I guess I’ve written a couple of thousand. My columns used to run about 900 words, but over the decades – along with our decreased attention spans – my word count has adapted – shrinking to a more succinct 600 words.
 
Usually, my brain regenerates over the weekend and, by Sunday night, I have an idea for the upcoming week’s column.
 
This week that didn’t happen.
 
Usually, on Monday, I sit down and enthusiastically crank out a few key points I’m mulling over for the upcoming newsletter.
 
That didn’t happen either.
 
On Tuesday, I became entirely enmeshed in figuring out the pricing of my pouches and purses for my upcoming (and totally terrifying, as I have repeatedly mentioned before in this column) dive into the world of crafts fairs. And Tuesday night, I literally descended into “Shear Madness” watching the play by the same name at our local performing arts center. It was delightful. (184 words)
 
I awoke Wednesday morning – no words had yet sprinkled onto my computer screen. No biggie. I went out to lunch with my buddies and twiddled around with the ten-by-ten-foot layout I had chalked on my garage floor to see how my crafts booth would look. (I’d classify it as a work in progress and that is being overly generous.)
 
By Wednesday night, I was buzzed with controllable anxiety over the contents of this week’s newsletter, or lack of one. I had a few ideas:
     Does the self-care world and all its myriad of choices excite you or exhaust you?
     Do I really now have to tip the guy at the counter who gives me a pre-packaged box of miniature cupcakes? (I didn’t tip and my 16-year-old granddaughter was appalled)
     Is it really a good idea at age 75 – with arthritic knees riddled with bursitis – to take up Pickleball?
 
I wake up Thursday morning sweating. My anxiety is now inching toward out of control.
     What if have nothing to say?
     What if I have nothing to say ever again??????
     How can I ever replace the euphoria I feel when I finish my column each week and press the Save key?  (391 words)
 
It’s Thursday night. The house is quiet. I brew myself a very strong and large cup of coffee, pop a handful of Doritos into my mouth (I don’t even like them), and ignore the e-mail that just popped into my inbox from my social media person. I already know what it says: WHAT THE HELL? WHERE’S THE COPY?
 
I’m hoping the caffeine will blast away my lethargy, and my growing sense of panic and provide me with ingenious insights.
 
That doesn’t happen either.
 
It’s now 10:13 pm. All I can think of is everything in my life that I have habitually pushed aside, relegated to another time, or neglected all together:
     Doing my taxes is at the top of the list
     A close second is, of course, losing five pounds
     And then, there’s learning Canasta
     And mastering all those hidden little camera features on my I Phone. (I paid for an online course, but never finished it. Actually, I gave up after the first lecture.)
     Organizing my toiletries (that will never happen – much easier to just buy new than actually wade through the boxes of half-filled moisturizers, flaky eye shadows, sticky mascara, and dried-up lipsticks. (588 words.)
 
Aha! Finally, an idea for a column pops into my head – but now I’m just too tired to pursue it.  Just recently I passed a rainy Thursday afternoon browsing about at the famous Strand Bookstore in New York City. Noticing a large rectangular table featuring “Banned Books,” I scurried over. The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein was prominently displayed. I stared in utter amazement. How could The Giving Tree possibly be considered offensive?
 
Since I’m now too tired to write a coherent column about my new idea and my deadline is looming, I will leave it to Siri to provide you with the answer:
https://bannedbooks.library.cmu.edu/shel-silverstein-the-giving-tree/
 
It’s 11:04 pm. (689 words).
I’m going to bed.
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor

I’m Afraid, But I’m Doing It Anyway

Have you ever gone to a craft’s fair and watched the crowds huddle at one booth but barely enter another? I always feel sorry for the craftsperson/artist who sits there – solitary – trying not to appear desperate for customers – perched on a stool staring mindlessly at her cell phone.

I’m afraid that in just four weeks that will be me. The thought keeps me up at night. The thought wakes me up in the middle of the night. That terrifying thought barrages me upon waking every morning.

In just four weeks from today, I will be I Deland, Florida (wherever that is) setting up my first booth at my first crafts fair.

What am I selling?

I am selling vintage jean jackets adorned with sequined appliques.

I am selling one-of-a kind, hand-knit purses and pouches that I have been designing and knitting compulsively every night for about the last three years.

And, if I finish them in time, I am also going to be selling hand-knit hanging dolls with unusual quotes entwined in their dresses.

Why am I doing this anyway?

Because I am crazy.

Because I am a masochist.

Because I court the fear factor and feel it’s vastly more exciting than starting the day without flossing but vastly safer than trying sky diving for the very first time.

What have I learned thus far? A lot:

     How to use Square on my I Pad and I Phone to ring up a sale using a credit card

     How to best furnish a 10’ by 10’ booth to look appealing, but not overloaded with merchandise

     How to erect the booth canopy and weigh it down – haven’t quite mastered the art of canopy erection. (This morning it took my husband, me and our handyman over three hours to assemble the canopy in our back yard in order for me to practice layouts. Not a fortuitous beginning.)

     How to transport merchandise from the car to the booth (by collapsible wagon)

     How to dress (definitely wear what you are selling)

     How to handle your inventory – with loving caresses as that subliminally messages the potential customer that your wares are of value

     How to display your items (Heaven forbid, lay them in rows on a table. Nope. In tiers, not more than six of any kind)

     What to do with yourself while waiting for people to approach your booth (Since I am selling my knitted items, experts say I should knit – heaven forbid I use my phone and convey boredom)

     What to say when someone approaches my booth (“Hello, I’m Iris,” make eye contact and then use your intuition to decide whether to spew forth more platitudes about your booth or just back-off and allow the customer to browse in peace)

     What items to place next to each other (different priced items are a good idea)

     How to stand out from other booths with a large banner in front (still working on this – my first idea was Funky Creations From A Bad Ass Boomer – which was shot down definitively by the contact person at the crafts fair for not being “a family friendly” slogan – I reluctantly toned it down to Funky Creations For The Wild Woman In You.)

I’m still trying puzzling over a few things:

     My target audience

     Pricing of each item

     Effective Signage

     How my purses, pouches, and jean jackets will improve and enhance my customer’s lives

     And how far I have to dip my toes into social media to maximize my sales at the two-day crafts fair

I’ve got 28 more days to figure it out, but who is counting?

Me!!!!!

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

Losing my mom – 5 years later

Five years ago today, my sister and brother and I lost our mom to a very short battle with pancreatic cancer.

She wanted to die on her birthday and she did.
She wanted to be surrounded by family as she drew her last breath. And she was.
She wanted to die in peace, without physical pain, and she pulled that off too.

Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I think she’s still here – that she will be calling me to have lunch – an action, I hate to say, that at times I found highly annoying. I always seemed to be in a time crunch – with five kids at home and struggling to be a bona fide writer – who had neither the time nor patience for leisurely lunch dates? Now that all my kids have long ago flown the nest and my writing projects are more manageable, I’d heartily welcome her company over grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, but she is gone. 

She could be my strongest, most strident critic at the same time as my must loyal and devoted cheerleader. When a group of 7th grade girls viciously turned against me and formed an exclusive club (RAILS – Revolution Against Iris Levine), my mom probed me for details as to what I could have done to provoke them, soothed my wounds and listened to me endlessly cry and rant BUT insisted I go to school every morning as usual while holding my head high and assuring me that all this too would pass. And it did. And those same girls soon became my bosom buddies – just as she had predicted.

From my brother Steve:
Thinking back, she sometimes drove me crazy with her neurotic behavior, but we all suffer from some of that – heredity is what it is. And I’m sure I drove her pretty crazy too with my unrelenting shenanigans – such as non-stop runs to the emergency room and the not-very-positive behavioral comments on my report cards. 

Here are a few cherished memories:
      I really loved playing little league baseball. After each game, my mom would always take me out – in my very special uniform – for a piece of coconut pie.
     She always remembered my birthday with very special presents – one year it was a brand new catcher’s mitt that I used in my Little League All Star Game.
     And I still watch the commercial she starred in at age 87 leading the charge to raise $170 million to renovate the Cincinnati Museum Center. 

From my sister, Lori:
I feel like my mom is everywhere. For some long-forgotten reason, after she died, we had her mail delivered to me. I’m still deluged with a plethora of charity solicitations from the many organizations and causes she faithfully supported.

Just like her, I drink my cup of coffee and read the paper first thing in the morning. Just like today, it’s 9:30 am and I’m still in my pajamas. Just like she would be.

I’ll never again get flowers from her on every birthday. 

I’ll never hear her voice asking me, “How are the girls?”

I’ll never get the opportunity to roll my eyes and think, “Oh God, here we go again,” when she would start her monologue about the injustices of being an only child.

We all know about the cycle of life and that she was taken from us in the right order in the ninth decade of life.
We all know the passage of time lessens the acute pain of loss.
We all know no one is indispensable – not even our mom – as the sun continues to rise and the sun continues to set in her absence.

And we all know life goes on and she’s no longer here, but the echoes of her words are still swirling around us:
 I don’t know how you people live like this. (We are somewhat messy; she was extremely neat.)
I knew that. (In response to some new revelation we shared with her about marriage or parenthood.)
Everything in moderation.
The feelings you are feeling have been felt before.
Don’t do anything today that you will feel guilty about tomorrow. (Still not quite getting this one right.)

We all miss you, Mom. And I think we always will.

Love,
Iris, Steve and Lori

The Strength of a First Love’s Bond

One morning, I am jolted by an e mail that pops up in my inbox. It is from him – my first love.
 
“Iris, I have something I think you would like which I would like to send you. I need your address so I can have UPS ship it down. If you doubt the validity of this e mail, you can call me at…..”
 
My first thought is twofold: What in the world could he be sending me and is he on the brink of death and ridding himself of his worldly possessions?
 
With my chest pounding, I grab my cell phone and punch in his number. 
 
Now here is a little disclaimer:
After I marry my second husband, Steven and I end up living in the same area as my first love and his wife. And, soon after, his wife and I start – out of sheer convenience – carpooling together. And the more time I spend with his wife, the more I like her.
 
She is kind, caring, an amazingly talented artist and has a show-stopping head of wild curly hair which I have never stopped envying. 
 
And as the decades slide by, her friendship becomes more central to my life than the previous one I had had with her husband. It is a friendship that I treasure and it is a friendship that continues today.
 
So, in a circumferential way, I kept in-the-know about my first love, but had little direct contact with him – except at our high school reunions. There we would huddle together – sharing memories. And, always, I would mention to him my regret at not having bound the issues of our school newspaper into a permanent book – like he did.
 
Two bits of information immediately emerge in our phone chat:
         He isn’t at death’s door.
         And he is gifting me his bound copies of The Bulldog Barks
 
My throat constricts. Tears stream down my cheeks. The thought of having the written record of our senior year in my possession is simply overwhelming. And the realization that he is parting with something so special – I can’t even begin to convey my thankfulness and gratitude to him.
 
“Fifty-eight years is long enough,” he tells me. “I know you of all people will cherish this book as much as I do. I did look through it one last time and it reminded me of how well we worked together. I am proud of that collection.
 
“You are the keeper now. I think as you read through the pages, old memories, not only of us, but the entire high school experience will be dislodged and bubble into your consciousness, as if they happened yesterday. Have fun with it.”
 
Two days later my UPS package lands on my front porch. I have been holding it close ever since.
 

 
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
 
PS: The strength of a first love’s bond? Pretty damn strong.
 
On a more serious note, I have the privilege of being part of a panel discussion on eating disorders, presented by Hadassah.
It’s a zoom event on Thursday, February 23 at 7pm EST. There will also be additional time devoted to individual questions. More details to follow.

Do You Ever Forget Your First Love?

Let me be clear: my husband is my soul mate. We have been married almost 47 years.

However – and this is a BIG however – he was NOT my FIRST LOVE.

My boyfriend and I started going steady in 9th grade – although we were already throwing sneaky sidelong glances at each other during math class in 7th grade – so much so that it prompted our math teacher one afternoon to flippantly ask me the following: “Miss Levine, are you overly sexed?”

I was too embarrassed, humiliated and stunned to answer her.

(And I’m not so sure in today’s world a teacher would be so flippant with a question about her student’s sexuality!)

My boyfriend and I went the usual route of young couples in the mid 1960’s: We started “GOING STEADY.” (I asked my 15 year-old grandson last night if he knew what “going steady” meant. He had no idea.)

My boyfriend and I exchanged silver ID bracelets. We finagled three sets of matching shirts from his dad’s clothing store -which we wore very frequently to school to show the world the strength of our bond.

The highlight of our junior year was when he passed his driver’s test immediately after turning 16. If we had spent as much time studying as we did necking in his black Chevrolet Impala convertible, Harvard would have been courting us both. 

Every summer – in a desperate attempt to split us up – my parents would fly me from Ohio to Florida to spend time with my aunt and uncle and to get away from my boyfriend. The separation only fueled the fires of our highly charged, emotionally intense romance. 

In our senior year, we both worked on the school paper – a four-pager published weekly. Our job: write opinion pieces and interview our class mates on such topics as their “philosophy of life.” (Today, I find that mildly hysterical – I’m 75 years-old and still trying to craft my philosophy.) 

We were voted “Cutest Couple” in the senior popularity poll.  Thus proving, once again, the strength of our bond.

Graduation was in early June. The morning after all 750 of us – the class of ‘65 – had walked down the aisle to the notes of Pomp and Circumstance, my boyfriend took every one of the approximately 36 issues of our school newspaper, The Bulldog Barks, to a local printing company and had them bound into a hardback book. 

I stashed my copies of our student newspaper under my bed. In the ensuing years, of course, mine would be lost; his would remain intact and with him. 

To both sets of our parents’ displeasure, my boyfriend and I applied to the same university, were accepted and headed-off to freshman year with arms entwined. What our parents couldn’t put asunder, the allure of freshman year swiftly did. In early October, we broke-up. (Actually, he ended it with me.) I was heartbroken. I transferred universities and in the ensuing years, we both married our college sweethearts and settled down to raise our families.

My first marriage didn’t last. His did.  

Fifty-eight years would pass before I realized just how much the strength of our bond still remained intact. 

The story continues next week.

Keep Preserving Your Bloom,

Iris Ruth Pastor

I Couldn’t Have Been More Wrong…

It is 3 p.m.
He is the last speaker in a long line of speakers, which had begun at 8 a.m.
 
I am attending a holistic health summit. Some of the speakers are riveting and some are technical and above my pay grade.
 
On the verge of a major headache from information overload, I am tempted to skip-out on the last session, which features a black belt in Krav Maga. I quickly google Krav Maga on my phone. From Wikipedia, I learn it is an Israeli martial art. Utilized by the Israel Defense Forces, it is derived from a combination of techniques used in aikido, judo, karate, boxing, and wrestling.
  
Why would it be of interest to me? 
 
I am 75-year-old grandmother who is not overly obsessing (or obsessing at all) about cultivating an aura of bad-assitude as I traverse the aisles of Publix. What relevance could Krav Maga possibly have in my life?
 
I couldn’t have been more wrong. 
 
From www.theartofmanliness.com, I glean the following:
The origins of Krav Maga can be traced to pre-World War II Czechoslovakia (present-day Slovakia) and a young Jewish athlete named Imi Lichtenfeld. Imi was a nationally and internationally renowned boxer, wrestler, and gymnast. Beginning in the mid-1930s, fascist and anti-Semitic groups rose to power in Czechoslovakia and began inflicting violence on Jewish communities. Feeling duty-bound to protect his neighbors, Lichtenfeld organized a group of young men to patrol his community and defend against would-be attackers. He quickly learned, however, that his training in sport martial arts was no match for the anti-Semitic thugs he encountered. Fighting for points in a match and fighting for your life in a street fight require a different mindset and different techniques. To effectively defend himself and his community, Imi began synthesizing his martial art knowledge and started placing an emphasis on attacks that quickly disabled and neutralized a threat.
 
The study of Krav Maga, which is known for its focus on real world situations and extreme efficiency, naturally led the speaker to explore not just training his body, but training his mind as well. He began focusing on two key concepts:
                             How to avoid burn-out and get more done
                             How to balance energy, time and attention   
 
“There are conflicting pulls on our resources. What does ‘I don’t have the time,’ actually mean?” he questions us. “It means we are not prioritizing. It means we are not blocking out distractions.”
 
Here are his suggestions for getting more done efficiently and avoiding exhaustion:
      “Choose wisely – we can’t do all of it well.
       Learn to say ‘No’ – by saying ‘No’ to something, we can focus on what              really matters to us. By saying ‘No’, we are saying ‘Yes’ to something                  else.”
 
How do we choose where to put our energy and effort?
He prods us to consider our own roles and goals and whether what we are choosing to do is moving the needle in the right direction.
 
People have things that come easy to them, but are often hard for others. He suggests devoting time to those things we have superpower in. “Our time and energy are finite – we need to guard them closely,” he cautions.
 
His template for getting things done are measurable and methodical:
     Plan
     Act 
     Review
     Improve 
 
As our time with him is winding down, he asks us to close our eyes and visualize two interlocking circles:
     One circle contains things we care about
     The other circle contains things we can control
 
     Where those two circles interlap is where we should focus and invest our time.
                                                                                                            
 
His words of wisdom stick with me and later that evening, I google “What is the best age to learn Krav Maga?” The answer: Anyone between the age of 3 to 80 years old can start learning Krav Maga, even if they are completely new to the world of Martial Arts. 
 
Hee hee! See you in the studio!
  
And Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor
 
PS A hearty “shout-out” of thanks to my loyal readers who took the time to answer all those “annoying” questions included in my survey last week. Your answers were eye opening, somewhat surprising and very much appreciated. 
 
 

I want to know about YOU

You certainly know a lot about ME. I would like to know more about YOU.
 
Please feel free to answer some or all of the questions below and send back to me.  
What is your biggest challenge?
 
Best book you read in 2022?
 
What is your favorite way to relax?
 
Name a healthy habit you currently have or would like to adopt? 
 
What is your favorite series to binge watch?
 
What is your biggest frustration?
 
What’s on your Wish List? 
 
Please pass on your favorite recipe. 
 
What are some websites you visit regularly? 
 
Do you regularly shop at resale stores and if so, any tips of the trade?
 
What’s your most successful house plant that has flourished under your care and what’s your secret to its success?
 
If you had an extra $100, how would you spend it?
 
Which is your preferred way to exercise?
 
Any vitamin supplements you take regularly and why?
 
What your favorite vacation spot?
 
What topic on wellness would you like to learn more about? 
 
How much does “free shipping” influence what you buy online?
 
Anything else you would like to sprout off about, feel free!!!!!
 
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
 
Iris Ruth Pastor

P.S. Please feel free to answer some or all of the questions below and send back to me at irisruthpastor@gmail.com