Rosie Glow Wellness

Mind body health for the deeply fabulous


2:203 Wut

I knew I would be moved to write eventually — after all my public trials of daily practice, “showing up for myself,” showing up for you, yadda yadda yadda, I decided now is not the time to force anything. Now is the time to be as present as possible in the beautiful new life I have, to collect moments like a philatelist and archive each stamp of my personhood for future reflection; for the brain bank; for crinkly old Rose to muse on in her hovercraft/rocking chair: remember when I had magenta hair? Remember the first time those I had always looked to as role models welcomed me? Remember how I would have been angry about all of those years I spent accepting the lie that I wasn’t enough, but I was too busy being happy?

I am busy being happy. I love my job, I love my crew. At some point, I’ll find a way to bring back writing — I have plans for this blog that take time I currently have allotted for Instagramming/manically cleaning my apartment/meeting St. Vincent/smiling about my planty new gig, etc. But I’ll get there — because even though, for the first time in my career, my teammates respect my opinion and, also for the first time in my career, I care enough about what I’m doing to have strong opinions; even though my voice and aesthetic are of real value to my work, it’s nice to have another means of expressing myself — outside of my pink topknot (did y’all see it when it was purple? I’ll be taking the next color to a vote!). And how.

Anyway. Hi. I love you. I’m around, and I’ll have so much to tell you when I’ve finally wrapped my cerebellum around how dope my life is right now. #humblebrag #waitnopethatwasjustabrag



2:186 New Life

Courtesy of The Thought Studio

Courtesy of The Thought Studio.

Good morning, Sweet Friend. I missed you.

I’ve been ghosting you all for about a month — by far the longest I’ve ever gone without fluttering in to smother the internet with the rotundity of my feelings — and in response to the concerned emails I’ve received from many of you in recent weeks, it’s confirmed: I am alive. In fact, not only am I alive, but I am well. I am high-vibing, clear-headed and whole. Thank you so much for asking.

My roommate and I are on a Julie Delpy kick (we are always on a Julie Delpy kick), and as I am a movie-Philistine, I just watched Before Sunrise for the very first time. Ethan Hawke’s character, who I’m altogether certain will turn out to be a big baby but no spoilers pls/thx, voices his problem with the idea of reincarnation: our planet houses billions more living souls than it once did, so if we’re all reincarnates of ancient hearts, we’re fractured people simply because there aren’t enough ancient hearts to go around.

I’ve been feeling like a fractured person, myself, for about six months. Not because of reincarnation — this isn’t 1995 and I’m not a neo-Buddhist with an erratically sprouting upper lip — but because I’ve been deeply unhappy in my work, I’ve been looking for new work, and I’ve had to pour all of my creative energy into playing the part of someone wholly content with their day-to-day. Call it acting. Call it lying. It’s exhausting and I very much dislike it.

Honesty is freedom, though, and that’s why I have this blog. Aside from my recent struggle, I can usually speak my truth here — identify it and try to make sense of it and find others with the same truth. We, Sparkle Sisters, feel the same heartbeat: we’re part Frida Kahlo, part Sylvia Plath, part bowlegged baby giraffe — we’re the harmonious sums of so many recycled souls. We’re not fragmented for sharing parts of ourselves: we’re more complete than ever.

So Ethan Hawke and my past life can suck it. So I am thrilled to announce that I start my dream job tomorrow. It marries health, community and art in a smart, stylish way and I’m so grateful that I found myself in this position, with the skill set necessary to do the job with vigor and guts. This is what has been humming in the cells of my marrow. This is where I’ve followed the trail of curbside litter and miscellany. This is where I’m at… and I’m stoked!

I truly cherish the friends I’ve made in the past five years at the same company, and I trust that the Universe will take care of my enemies (wut?). I’m beyond thrilled to sport a career that fits and, more than anything else, I’m so relieved that I get to be myself again.


P.S. I finally have my very own Instagram account! Follow me if you’re feelin’ it!
P.P.S. Did I mention I missed you fools? I did!


2:141 A Body at Rest


Just me on a tiger skin rug, nbd. By Rachel Levit

It’s all happening, Sweet Friend. There are signs of a thaw after this fall/winter/early spring of malcontent — we’ve got chirpy little wrens dangling fat and reeling worms from their bills as though fishing for their own babies… which is a better bird situation, in my book, then the frozen, knifelike crows with their RAVENOUS EYES (that want to eat my eyes, I’m telling you); all of Logan Square has adopted my daily uniform — crop top, high-waisted shorts, wedge sneakers what uppppppp; and opportunities are finally, finally starting to open up for me like so many emboldened roses.

And I feel… dubious? Lightly terrified? Spazzy beyond your wildest dreams?

Last night I went to an art opening (for Kate McQuillen!) and en route, our bus hit a cab. When we eventually arrived (all bones in their appropriate bone sockets: no one was hurt) at the space way out in a west, West Loop industrial corridor, we couldn’t find her studio. And when we eventually arrived at her studio, an editor who I’m interested in writing for asked me what I write… and I was hot and my upper lip was sweaty and I already knew I was going to be late TO MY THERAPY APPOINTMENT later that evening and I sh*t you not, I said “I don’t know? All the things? Girly stuff?” and promptly spilled some of my white wine on myself.

And I was… late to therapy.

The thing is, I don’t trust that these particular emboldened roses won’t shrivel up and clamp their petals closed like an oyster or the corpse of Tallulah Bankhead’s long-dead fingers crusted around a lowball bourbon glass. This year has presented me with so many almost opportunities that never came to fruition and I’m just trying to be and process and LIVE MY LIFE, you know? You do know. You read this blog. Good for you. So if you can stand another anecdotal something, I think I can make a connection to benefit us all.

I’ve been yoga-ing on the daily, of late. For titillation’s sake, you should know that I recently fell on my head while attempting to Salamba Sirsasana, and the practice does not come naturally to me in the slightest. But I am passable at shavasana: corpse pose… deceased Tallulah Bankhead pose, the pose where you don’t do anything because you’re meant to rest in shavasana and absorb the benefits of 90 minutes’ worth of focus and effort. And of course my mind meanders. Of course, my tailbone hovers above ground due to my having somewhat of an ass and I shift from cheek to cheek for 10 minutes, frowning all the while… it’s only natural. But I do very consciously attempt to slow down my breath and absorb the aforementioned benefits, which could very much translate to life and limbo-land if I would only let it… if I would only acknowledge the focus and effort I’ve been putting in as I attempt to pursue my (treacherous) path (of undisclosed geographical location), and absorb the benefits of learning all that I’ve learned about myself in the process.

So to mix metaphors for just a moment, which I never, ever do — I’m going to stop, sniff these roses, and be glad that my eyes aren’t being pecked out by beak-shivs at this very moment. Namaste.





2:138 On Balance, Tattoos and Gertrude Stein


A portrait of me (not really… but… right?) by Neryl Walker

I’ve written lots of posts on balance. Really, all of my posts are about balance in some right: balancing healthful vegan eating and a whiskey-fueled social life full of sparkle-friends who sometimes eat animals; harmonizing with the voices at odds in my punchy, flummoxed frontal lobe  (FYI, one voice is sort of raspy and sexy, if not a little lispy, and belongs to the Rose wearing a fringey minidress and platform combat boots, vice-gripping a bedazzled flask of her signature drink — Champagne mixed with gin — which is NOT a real thing, even though she’ll tell you that it’s almost a French 75; and one voice exclusively expresses itself via inflected meows and Twitter, but still manages to convince me not to leave my apartment a great deal of the time. You’s a persuasive bish; Emily Dickinson recluse-Rose.) But then there’s the third voice, thank you, Universe, who mediates: who sings mezzo soprano to their Macy Gray/mewling coloratura situation.

That voice belongs to me.

Several years ago, I promised my mom I would never get a tattoo. When I went to college, the rules were as follows: inking my unadulterated derma and putting myself in a position to EJECT ANOTHER PERSON FROM MY PERSONAGE/become a young mother were equivalent grounds for being yanked out of academia. I didn’t test this threat, and while I’m certain that my marvelous mom would rise to the occasion if I had prematurely become a mom, myself… I know she’s damn serious on the tattoo front. So. I don’t have any tattoos BUT, and I promise there is a point to follow… I’ve wanted the same tattoo since I was 17. It’s two stanzas from a Gertrude Stein poem called, of course, I am Rose.

I am Rose my eyes are blue
I am Rose and who are you?
I am Rose and when I sing
I am Rose like anything.

As a blue-eyed human named Rose who majored in opera performance and likes to meet other humans and gather tiny, self-defining truths about them, this incidental piece written by a literary genius (named Gertrude, i.e., not Rose) resonates with me — enough that I’ve forever dreamed of scribing “I am Rose and when I sing I am Rose like anything” in courier font on my left inner forearm, positioned horizontally 3-4 inches in from my elbow crease (not that I’ve given this any thought). However, a few years after I graduated with my dual degree in OPERA and POETRY (killin’ me, Gertrude) and relegated outright, literal singing to my hobby box… rather than, you know, my life’s work box… I decided that maybe Gertrude had steered me wrong; Brunhilde horns and an addiction to Mucinex did not make me “Rose like anything.”

It turns out, though, that singing in the abstract does make me the most me. Expressing my voice; my honed and balanced voice; above those of the opposing Roses — because through years of trial and error, I know what’s best for me and I have opinions about what’s best for the world — has, indeed, made me Rose like anything. Cutting through the choir of black and white with a sound that is lush and gray and wiggly with vibratto: that’s balance. That’s how one becomes a person, at least that’s how I’ve become a writer who sings; a vegan who doesn’t judge you for your bacon habit; a lush for green juice and tequila; a lady who likes to pen personal essays while her cat sits on her stomach as much as she likes to mack on boys in plaid in her hip, hip hood as much as she likes to paint strange little portraits in the company of friends making baubles out of raccoon bones and teeth (um, craft day was yesterday.) I know who I am because of all the extremes I’ve been at times too intimately familiar with, the experiences I’ve gathered like so many raccoon vertebra, the siren calls of identities that don’t quite fit. That’s how I found my voice.

So anyway. Balance. And Mom, can I get a tattoo?



2:132 Make-cation

I also made that sculpture of a naked lady a while ago. Pip pip!

I also made that sculpture of a naked lady a while ago. Pip pip!

A quickie today: over the course of this make-cation, I have made lots of little illustrations. I’ve made some headway on couple portraits. I’ve made a million delicious meals (or like… 12 delicious meals. Whatevz.). I’ve made an effort to submit some freelance work (if/when it’s published, I’ll let you all know!) I made an extra salty pretzel out of myself in yoga EVERY SINGLE DAY, and I’m currently struggling to make a decision.



2:131 The Ultimate Make


I dare you to nurture something. Etam Cru Collective

It’s May and I’m making couple portraits  and raw brownies and tiny paintings on tiny canvasses with tiny easels and peanut butter banana granola and dents in all the freelance articles. I’m also making messes; I’m making discoveries, and today I’d like to make a point.

If you’ve been a longtime reader, you’ve sensed this year that something’s been up. And you’re right — we’re less than a third of the way into 2014 but I’ve tearfully started over — armed only with the unwanted wisdom one acquires through perpetually surviving those unrelenting cycles of frustration and defeat that we hapless humans usually stumble upon when we try to honor ourselves — over and over and over again. And sure, I’m a little bit pummeled and chewed up. My guts are bruised and fermenting fruit, missing lateral incisor-shaped chunks wherever the Universe has torn off a piece of me. I’ve spent more money on Anthropologie candles and Two Buck Chuck than is fitting for a person who has no money, and I’ve been violently oscillating between two character tropes: “girl who goes out all the time and subsists on attention and whiskey sodas” and “girl who sees only her roommate and her roommate’s cat and doesn’t own shampoo.”


Yet I can say, and every filament of my battered being will flutter in agreement, that this year has been invaluable.

The number one takeaway from all of my travails is this: I will be fine. And that, friends, is the foundation we all need to live, really live: to take risks; to give people the benefit of the doubt; to remain positive despite one’s tentative position as crap receptacle for the cosmos. Because I know that deep within my soft and rotten intestines, there hums resilience — I can take the sh*tty and continue to expect the extraordinary. I can trust myself to carry on, despite adversity, and so I can trust in the unknown. I can handle bad news — with expensive candles and cheap wine, maybe — but I can handle it, nonetheless.

And it’s in this way, this evermore fearless way, that I’m gradually making something of myself.



2:129 Maker’s May: That’s a Wrap

It’s May, Bishes.

But Rose, you say, it’s been May for over a week now…

Shhhh, Babygirl. Wrap that sh*t up.


As this humble tutorial marks my first appearance in the lustiest month, let me explain: certain inspiring pals of mine are using the alliterative, assonant relativity (am I an asshole or what?!) of “make” and “May” to… you guessed it… make stuff! Every day!

I used to make these chard “burritos” all the time. They’re super simple, easily customizable, and better for your bod than Chipotle. Plus they’re in keeping with my renewed efforts to eat mostly raw — margaritas are vegetables in my book, though, FYI — and sometimes a lady wants a salad she can hold in her hands. Below, proof that we CAN have it all:

1. Gather your burrito components like the little squirrelfriend you are. You’ll need a giant green leaf (chard or collards), something creamy (homemade guac or hummus or cashew cheese) and whatever fillings your tastebuds desire; hacked into bits or thinly sliced lengthwise to occupy the leaf-span of your wrap.

2. File down the veins of your chosen leaf (poetic, right?) so that you can roll it up like a tortilla without its snapping.

3. Time to assemble! Spread your creamy element of choice down the center of the leaf, then pile fillings on top, covering the length of your leaf in a light layer of yum.

4. This is the hard part: pretend it’s some origami sh*t. Fold the outer edges of your leaf (3 o’ clock and 9 o’ clock, yo) inwards, covering your fillings. Then roll that puppy up from top to bottom — voila a green baby burrito!

5. Slice and serve… with a side salad if you, like me, are a glutton for green.

Truth: I’m a little embarrassed that my first legitimate make of this month is a burrito. I’ve been way too social of a butterfly lately, you guys — the past several weeks have been a flurry of whiskey drinks (those are also vegetables), bachelorette parties, concerts (Angel Olsen and Wolfmother!), podcast tapings, new friends, internet friends who are now real friends, etc. etc. etc. Second truth: you know I got that social butterfly game, but in my heart of hearts, I’m more like one of those weird hairy caterpillars, and as such, I need to inch along artfully and be selective about how I spend my time with all the other bugs… at least for a little while. So…

I’m taking a brief make-cation! Like a staycation, but I’ll be making. And falling in love with writing again. And finishing some half-completed projects that I’ve left around the apartment to mock me. Also, I’ll be sleeping and farting around because THAT’S ALL PART OF MY ARTISTIC PROCESS, or so I tell myself.

Love you all! You’ll be hearing from me real soon!



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