In the practice of yoga it is believed that we each have a given number of breaths in our lifetime and that when we die it is because we have literally drawn our last breath. Yogi masters encourage long, deep, slowly-paced breaths instead of short, shallow, quick ones, both as a way of bringing calm and clarity to the mind and as a way of extending life.

I have not been breathing deeply lately. In fact, the past few weeks it seems I've taken to not breathing at all. I keep catching myself holding my breath. I'll suddenly feel anxious and then realize it's because I've suspended my breathing for who knows how long, and when I release the breath I've trapped inside it is a small, pathetic amount of air. So I take in a deep breath, the kind I learned in yoga, the kind that fills my chest and expands my belly, and then I close my eyes and hold it, intentionally, until my mind starts to float. And as I slowly exhale, I feel renewed.

And then ten minutes later I realize I'm holding my breath again.

Thing is, I'm fine. Sure, work is a whirlwind and 'tis the season for holiday hustle and bustle and OMG a catalog came in the mail today advertising "last minute gifts" and I haven't even STARTED shopping for Christmas and SINCE WHEN IS THE END OF NOVEMBER CONSIDERED LAST MINUTE?! But no, sincerely, things are really good. Or they will be, as soon as I catch my breath.

This weekend is going to be a restorative one. Rob and I have big plans for relaxing and reconnecting. And I'm hoping that somewhere along the way, I remember how to breathe.

My mom grew up on a farm in West Virginia. This particular area of West Virginia is Redneck Valley TIMES TEN. We're talking coal mine country. We're talking a place where the majority of people still farm for a living. We're talking a place in which the only store that has groceries is a convenience store/mini-mart. We're talking Redneck Redneck Valley. However, it is also one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen. The mountains? OMG.

Anyway, it's a small community. Everybody knows everybody and everybody knows everybody's business. (When I was a kid, I loved to read the social page of the local newspaper - they printed every social snippet they could get their hands on. "Sue Smith had 8 visitors over the weekend - her daughter Sally and family and aunt Ruth and husband. Sue served ham, potato salad, and green beans." Oh, I shit you not.)

Inevitably, when we're visiting the farm and someone from the area comes up in conversation, a 10-minute discussion ensues among my parents' generation about said person's family tree. "Oh, I remember Bertha," my mom will say. "I went to school with her. Or wait, maybe I went to school with her sister, Bethel."

"Bethel was your year," my aunt will respond. "I went to school with Bertha. And her little brother, Billy Bob, was the same year in school as Carolyn. And Billy Bob married Stella. Remember Stella? She was the daughter of Silas and Margaret."

"Yes, I remember. Margaret played piano at church."

Then the conversation takes an interesting twist as my family plays the "Let's Figure Out How They're Related to Us" game. Because it's not a matter of if these people are related to us. Just how. Over there, everyone is pretty much related to everyone else in some way, however distant. There are only like, 6 last names in the area. Okay, that may be a bit of an exaggeration. Ten, tops.

If my grandfather is within earshot, he will win, hands down. "Now Bertha and Bethel and Billy Bob's pap was the brother of Harold, and Harold married Martha who is cousin to Ernest."

Everyone nods as they follow along. Except me.

"Who is Ernest?" I ask.

"Ernest is my second cousin once removed," my mom will respond. "Tina is his daughter. You remember Tina?" Blank look from me. "Well Tina and I used to play jacks together. You met her at a family reunion once."

"I thought Tina was my year in school," my aunt will say. And...here we go again.

Given all of this, I think it was probably an accurate statement when my 8-year old cousin asked if he and Rob were "first cousins, in-law" that I responded, "Yes. And you and I are first cousins, in-bred." But what concerns me is the fact that when he proceeded to repeat this over and over again, no one corrected him.

Meals with family: 5
Relatives seen: 51
States visited: 4
Total miles driven: 725
Times pulled over by police: 1 (but was mistake)
Times attended church: 1
Near-hits by lightning bolts: 1, while sitting in pew
Family birthdays/anniversaries celebrated: 3
Photos taken: 95
Nights spent away from home: 2
Times plans changed: 14, at least
Calls to hotel to change reservation: 2
Times hotel reservation lady laughed in my face, over phone, for no particular reason: 2 (bitch)
Geocaches found: 3
Times I was asked when we're going to start a family: 3
Alcoholic drinks consumed: ZERO (shit ain't right)
Times I suggested to Rob that we skip Christmas this year: 15

napping together on a rainy Sunday afternoon

Whenever people share what they're thankful for this time of year, it's always the big stuff. Family. Friends. Health. You know, the very things they grumble about the rest of the year. Don't get me wrong - I am very definitely thankful for my family, my friends, my health, and my husband. Overwhelmingly so. But for some reason, with me it is always about the little things. The past few days I've stopped to notice when I appreciated something, when I found myself thankful. And I took a second to write it down. Truth is, I realized that I do this all the time in my head. Every day there are countless things I recognize as blessings. (Jessica_deva takes this one step further and posts a daily list of what she's thankful for. Love that.)

• lists
• waking up to the smell of coffee
• that the presidency isn't a lifelong term
• the way my ass looks in the mirror
• John Stamos
• the opportunity to travel
• Mary my hairstylist
• Redneck Valley Target
• friends from my past who are once again part of my present
• birth control
• answering the phone and hearing Doreen's voice
• the therapy and anti-depressants that gave my mom her life back
• finding the sunglasses that I had lost and so had bought an identical pair which I also lost but then found the original pair which I proceeded to lose yet again
• cool countries like Canada
• book recommendations from friends
• wine
• The NYTimes article that led me to dooce which led me to blogging which led me to ALL OF YOU
• Bridget curling up on my lap
• our hot tub
• the way my dad's eyes light up when I drop by unexpectedly
• emails that make me grin and sometimes laugh out loud
• the intimacy of saying "Hey, it's me" to Rob on the phone
• naps
• how my little brother who is way bigger than me wraps his arms around me from behind and squeezes - best hugs ever
• the sound of rain on our tin roof

May we all be so lucky to realize how lucky we are.

This is what the Pilgrims would have feasted on had they been in Redneck Valley. Rob and I saw these in the checkout line at Walmart (where else, right?) and had to buy them. Not that we have any intention of eating them - oh HELL NO. Although I'm seriously considering taking them as my contribution to Thanksgiving dinner. They'd be a hit with the hunters and truck drivers in my family.

I think this particular pork rind package is an example of too many cooks in the pork rind marketing kitchen. It's like they couldn't decide to whom they should market this shit, so they just slapped on a little something for everyone. The longhorn and blaze orange secures the redneck market. They were careful not to overlook a small subset of this group - the Hispanic hillbilly. The chili pepper and HOT & SPICY were added just for those folks. Hell, they even translated PORK RINDS into Spanish, just to be sure. Careful not to alienate the health-conscious crowd, they decided to place a reminder on the package that these deep-fried pieces of pigskin are, in fact, low-carb. And then as a last ditch effort, they added the two magic words that make all Americans take notice: MICROWAVE and BACON. Because let's face it - we are lazy, bacon-loving sons of bitches.

(And this is why I love Wikipedia. The second paragraph kills me. As does the fact that in the US these snacks are downright presidential, but the British consider them rather plebeian.)

I've been reading this book for months. I started it four books ago. The thing is, I liked it from the beginning. But it's just so looong. 900 pages, y'all. I began reading it but then found another book I wanted to read, and I just couldn't stand to wait 900 pages to read the other book. So I put this one on hold. And I did that four times. Commitment issues much?

But even though I read four books in the time it took me to read the first 200 pages of this one, let me just say that the last 700 pages FLEW BY. No, really. My god, Wally Lamb can WRITE. Like, for real. And this is not just a good story. There is symbolism and philosophy. Ooh, and themes! Rampant themes. Really, it's enough to make a former English major want to sit down and chart it all out and then write a 15-page paper. JUST FOR FUN.

However, I wouldn't recommend this novel to just anyone. It's heavy. No really - the book weighs like five pounds. And yeah okay, it's a heavy read, too - it's a bit of a downer. Depressing even, in parts. The novel is about twin brothers, Dominick and Thomas, who have suffered an abusive childhood and are now struggling to cope as adults. Thomas is schizophrenic and spends his days in a mental institution. The focus of the novel is Dominick - his fight to give his brother the best life possible, his need to deal with the guilt he feels, his attempts to understand his past and his family's history. I have never had a dream about a book before, but this one caused strange dreams almost every night. It affected me - it is real, honest, and painful. (*SPOILER ALERT* And because of that, I felt the hunky-dory happy ending was unrealistic, inappropriate, and disappointing. But that's my only complaint.)

This is a compelling novel. All 900 pages.