thighs and offerings

Naked and Not Ashamed

2012-01-27T06:44:00.001-06:00

Fig Leaf, from Last Row

The following is a sermon by Lucy Waechter Webb, my dear friend and seminary classmate. Lucy is currently serving as Director of [Ohio State University] Campus Ministries at Summit on 16th United Methodist Church. When I asked if she would mind sharing this powerful proclamation, she agreed with a caveat: "that people read it with some 'tude in their voices." Give it a read, and I think you'll understand why. Enjoy! And thanks again, Luce!

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Genesis 2:20-25

The man gave names to all cattle, and to the birds of the air, and to every animal of the field; but for the man there was not found a helper as his partner. So the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall upon the man, and he slept; then he took one of his ribs and closed up its place with flesh. And the rib that the Lord God had taken from the man he made into a woman and brought her to the man. Then the man said, "This at last is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh;this one shall be called Woman, for out of Man this one was taken."Therefore a man leaves his father and his mother and clings to his wife, and they become one flesh. And the man and his wife were both naked, and were not ashamed.

Song of Songs 1

Colloquy of Bride and Friends

Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth!
For your love is better than wine,
your anointing oils are fragrant,
your name is perfume poured out;
therefore the maidens love you.
Draw me after you, let us make haste.
The king has brought me into his chambers.
We will exult and rejoice in you;
we will extol your love more than wine;
rightly do they love you.

I am black and beautiful,
O daughters of Jerusalem,
like the tents of Kedar,
like the curtains of Solomon.
Do not gaze at me because I am dark,
because the sun has gazed on me.
My mother’s sons were angry with me;
they made me keeper of the vineyards,
but my own vineyard I have not kept!
Tell me, you whom my soul loves,
where you pasture your flock,
where you make it lie down at noon;
for why should I be like one who is veiled
beside the flocks of your companions?

If you do not know,
O fairest among women,
follow the tracks of the flock,
and pasture your kids beside the shepherds’ tents.

Colloquy of Bridegroom, Friends, and Bride

I compare you, my love,
to a mare among Pharaoh’s chariots.
Your cheeks are comely with ornaments,
your neck with strings of jewels.
We will make you ornaments of gold,
studded with silver.

While the king was on his couch,
my nard gave forth its fragrance.
My beloved is to me a bag of myrrh
that lies between my breasts.
My beloved is to me a cluster of henna blossoms
in the vineyards of En-gedi.

Ah, you are beautiful, my love;
ah, you are beautiful;
your eyes are doves.
Ah, you are beautiful, my beloved,
truly lovely.

Our couch is green;
the beams of our house are cedar,
our rafters are pine.

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One of the ways I like to engage folks around me as a I prepare for a sermon is to ask about stories in their lives that relate to the mornings topic. And so when I asked for stories in which people’s bodies failed them, I heard a lot about bowels that were out-of-order. Those stories were funny and they are funny right because we all have experienced times in which our digestive systems speak for us without our permission. But I’ve decided to spare you this morning, and begin with a different story.

Many of you know last year I went to Atlanta with several of the college students from Summit, and while we were there we spent a couple days working on an urban farm. Well the first day we spent our time clearing a large area of brush to open a space where they would build their new chicken coop. What I didn’t realize until a couple of days later, was that I had pulled old brown ivy off of tall trees that were of the poison variety. Now I’ve had poison ivy before, but this was different. My entire body broke out, and for those of you who have also suffered from this allergy, you will know that it’s not just a rash, but that it excretes clear liquid that then dries kind of yellow and of course does itch.

So while we continued our week of service I sat at the Open Door Community, one of the intentional communities that serves the poor and imprisoned in Atlanta, and began asking questions about their house so that we might learn some things about how to build our own, next door. Now this was the worst day of my reaction, and I sat there blotting this pus from my face asking, "Tell us more about how you invite and choose new members to join as residents of your community." Literally soaking up the constant stream of seeping liquid from my face with rough paper towels. It was one of those moments where my body was going to do what my body was going to do, and regardless of what I might say, my body spoke first. And I, sadly, was ashamed. I was embarrassed that my body was misbehaving and getting in the way of what I was trying to accomplish.

Another story:This comes from Heidi Neumark in her book Breathing Space. She’s a pastor in the Bronx. She tells a story of embodiment at the communion table. She was up front at the table, in her white celebratory robe with a colorful stole, praying those familiar words of the great thanksgiving, proclaiming the gift and the abundance of life that communion promises us. Now her daughter was only four months old and still breastfeeding, and as she lifted the chalice, the floodgates opened. She looked down where her breastmilk had bled through her white robe and the colors of dye in that beautiful stole, and created an embarrassing mess of a rainbow on her front.

She writes, "This story will probably provide someone with one more argument against the ordination of women. To me, it’s a reminder that religion is not and should not be a disembodied affair." After all, our very own God came to us in the flesh, and we remember God’s flesh and blood at the very table where she was standing! And yet we remain ashamed.

Which is why we also tend to blush when we hear that familiar story of Eden. The one that affirms the goodness of creation and the goodness of our bodies. "They were naked and unashamed."

The two stories that I’ve shared with you this morning, and yes even all those stories of I didn’t share about our unbridled digestive systems, tell us that we all too often are ashamed and embarrassed. Our bodies interfere with our own lives, they remind us of things we’d rather not think about, and their unpredictability makes us uneasy. They do tend to speak first for us, whether we like it or not.

This month at Summit we have been working with the theme of sexuality and spirituality, because though we are a church that has openly welcomed and affirmed non-straight folk for a long time, we realize that the church (the large Church including ours) has not done well to speak about all of our sexualities. In fact, many say that the church’s homophobia is really just a scapegoat for the reality that we are erotiphobic, scared to talk about sexuality at all. And so we focus on those who are different - or "queer."

And in the last two weeks of worship we have touched on two very different ends of a spectrum. The first was an affirmation of the beauty and goodness of relationship. It was a celebration of the gift of intimacy. And then last week, we recognized that despite the gift of relationship and the goodness of intimacy, we are a broken people and often get it very wrong.

So if we are, on the one hand, afraid to talk as people of faith, about sexuality at all, and if we often are getting it wrong and hurting one another, then I can’t help but begin to ask, why? What is it that takes us to these warped places where we mix up what relationship and sex is all about?

I believe it is because we are ashamed. It seems to me that at the very root, if we can dig down deeply enough, our fear is often connected to our own bodies. And our shame about them. Now just like a tree has many roots, so do our problems with sexuality. I’m not suggesting this is the only root cause. But we fail all too often to see its impact on our lives because we think it’s just our body. It’s just this collection of cells and water and blood and it doesn’t really influence the important things in life.

And if we talk about them at all, we usually talk about them negatively. I realized that again this week at the Tuesday night bible study. I had two questions prepared that I could have asked to prompt conversation. The first was, "Name one or two things that you would change about your body if you could." A question we’ve heard before. A question we’ve answered before. But I didn’t want to go there; no, that was too negative right of the bat. So instead, I asked about how or when people become aware of their body since often we tend to ignore it. And all of the answers were negative, or dealt with pain, or aging, or weight and not fitting others expectations about beauty. And all of that’s true, our bodies are awkward and weird. They don’t reflect the images we see about what a perfect specimen looks like.

We might have large pimples, or deep bruises. We get greasy and dirty and smelly. Sometimes our feet feel too big or our nose too wide or our lips too small, our teeth are not straight or bright white. There are countless reasons. We might feel like we’re too short, too large, not shapely, or strong enough. We might have a part of our body that has been damaged or scarred, our skin might be too dark or too pale, our hair too dull or curly or there might not be much hair left! Our bodies are imperfect, or as some call them, "queer." The definition of queer is "strange or odd from a conventional point of view." And so we cover up. And we hide, and attempt to control those bodies that speak without our permission.

This morning we all can learn from the woman in Song of Songs. For as she beckons to her beloved, she is not remotely sorry for the reality of her body. She boasts of a lot of things throughout the book, but perhaps her most famous line is in verse 5, I am Black and Beautiful.

Now there has debate about whether the Hebrew is dark, tanned, swarthy, or weathered, but the word is only used a couple of times in Hebrew Scriptures and it is always to describe the color black. It is also the first word in the sentence, indicating its emphasis. You might read it, “Black am I…” Not only that, but she goes on to compare her complexion to the tents of Kedar (a tribe whose tents were a symbol of their name, which means darkness) and the curtains of Solomon (who was of course a king). Both connect her blackness to people of distinction and nobility. She pooh-poohs the standards that her community has set for beauty, and confidently speaks about her own body. About the queerness of it.

And so the task for us is that we must reconcile ourselves to our own bodies, recognizing the imperfections and the beauty and pleasure our bodies offer us. And that is a hard thing do. To cast aside our notions of beauty that have been ridiculously sketched in our collective imaginations. The ones that make it to the billboards and the movies and the cheerleading team. This week I read an interesting piece of research on a blog about the social networking site, Facebook. There is a study that suggests that “it may skew the way users perceive their own lives….those carefully selected photos of cheerful, contented people cumulatively convey a self-esteem-shattering message: Our lives are fantastic! What’s wrong with you?”

I love this commentary because it speaks about not only the pursuit of perfection for our bodies, but of perfection for our whole lives. I use Facebook and I love reading blogs, but they do allow us to Photoshop our lives so that we might not only hide or cover up the imperfections of our bodies, but also edit our imperfect, different and queer lives. We all do it. Whether we’re on Facebook or not. And we do it because we are afraid, ashamed. We know, we know too well, the pain that we spoke about last week. And we won’t let ourselves go there again. It’s easier to be isolated and alone and protected than it is to risk the hurt.

The problem is that when we do that, we rob ourselves of that heart swelling joy, the embodied joy that can only come when we open ourselves up intimately with one another. Remember…we are created in God’s image, and God said it was good. And God is relationship in the Trinity. We are created for intimacy, both sexual and otherwise. And if we say we believe in sin, that means we are going to get it wrong. We will not be perfect. And our relationships will include pain. But - and as my seminary professor used to say, listen for the gospel when you hear the word "but" - but, even though it will sometimes be painful, it will eventually be freedom. Freedom from the ways in which we bind ourselves because of our shame, and freedom from the judgments that other impose upon us.

One writer talks about living this way as living emotionally naked. She uses this morning’s text from the garden about living naked and unashamed and says we clothe our lives and our emotions just as we cover our bodies. And she recognizes that the ways in which we are ashamed about our bodies are always going to be connected to how we are ashamed about emotional selves. We cannot separate our spirit from our body. Whether we find ourselves in romantic relationships or as single folk, we are all emotionally connected in community together. And so living emotionally naked matters. She ends with a helpful reminder (for those of you getting anxious about being emotionally naked): just like in a romantic relationship, you don’t have to get naked right away. Just take off your hat. Kick off your boots. Let us see your eyes, and your frumpled, maybe greasy hair, and your beautiful face.

We must do this with one another. We must speak about our queerness, our imperfections, and we must speak about our beauty. And friends we must do it early for our children. Dr. King spoke about the time he had to tell his daughter that she was not allowed to go to Funland, the amusement park in Atlanta, because it was only for white children. He said, “One of the most painful experiences I have ever faced was to see her tears when I told her Funtown was closed to colored children, for I realized the first dark cloud of inferiority had floated into her little mental sky.”

This morning, my seminary professor was wrong, the gospel is also in the “and.” Because God created them naked and unashamed.

Brothers and Sisters, you are imperfect and beautiful.
Your nose bumpy and beautiful.

Your teeth crooked and beautiful.
You are short and beautiful.
You are bald and beautiful.
You are wide and beautiful.
You are scarred and beautiful.
We are all queer and beautiful.
You are black and beautiful.

Amen?

Amen.

Link Love

2012-01-21T09:26:00.000-06:00

Some lovely and empowering words of wisdom from mothers to mothers, and I think from women to women:

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This piece is lovely. The author conveys so much gentleness towards herself, so much forgiveness and understanding, and I think it makes sense for those who aren't mothers, as well. Do we all put too much pressure on ourselves to "carpe diem" every diem instead of recognizing that, some days, it's quite a feat not to roll over and play dead?

http://momastery.com/blog/2012/01/04/2011-lesson-2-dont-carpe-diem/

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Me, a long time ago

Here, well...get ready. Dan and I find out if we're having a boy or a girl on February 1st. I really don't care, and by that I mean I will be thrilled to know we're having a boy or a girl as long as he or she is healthy. (See the final video for more on this.) But I'd be lying if I told you that I wasn't at least a little bit terrified of having a little girl who might, one day, have to experience even a moment of what her mama did, of self-criticism and self-punishment and, ultimately, giving into a mean, judgmental world. The author in the story below handles this with creativity and grace. And it had me weeping.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janell-burley-hofmann/girls-and-body-image_b_1204882.html

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And finally, I'm aware this might be happening (see above), but at least I can laugh about it, right?

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Thanks to the friends and bloggers who shared these little gems with me. What did I miss? What articles and/or videos have made you think, laugh, or cry lately?

It's Funny Because It's True

2012-01-11T17:35:00.000-06:00

Fotoshop by Adobé from Jesse Rosten on Vimeo.

And just so you know, according to Jesse, "This commercial isn't real, and neither are society's standards of beauty." Bam.

Listening to a Changing Body

2012-01-08T17:48:00.005-06:00

Image from Maternity & Style

I remember, back when I was consumed by bulimia, reading or hearing people say in books or on blogs or at OA meetings that being sick - having the flu or a cold or another form of the funk - was actually good for them. Those moments, they would say, those days of being under the weather were the only times that they were really able to take care of themselves, to listen to their bodies and feed themselves. I remember one woman in particular, normally an anxious woman who also struggled with bulimia, talking about making herself soup and then sitting down to eat her soup and then resting. She said that she didn't have energy for anything else, but in that lack - that inability to do more than the bare minimum - she found self care.

I never really got that. Even when I was sick, and maybe especially when I was sick, I gave myself permission to eat foods that were not wholesome, not healing, but that, I swore to myself and the world, made me feel better. I'm sick, I would rationalize, so I should eat "what I want," "what I want" usually consisting of sugar, butter, and oftentimes battered and fried. And then, because my guilt and anxiety also withstood even my most phlegm-filled days, I would purge, further inflaming a scratchy throat, further agitating an upset system.

But I do remember thinking that such wouldn't be the case when I was pregnant. When I was pregnant, I silently swore, I would really listen to my body. I would eat things that actually made me feel better, that were good for me and good for my baby. I would fill my plate with broccoli and kale, brown rice and barley. I envisioned myself to be like the lovely earth mothers on the covers of Fit Pregnancy and Yoga Journal, dressed in flowing white linen as I turned up my nose at butter and sugar and rubbed my sweet, round baby bump.

And then I got better. And I started eating things like broccoli and kale and brown rice and barley in addition to butter and sugar. I started listening to my body. I felt really good. I thought I had it pretty well figured out.

And then I got pregnant. And the mere mention of kale sent me sprinting to the bathroom. I wanted to listen to my body. I wanted to feed my baby! But here's the thing, I was listening to my body. And my body? My body had an unprecedented amount of hormones surging through its system. My body had its senses of smell and taste jacked up into to high gear. My body was wore slap out. It was begging for rest, for water, and, interestingly enough, for barbeque kettle chips. And meat. And peanut butter.

It was tempting for me to get down on myself, and more than once, it happened. People talk about mother guilt, the seemingly ubiquitous feeling that mothers have about not being able to give more of themselves, about not being able to better prepare their children or more completely protect them. I did not expect myself to be immune from mother guilt, but I expected it to be a postpartum phenomenon. And yet, here I was, inhaling salt with a side of steak. I'm no doctor, but it didn't seem to be the ideal diet for growing a little person.

A friend of mine told me that, during the first trimester, the body's modus operandi is survival. "You gotta do what you gotta do," she said. And so I did. And with some friendly reminders to practice what I preach - that is, kindness, acceptance, and moderation - I made it through those first weeks and months, and according to the experts, my little avocado is no worse for the wear.

So, lesson number one of this wild ride we're calling pregnancy? Listening to my body involves far more mindfulness and grace than, well, than the covers of Fit Pregnancy and Yoga Journal suggest. It's surprising, it's impermanent and shifting, it's still hard, but now more than ever, it's worth it. Mother guilt be damned.

Allow Me to Explain

2012-01-02T11:19:00.000-06:00

"Grass" by Ian T. McFarland

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? . . . I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrance designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child . . . the produced babe of the vegetation.

From "A child said, What is the grass?" by Walt Whitman

Beautiful poem, isn't it? But why, you ask, is it significant? How does it even begin to explain my extended absence from the blog world, my preoccupied mind and my ecstatic spirit, my heart that might still be floating amidst the clouds?

Well, this happened to be one of our Christmas presents:

Photo courtesy of Poets.org.

Not the baby. The onesie. The baby is not due to arrive until June 23, 2012. That's right...I'm pregnant! Dan and I are expecting our first little addition to the Morris clan! We are, obviously, thrilled, and I look forward to sharing my experiences with all of you here at Thighs and Offerings. I have a funny feeling that pregnancy and motherhood are going to give a new meaning to both of those things.

Happy New Year, friends. And cheers - the sparkling white grape juice kind - to a 2012 full of beauty, kindness, and growth.

Big, Broad Love

2011-10-30T18:53:00.000-05:00

Image by The Beautiful Mess

Several weeks ago, I officiated my sister's wedding. In short, it was perfect. Anne was stunning. Her husband, Lee, was beside himself. The band was out of this world, the food was [gloriously southern and] absolutely delicious, and we could not have ordered up better weather. My family and I found ourselves surrounded, once more, by a community of people whom we love so dearly.

For someone who is not currently serving a church, I have officiated my fair share of weddings. But this wedding was, as you might imagine, much different. Anne asked to me to fill the roles of both matron of honor and officiant. As such, I helped the beautiful bride get into her shoes, and I did sound checks. I walked down the aisle in an elegant blue bridesmaid dress, and when I reached the front of the church, I was helped into my clerical robe. I spoke Anne and Lee into marriage that evening, and then I danced with clumsy enthusiasm long into the night.

Without question, it was an honor to play such an integral part in my ~~only~~ favorite sister's wedding. It was also an enormous, anxiety producing, and downright scary responsibility. Never before had I been entrusted with the performance of a sacred act in front of so many people - two hundred and fifty-five people - whom I knew and whose opinions mattered to me. Did I hit it out of the park? I suppose, even if I did, I wouldn't let myself believe it. But did I receive words of praise and gratitude? Yes. All night long. From my sister and brother-in-law and the great majority of their two hundred and fifty-five guests. I was told what a special, memorable thing it was that I officiated. I was reminded what an amazing gift it is to have the relationship with Anne that I do. And I was thanked for my stories - from childhood to the present - that allowed those present to better know the precious couple in whose honor they gathered.

What I was most unprepared for, however, and what I heard quite a lot, was that people were proud of me. And not just the people who have always been proud of me - my grandmother and my parents and my in-laws and my sweet husband - but also friends of my parents, tailgating buddies, and neighbors who have known me since the age of nine, when we moved to Greenville, and who haven't really known me since the age of eighteen. One young woman introduced herself to me as a coworker of my sister's and a faithful blog reader. She told me that she was so happy to be able to attend the wedding and that she adored my sister. She told me that the experiences I have shared here on Thighs and Offerings resonated with many of her own experiences. And then she told me that, seeing me officiate that day, she was proud of me.

I'm not sure why, but her words seemed somehow misplaced or incongruous. And not because I didn't appreciate them or find them incredibly gracious and kind. I did. Her honest and vulnerable confession brought tears to my eyes. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that, at least in my experiences thus far, those people who have been proud of me have been people who have been older than me, people who have had a direct impact on and usually a stake in my success. They have been people who could honestly say that they "knew me when..." This young woman, though lovely, seemed to be none of these things.

As part of their wedding service, Anne and Lee chose to include an excerpt of a poem by T.S. Eliot, called "Little Gidding."

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.

Quick now, here, now, always —
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well

When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

It made sense for a lot of reasons, not the least of which being that Anne and Lee have known each other since the sixth grade, since the age of eleven. By way of explanation, I wrote:

“Little Gidding,” was written during the Second World War. In the stanzas that precede the one read, Eliot explores evil and sadness and death that were undoubtedly part of his wartime life. He calls it “the fire.” We live in fire, he says in so many words, the fire of fear and destruction. But being human, we also hope for the fire, the fire of purification, of refinement, and of love. We hope that out of the ashes might also come something beautiful, something like love.

In the stanzas read today, Eliot talks about this hope of love that transcends and unifies time. If we hope for love in the future, we know it in the present, regardless of what is going on around us. And if we hope for love in the future and know it in the present, than we necessarily trust that it was there – we remember that it was there – in the past. Perhaps fear and sadness and death are there, too. Most probably they are. But stronger and more pervasive is love.

To be sure, Anne and Lee have a lot of love, for each other and for their families and friends and really and truly for the world. It was only to be expected, then, that there would be a lot of love at their wedding, love that extended beyond the two of them. I certainly felt it, and I am convinced that the others in attendance felt it too. In fact, I've since become quite convinced that it was this - this big, broad feeling of love that has the potential to extend beyond one's spouse or family or immediate community - that led everyone to tell me that they were proud of me. Being in the presence of so much love - and, I guess, recognizing that that atmosphere had been augmented in small part by me - that's what they were happy about, grateful for, and proud of.

What's more, and in some ways, even more amazing, is that I've felt that same big, broad love here. It's strange, isn't it? That this group of us, many of whom remain anonymous, join together at such a tiny place in the blogosphere to, albeit briefly, think and feel and hope and love. It doesn't make sense, necessarily, and it doesn't fit into preconceived notions I or you may have had about how relationship works, but it relationship nonetheless, relationship that has enriched my life and changed the way I go about living.

I feel so blessed to have met the young woman who spoke to me that lovely night several weeks ago, and while I'm happy to have her pride, I'm beyond grateful to have her - and your - love.

Take the Body Warrior Pledge

2011-10-04T07:57:00.002-05:00

Image by Kyla Hollis

Y'all remember Rosie, don't you? Of course you do. Well, over on her blog right now, she's calling for a "conscious commitment" to body love and acceptance. Wednesday, October 19th is Love Your Body Day, and in recognition and promotion of that cause, she is encouraging as many women as possible to sign and commit to living out the Body Warrior Pledge, found below.

Then, on October 20th, Rosie will draw general prize winners (Byoo-tee tees, a copy of Molly Barker’s Lit from Within, a journal, copies of Voces Latinas, Hijas Americanas, and Beautiful You) and a grand prize winner.The grand prize will give one blog winner the opportunity to experience one month of coaching with Amanda Page, MFA and Trained Professional Co-active Coach, which includes one hour long Discovery Session and three half hour coaching calls to be scheduled over the course of one month. "With this prize," says Rosie, "you’ll be able to get clear on what you want and what actions you need to take, you’ll be held accountable, and you'll really know your values and what it’s like to live a life aligned with them." That, my friends, is a $400 value.

So, friends, need I say more? Jump on over to Rosie's blog and sign the pledge today! Then, spread the love by sending the link to all of your friends and family, mothers, daughters, classmates, and colleagues.

THE BODY WARRIOR PLEDGE

Because I understand that my love and respect for my body are metaphors of my love and respect for my self and soul, I pledge to do the following:

To stop berating my body and to begin celebrating the vessel that I have been given. I will remember the amazing things my body has given me: the ability to experience the world with a breadth of senses, the ability to perceive and express love, the ability to comfort and soothe, and the ability to fight, provide, and care for humanity.

To understand that my body is an opportunity not a scapegoat.

To be the primary source of my confidence. I will not rely on or wait for others to define my worth.

To let envy dissipate and allow admiration to be a source of compassion by offering compliments to others.

To gently but firmly stand up for myself when someone says to me (or I say to myself) something harmful.

To change the inner-monologue in my head to one that sees possibility not problems, potential not shortcomings, blessings not imperfections.

To give my body the things that it needs to do its work well: plenty of water, ample movement, stretches, rest, and good nutrition, and to limit or eliminate the things that do not nurture my body.

To see exercise as a way to improve my internal health and strength instead of a way to fight or control my body.

To understand that my weight is not good or bad. It is just a number, and I am only good.

To love my body and my self today. I do not have to weigh ten pounds less, have longer hair, or to have my degree in my hand to have worth. I have worth just as I am, and I embrace that power.

To recognize my body’s strengths.

To no longer put off the things that I wish to experience because I am waiting to do them in a different body.

To understand that a body, just like a personality, is like a fingerprint: a wonderful embodiment of my uniqueness.

Isn't that something? Talk about revolutionary! And just as an added bonus, leave a comment here letting me know that you signed the pledge there, and you'll be entered in yet another drawing for a signed copy of Beautiful You. Amazing!

From Your Most Common Words

2011-09-23T06:02:00.003-05:00

Image by AEPOC

SAINTS BOWING IN THE MOUNTAINS

Do you know how beautiful you are?

I think not, my dear.

For as you talk of God,
I see great parades with wildly colorful bands
Streaming from your mind and heart,
Carrying wonderful and secret messages
To every corner of this world.

I see saints bowing in the mountains
Hundreds of miles away
To the wonder of sounds
That break into light
From your most common words.

Speak to me of your mother,
Your cousins and your friends.

Tell me of squirrels and birds you know.
Awaken your legion of nightingales -
Let them soar wild and free in the sky.

And begin to sing to God.
Let's all begin to sing to God!

Do you know how beautiful you are?

I think not, my dear,

Yet Hafiz
Could set you upon a Stage
And worship you forever!

From: "I Heard God Laughing - Renderings of Hafiz"
Translated by Daniel Ladinsky

The Bouncer of the Brain

2011-09-11T12:55:00.015-05:00

Last Sunday, on her radio show "On Being," Krista Tippett interviewed Sherry Turkle, founder and director of the "MIT Initiative on Technology and Self." Turkle made waves with her book Alone Together : Why We Expect More from Technology and Less from Each Other, which was heralded as a call to "unplug" from our gadgets. "But," said Tippett by way of introduction, "I hear Turkle saying something more thought-provoking: that we can lead examined lives with our technology." Tippett continues, "[I hear her saying] that each of us, in our everyday interactions, can choose between letting technology shape us and shaping it towards human purposes, even towards honoring what we hold dear."

It's a fascinating interview, and I recommend listening to it in its entirety. But for my purposes, today, I want to share one back-and-forth that struck me as particularly insightful. Prior to the segment that follows, Tippett shared the palpable increase in stress that she experiences when trying to manage her email. "I am obsessive about staying on top of [it]," she says. "I can't do Facebook. It makes me nervous. Are there other people like me out there?"

Ms. Turkle: Oh, absolutely. Actually, your email is making you nervous and you're going to probably extreme lengths to deal with that anxiety by spending a great deal of time attending to it so that it won't make you too anxious to function, to managing it. I mean, I say I do my email three times a day. That's a lot of hours because...[y]ou know, I can get 600 or 700 a day. Those people — I will confess to your listeners — those 700 messages, those people really don't need to write me. You know, they want to. These are just people who have access to me because I have a public email and who have something to say to me and this is how the system works now.

Ms. Tippett: They don't all need to write to you and you don't need to feel beholden.

Ms. Turkle: Guilty.

Ms. Tippett: Right, but that's a hard thing. So this is making me think. I recently had a conversation with Anthony Appiah, whom I think you've quoted, a philosopher. He talked about one of the things that technology has done is it's taken away the role of the editor. I mean, he was talking about how we send our opinions out into the world now and that there used to be this editorial function which meant a pause and it meant thinking and it meant that there wasn't so much raw emotion that things got edited.

I'm thinking about what you said at the beginning that we're in the baby, we're in the infancy stages of this technology. I'm wondering if part of this move that you are advocating, of us becoming self-aware about using — shaping technology to serve human purposes, is that we hopefully gradually will become our own editors in terms of we won't necessarily write that nonessential email or answer that nonessential email. Is that part of the process we're in?

Ms. Turkle: Absolutely, absolutely. We're in between worlds now. I still treat email to me as though it were considered correspondence. And I feel as though I have a responsibility to answer my correspondence. But I think that as we become more sophisticated, we'll adopt a more humane set of rules, where we will adapt better to — well, first of all, one thing we'll do is that people won't expect instant answers. I don't know how it is for you, but if I don't respond to an email really within a few hours, people get angry at me. They'll say things like, "Don't you read your email?"

I love that - the idea that we become our own editors. It feels empowering, even freeing, which is odd, seeing as we'd essentially be taking on an additional role. The idea, though, gives us - gives me - control over my interactions and the ways in which I spend my time. It encourages me to, with thoughtfulness and intention, decide. Who do I need to see today? With whom do I need to communicate? It strikes me that, being the editor, I'd have very little about which to complain. If I have a lot of people to email, well, it's because I chose to email all of those people. And if I have a lot to write, it's because I chose to write so much.

Starting in August, I've been trying to allow myself half an hour or so each morning to meditate. I've been using the Chopra Center's 21-day Meditation Challenge as my guide, with mixed results. Several days ago, the center sent out a "Gratitude Meditation." It was meant to be their culminating meditation, but since I am a little behind, it served more as a mid-way reprieve or consideration. At the end of the session, the Chopra Center's Lead Educator and guide for this particular meditation, David Ji, asked us to think about all of the people who we would consider our backers. "Who is out there," he asked, "rooting for you?" "Who are your champions?" And then, quite specifically, as if he were probing the nooks and crannies of my brain, suddenly riding the crazy tidal waves of my thoughts, he said, "Don't think about your critics."

Thud.

Not two seconds earlier, in response to Buddha Master Ji's request to think about my supporters, my less-than-tranquil meditative inner monologue had sounded something like this: Dan, yep, Dan. Gosh, I'm lucky to have him. But he probably thinks I'm a little crazy deep down. And there's my family. Yeah, they support me. But they definitely think I'm crazy. Why am I so crazy? And I have friends. Sure, yeah, friends. But what about so-and-so? She definitely doesn't like me. Too bad. And then there's so-and-so. I wish I could be more like so-and-so. And so [and so] it went.

Then, just like that, Mr. Ji gave me an option. He allowed me to choose power, or reminded me of the power that I already chosen. He gave me the opportunity to be my own editor, not necessarily of the emails that are filling up inbox or of the sermon that sits unrefined on my desktop but rather of the thoughts and feelings and messages that are claiming space in my heart and mind. He bestowed upon me the ability to, this time and every time, decide what I see, what I hear, and what I believe.

Having been given that choice, then, I decided against my critics. And against making my supporters into my critics. I decided to give my supporters - and, more to the point, me - the benefit of the doubt. I decided to let them speak and to believe them when they said that they support me, that they back me, that they love me. I decided.

You know the scene with the bouncer in the movie "Knocked Up?" The scene in which Alison and her sister, Debbie, go to the club and get held up at the door? Debbie responds, "You know what, you may have power now but you are not god. You're a doorman, okay. You're a doorman, doorman, doorman, doorman, doorman, so..." The bouncer, played by the very funny Craig Robinson, says, bluntly, "You old, she pregnant. Can't have a bunch of old pregnant bitches running around. That's crazy." Scene.

So, from now on, that's me. And well, shoot, maybe that's mindfulness. "The bouncer of the brain." What do you think? The depths of my consciousness includes some primo real estate, you see, and not just any old hoo daddy gets couch time.

Lifting the Funk: A [Wordy] List

2011-09-05T11:04:00.011-05:00

Image from Recovering Yogi

As I've shared with many of you personally - and as the rest of you have probably deduced from my infrequent, morose posting - I seem to be in a bit of a funk lately. Nothing serious, just low on the creativity, productivity (I know!), and want-to-get-out-of-bed-to-do-anything-other-than-eat-cookies scales. (Wait, is that serious? I'm okay. I swear.) A long weekend was just what I needed. I had a list of things to do and not to do that I am happy to report I have accomplished and not accomplished, respectively. Who knows whether or not the fog has actually lifted, or for how long, but suffice it to say that today, at least, I feel better.

So what, you're undoubtedly wondering, was on that list? I'm so glad you asked.

1. ~~Sloth~~ Rest

Dan has been out of town this weekend, eating and drinking and carrying on in warm, sunny, southern California. (But really, I am happy for him. No, really.) And though it's almost embarrassing to admit (ironic, I know), I have capitalized on my bachelorette-hood by, since Friday, getting in bed to read at [husband, hide your eyes] 8:30pm. I'm not sure it's even dark at 8:30pm, but dang it, I've been tired. And so shortly after dinner, as toddlers the world over are only beginning to brush their teeth, the pup and I [husband, hide your eyes] crawl into bed. And sleep until - oh, cut me some slack - 6:30 or 7am.

2. Rent a Chick Flick

Image from Wikipedia

No one has ever accused me of being a film snob. In fact, sometimes I judge people who call them "films" in the first place - just a heads up. Sure, I like movies that make me think or that present a particularly intriguing dilemma, but if I'm honest, I like a good chick flick even more. Something that might, oh I don't know, make me laugh, make me cry. You're no doubt familiar with the drill. So this weekend, in addition to "The Switch," which I actually don't recommend, I watched "You've Got Mail" and several episodes of "Rookie Blue." And now you're judging me, but I'm okay with it. Need some inspiration? Check out "O Magazine's" list of the 50 greatest here.

3. Read a Good Book

On my nightstand is East of Eden. On my Kindle are Ape House and Cutting for Stone. I know, they're lovely, and I promise you, I'll get to them. But the book I've been unable to put down this weekend (clearly an exaggeration, as #1 and #2 can attest) is Yoga Bitch: One Woman's Quest to Conquer Skepticism, Cynicism, and Cigarettes on the Path to Enlightenment by Suzanne Morrison. It's perfect. Need proof? About her two month yoga training in Bali, Morrison writes:

Here's the thing about yoga: people are farting all the time.

I'm not a squeamish person, not at all... But that doesn't mean I enjoy hanging out and farting with a bunch of people I don't know. Generally speaking, I think farting is something to be enjoyed on your own time, in the privacy of your own home, especially if you've been on a diet of greens, rice, and soy for a week or more.

But the problem is - farts are funny. So I simply can't keep it together when my placid-faced yogamates start honking at each other like Genesha the elephant god.

Now that's funny. Of course, there's more (about three pages more, in fact, on the subject of farting alone) but you'll have to buy the book if you want to read it. Here's the trailer:

4. Create Something (Culinary, or Otherwise)

If you're just joining us here on Thighs and Offerings, first, welcome! Second, I have issues with food. Now that we've got that out of the way...

Simply put, I feel better when I eat better. And I eat better when I cook. It doesn't matter what it is, really. Last night, I roasted a butternut squash, a simple culinary undertaking and especially delightful when paired with a Miller Light and a grilled cheese à la Dan (read: butter all up on it). Today, I made these:

Picture by Mama Pea

That's your standard Peanut Butter Cookie Dough Ball, friends. And while I know vegan does not necessarily equate to healthy, it sort of does in my head. And anyway, it doesn't even matter, because they're fan-freaking-tastic. Get thee to Peas and Thank You stat. Or somewhere else, I guess. As long as the end result has you sifting and stirring and peeking through the oven door like you did when you were six, it'll take. Bonus points for proposing marriage to cookbook authors.

5. Cut and Paste

You'll notice some striking similarities here to the previous entry, but basically, it's about getting your hands dirty and creating something other than worst-case scenarios and nervous tics. Something beautiful or interesting or amusing or fun. My small weekend project? A vision board of sorts to doll up the front cover of my black [Moleskin, duh] journal. Take a peek:

Nail polish? Why yes, yes it is. I call it "Batshit Crazy Red."

I love it! It took me less than half an hour (not counting the arduous, labor-intensive task of looking through magazines like Bust and Real Simple) and makes me feel strangely, maybe even excessively pleased with myself. Hey, whatever works.

6. Get Outside

I am acutely aware that, it being September and all, winter is near. It is but a puppy, people, cute and cuddly and biding its time before taking the world - or at least Iowa - by storm, all big and bad and Beast-like. (Remember "The Sandlot?" Yeah, that Beast.) But this weekend? This weekend may have made it worth the pain and suffering, the weeping and gnashing of teeth. Does that mean that I won't complain this winter, ever aware of the gift that was the long weekend in September? Of course it doesn't. I'm just saying, it was nice.

It's okay to be a little jealous. Usually, I'm jealous of you, meteorologically-speaking.

I'm a Vitamin D junkie. (Really, several winters ago, my mother-in-law ~~threatened~~ offered to buy me a sunlamp. My mother in law lives in Vermont, which means that a) times got so desperate that Dan reported to his mother, and b) she is a champ when it comes to the weather. But a champ with a lot of sympathy for her daughter-in-law. Or son, I suppose.) A 2010 Harvard Health Letter reads, "Epidemiological studies suggest that Vitamin D may have protective effects against everything from osteoporosis to cancer to depression to heart attacks and stroke." And all it takes is being in the sun for 10 to 15 minutes with exposed arms and/or legs. (There are many college-aged men and women in Cedar Falls who must be very, very happy and cancer free.)

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Now it's your turn. What do you do when you're in a funk? To what tried and true remedies - healthy or unhealthy, productive or unproductive - do you turn? (And in case it continues, anyone up for a guest post?)

Uneventful and Stark

2011-08-30T16:37:00.006-05:00

Photography by Hani Amir

...the future enters into us...in order to transform itself in us long before it happens. And this is why it is so important to be lonely and attentive when one is sad: because the apparently uneventful and stark moment at which our future sets foot in us is so much closer to life than that other noisy and fortuitous point of time at which it happens to us as if from outside. The more still, more patient and more open we are when we are sad, so much the deeper and so much the more unswervingly does the new go into us, so much the better do we make it ours, so much the more will it be our destiny, and when on some later day it "happens" (that is, steps forth out of us to others), we shall feel in our inmost selves akin and near to it. And that is necessary. It is necessary - and toward this our development will move gradually - that nothing strange should befall us, but only that which has long belonged to us. We have...to realize that that which we call destiny goes forth from within people, not from without into them.

Rainer Maria Rilke, from Letters to a Young Poet,
translation by M. D. Herter Norton

Remind Me Again

2011-08-28T18:17:00.002-05:00

Image from Quotable Cards

Some Sort of Peace

2011-08-16T05:15:00.001-05:00

Samson: "in the moment" in my aunts' meditation room

Previously posted on
RosieMolinary.com.

"There are times when you have to light one fire to put out another," writes author, scientist, professor of medicine, and meditation teacher Jon Kabat-Zinn in his book Full Catastrophe Living: Using the Wisdom of Your Body and Mind to Face Stress, Pain, and Illness. As proof of this point, Kabat-Zinn refers to the thirty plus years of clinical experience with more than 19,000 people who have completed his eight-week mindfulness-based stress reduction (MBSR) program a the University of Massachusetts Medical Center, an intensive training that asks participants to draw on their inner resources and natural capacity to actively engage in caring for themselves and finding greater balance, ease, and peace of mind. "The way we put it," he says, "is that it can be stressful to take the Stress Reduction Program."

On Monday, I had my inaugural appointment with a new counselor, whom we will call Jon. Jon wore sandals and a Hawaiian shirt, which, when considered alongside his longish grey hair and the Lauren Hutton-esque gap in his teeth, made him, to me, absolutely approachable. Jon asked me about my family, my history, and my habits, and slowly pieced together the picture I presented, a picture that lately has included a seemingly significant share of stress, anxiety, and pain. "What is it you want to get out of our sessions," he asked me. I hate this question. Ever the people pleaser, I wanted to say, "I don't know. What do you want me to get out of our sessions?" Or even, "What do you want to get out of these sessions," as though counseling were really a philanthropic endeavor on my part. Good for me.

What I did say, however, was, "I don't know. Some sort of peace, I guess." (I pretty much bring down the house in my counseling sessions, as you can undoubtedly tell. Stop me if I become too wild for you.) He repeated my answer, making it sound even less refined than it already did. "Some sort of peace," he said, slowly, as if allowing it to take up residence on his tongue would give him some insight as to how to proceed next with his crazy loon of a client. "Sooome sooort of peeeace."

But then he began talking, the trait I love most of all in counselors. I've had counselors that used phrases like, "Well what do you think?" and the ever classic, "How does that make you feel?" And certainly, there's a place for that. But I like a session to feel like a conversation, like a give and take of pertinent information made all the more pertinent by the fact that one party is a trained professional to whom the other party has come specifically for help.

Jon said, "Have you heard the phrase 'practicing peace?'" "Sure," I said, convinced that I'd read a book or two by that title. "Then you understand that peace isn't a destination or a mindset that one achieves," he said. "Peace is something you have to work at, something you have to do, something you have to practice." Jon explained that, in that way, peace is similar to meditation, to the practice of mindfulness. Describing meditation, Kabat-Zinn writes, "It takes a great deal of energy and effort to regulate your attention and remain genuinely calm and nonreactive." Likewise with peace.

I remember the semester that I stayed home from college, the first semester of my senior year, when everything got too bad and too hard to stay at Davidson. I remember my counselor, Sandy. She encouraged me - gaunt, frazzled, and still wanting desperately to succeed, to be, if not a good college student, then at least a good patient of therapy - to stop doing altogether. I remember her asking, "What do you know about being?" And while I wracked my mind for the appropriate philosophical reference, she explained that, no, she meant "being" as opposed to "doing." She meant sitting quietly, walking slowly, observing, listening, tasting and feeling.

I remember my father asking what I had learned in my sessions, what I had decided or changed. "What are we doing," he'd ask, "to get you better? What's on the agenda?" Like me, he was comfortable with and even needy for tasks, for boxes to check to prove that my health was improving, or at least that I was moving in the right direction. Sandy insisted that movement wasn't the point.

Jon, though, and Kabat-Zinn, too, seem to say that there might be a happy medium between the two ideologies, if we can call them that. That there might be a way of being that is active while also being contemplative, that is progressive while also being still. Jon said, and I quote, "You have to do 'be' before you can be 'be.'" And folks, that's why he gets paid the big bucks. What I think he meant is that peace, stillness, and mindfulness take practice before one can expect them to come naturally. "It's all about being in the moment," he said, "every moment you can."

"Do you have a pet?" Jon asked rather randomly towards the end of our session. "Yes," I told him, "I do." "His name is Samson." "What does your dog do?" he asked. "What do you mean?" I asked, understandably I think. "I'll tell you," he said. "We just adopted a cat. Now, this cat will be literally climbing the curtains one minute, a bundle of dust and dander taking laps in our living room, and the very next minute will climb up on my lap and fall fast asleep. That is being in the moment." He continued, "Until I see you again, I want you to watch your dog, and, if the mood strikes you, do what Samson does."

What does Samson do? Samson goes outside every opportunity he gets. As soon as he finds a patch of grass to his liking, he flops over onto his back and rolls back and forth, back and forth, for as long as his hurried master will allow. It is pure luxury, pure indulgence, to the extent that passersby stare and cars slow, their passengers rapt. Samson yawns audibly and sleeps when the mood strikes, often for much of the day, often sprawled wide on his back, ungentlemanly though it may be. Samson sits at the picture window for hours. He occasionally whines at a taunting rabbit or mischievous squirrel, but most of the time, he simply watches. Observes. I can't imagine that his attention drifts much, that is mind wanders, so to speak. Samson crouches into his playtime stance whether Dan and I are in the middle of a movie or hunched over a book or not. Samson eats when he is hungry and, well, maybe the exercise breaks down at this point, as he might keep eating well into the evening if we'd let him.

It's true. Animals don't think about what happened yesterday or this morning or the last time they saw their mothers or the way so-and-so looked at them three weeks ago. Animals don't think about where they might be living a year from now or when they might actually achieve financial security or how anxiety-producing something somewhere at some point down the road might be. And because of all of this, animals have a peace - "some sort of peace" - that is very unlike their human companions.

It's hard to believe that it would take much effort to live a life more like my dog, but in reality, it does. My default, it seems, and maybe yours, is busyness. I long for productivity and measure my worth based upon it. I follow regimens, schedules, and deadlines rather than my heart or my gut or my intuition. I think about, plan for, and focus on the past and the future such that my experience of the present is clouded and unmemorable. And more often than not, my life is an exercise in multitasking, a reality that dulls my senses and stimulates only whatever part of my body it is that deals in stress.

So yes, it would take effort to live a life more like my dog.

But I'm beginning to think it's worth it.

How to Talk to Little [and Big] Girls

2011-08-13T10:58:00.009-05:00

Yours truly, a long time ago

A couple of weeks ago, I read an interesting Huffington Post article by Lisa Bloom, author of Think: Straight Talk for Women to Stay Smart in a Dumbed-Down World. In the article, she talks about attending a dinner party at a friends house during which she met her friend's five-year-old daughter for the first time. She writes, "Little Maya was all curly brown hair, doe-like dark eyes, and adorable in her shiny pink nightgown. I wanted to squeal, 'Maya, you're so cute! Look at you! Turn around and model that pretty ruffled gown, you gorgeous thing!'" But, she didn't.

Bloom continues, "I always bite my tongue when I meet little girls, restraining myself from my first impulse, which is to tell them how darn cute/ pretty/ beautiful/ well-dressed/ well-manicured/ well-coiffed they are. What's wrong with that?" she asks. "It's our culture's standard talking-to-little-girls icebreaker, isn't it?"

Maybe it is. But here's the thing. The status quo ain't always the status appropriate or good or right. And just because it is easier for us to state our approval of a child based on a superficial appraisal does not mean that is is acceptable for us to do so. At what point did we become the kinds of grownups who have too much on our minds to take a second to consider creative, nurturing ways of interacting with children, the same sort of people we used to be?

Bloom writes:

This week ABC News reported that nearly half of all three- to six-year-old girls worry about being fat. ...15 to 18 percent of girls under 12 now wear mascara, eyeliner and lipstick regularly; eating disorders are up and self-esteem is down; and 25 percent of young American women would rather win America's Next Top Model than the Nobel Peace Prize. Even bright, successful college women say they'd rather be hot than smart. A Miami mom just died from cosmetic surgery, leaving behind two teenagers. This keeps happening, and it breaks my heart.

Teaching girls that their appearance is the first thing you notice tells them that looks are more important than anything. It sets them up for dieting at age 5 and foundation at age 11 and boob jobs at 17 and Botox at 23. As our cultural imperative for girls to be hot 24/7 has become the new normal, American women have become increasingly unhappy. What's missing? A life of meaning, a life of ideas and reading books and being valued for our thoughts and accomplishments.

Bloom advocates complimenting young girls on their ideas, thoughts, and accomplishments. As for big girls, she suggests braving the topics of pollution, wars, and school budgets. She stops there, but I think that the same could be said for big big girls, you know, adult girls...women. I think that we grownups could actually take a page out of Bloom's book and allow it to change the way we interact with each other. What would it mean, for example, for me to head to work and, instead of immediately complimenting a coworkers earrings or shoes, ask about her weekend, comment on the articulate way in which she handled a particularly challenging encounter the previous day, or tell her about a book that I'd found especially interesting.

Would it be more difficult? Probably. Would it take a bit more creativity? Sure. But would it be a tiny step towards deepening relationships and valuing others - and I anticipate, as a result, myself - for things beyond appearance? For things profound and lasting and worth a damn? Yes. Yes. Yes.

And just for kicks, below is the chatter this post received when I posted it on Facebook. Names have been removed to protect the innocent - or, when it comes to Redman tobacco and barn rafters, the not-so-innocent. Either way, good stuff.

A (female): I have the cutest, sweetest darn niece and I struggle with this too...thanks for posting!

B (female): What a great article! I've been guilty time and again of doing what she discussed in the article even though I know better. But having a daughter now I have a renewed sense of effort to do better. Thanks for posting!

C (male): Interesting... I have never, ever commented to my niece on how cute she is, but encourage her reading all the time. I wonder if this is more a thing that women do to each other...or do men tend to do it, too, and I just never think of doing it because...well, I don't know why. What do you think?

A: C, this is a good point you make...now that I think about it I don't remember my husband talking with my niece this way either...very interesting!!!

C: Then again, I had a little sister, and my brother and I taught her how to jump off barn rafters, chew Redman tobacco (seriously) and chase dogs and barn cats (and less savory animals)... so I sort of expect that little girls should do things like hunt for bugs and play in the dirt. My niece certainly enjoys dressing up, but she likes dirt, too. So,this may still be a gender thing, in that I assumed as a child that what I was doing was fun and that everyone else thought so, too... that is, I may have had a different experience about what a girl is supposed to be. Especially since I'm a boy who taught his little sister how to do all sorts of boy things (although she did seem to be having a good time and always wanted to be doing what we were doing - so "boy things" should probably more accurately be named "fun little kid things"). For us, the girl was just another sibling. But then, we were kind of dumb - after all, we spent a lot of time jumping off barn rafters and chewing Redman tobacco!

Me: C, while I think that, yes, women are worse about this than men - I do it to my adult friends and coworkers and acquaintances all the time...who among us hasn't said, "I like your _____," when we couldn't think of anything more profound to say? - maybe you're just especially good at valuing people for more than their physical shape. Here is another perspective from Rosie Molinary, which adds to the conversation the importance of watching what you say to boys too.

D: Thanks so much for this article, Kate. Did you see this comment? Some food for thought: “For a psychology point of view, a simple rule to keep in mind is that we should compliment children (and adults, for that matter) for things they can change, not for things we tend to assume are innate attributes. So compliment them for having read a difficult book, but do not compliment them for being intelligent. Compliment them for having picked matching clothes, but do not compliment them for being pretty. If they get good marks, compliment them for having learned well, but do not compliment them for being smart. Complimenting children for things they assume they can't change will train them to think that their successes and failures are due to things that are outside of their control. When they fail, they will be more likely to assume that there is nothing they can do to prevent future failure. On the other hand, if you've complimented them for things they assume they can influence, failure will signal to them that they'll have to try something else next time.”

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What do you think? Are you guilty of the above? Is it even a problem in the first place? Is it possible to protect our children from superficial conversation? And what about boys and men?

The Magnificent Defeat

2011-07-31T13:22:00.003-05:00

Jacob and the Angel, by Shraga Weil
Image courtesy of Safrai Fine Art

Cedar Heights Community Presbyterian Church
July 31, 2011

Genesis 32:22-31

The same night he got up and took his two wives, his two maids, and his eleven children, and crossed the ford of the Jabbok. He took them and sent them across the stream, and likewise everything that he had.

Jacob was left alone; and a man wrestled with him until daybreak. When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he struck him on the hip socket; and Jacob’s hip was put out of joint as he wrestled with him. Then he said, “Let me go, for the day is breaking.” But Jacob said, “I will not let you go, unless you bless me.” So he said to him, “What is your name?” And he said, “Jacob.” Then the man said, “You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with humans, and have prevailed.” Then Jacob asked him, “Please tell me your name.” But he said, “Why is it that you ask my name?” And there he blessed him. So Jacob called the place Peniel, saying, “For I have seen God face to face, and yet my life is preserved.”

The sun rose upon him as he passed Peniel, limping because of his hip.

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In his book titled On Paradise Drive, NY Times columnist David Brooks coins what he calls “the mighty Achievatron,” the “complex social machine that takes young children and molds them into Ivy League valedictorians” unique to this country. He says, “Nobody planned it. There is no central control deck. But the anxious parents, child psychologists, teachers, tutors, coaches, counselors, therapists, family-centered activist groups, and social critics organically cohere into an omnipresent network of encouragement, improvement, advice, talent maximization, and capacity fulfillment. This system is frightening when you step back and grasp its awesome power, its ability to mold little ones for frictionless ascent and smooth the eccentricities to maximize social aerodynamics…”

Brooks continues, “I look into my garage these days, and I see a vast landscape of protective gear. My daughter, who is nine, is already a four-helmet kid. She has a bike-riding helmet, a horseback-riding helmet, a batting helmet, and an ice-hockey helmet. These helmets serve as testimony to a certain sort of active, scheduled, yet massively protected childhood.”

I share this story – as does Brooks, I think – not to chastise the protective instincts of parents or communities but rather to make something clear about humanity. About us. We are - by upbringing, perhaps, but by nature, absolutely - risk-averse creatures. We protect ourselves and our children against all things conflict – physical conflict, of course, as evidenced by the helmets, but also, as we grow and change and get jobs and start families, political conflict, religious conflict, and relational conflict.

“After all,” questions Brooks, “why should the achiever want to make enemies or waste time in angry conflict?” Why should the achiever argue? Why should the achiever let anyone closer than arm’s length? Why should the achiever wrestle?

According to the achiever in today’s story, Jacob, he shouldn’t. And indeed, until this point in Genesis, Jacob hadn’t. In fact, until this point, Jacob had chosen the path of least resistance, doing instead as his name suggests, that is, “supplanting,” coming from behind to deceive beneath a disguise. You’ll remember that Jacob convinced Esau to sell his birthright for a now infamous bowl of stew. Then later, Jacob posed as Esau, deceiving his then-blind father into giving him the blessing that would otherwise have gone to Esau. To be sure, Jacob has achieved. But in doing so, until this point, he has risked very little.

Until, that is, we meet Jacob today at the ford of the river. The river’s name, “Jabbock,” is strikingly similar both to the name “Jacob” and to the Hebrew word for wrestle, insinuating from the start that something personally significant and quite likely painful is underway. “Jacob was left alone,” reads Genesis, “and a man wrestled with him until daybreak.” At which point it becomes clear to Jacob and to the reader that there is no deceiving one’s way out of this particular struggle. Genesis doesn’t say, "They engaged in verbal banter until daybreak." Genesis says they wrestled. And wrestling necessarily entails face-to-face, limb-to-limb, direct physical interaction.

Genesis continues, “When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he struck him on the hip socket; and Jacob’s hip was put out of joint as he wrestled with him. Then he said, “Let me go, for the day is breaking.” But Jacob said, “I will not let you go, unless you bless me.”
Until this point, Jacob was the “supplanter,” “the heel grabber,” quite literally. And here, it would have been easier and safer for him to continue down that road. Truth be told, my instinct very well might have been to thank my lucky stars for the light of day and hightail it across the river. But Jacob, seemingly aware that this entity deserves more than cowardice, avoidance, and security, looks into the face of this man or angel or, very likely, God and, weary and wounded from a night-long struggle, says to him directly, “I will not let you go, unless you bless me.”

In his recent book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, Donald Miller chronicles the opportunity to turn his very successful first memoir, Blue Like Jazz, into a movie, to edit his life into a great story, from boring reality to meaningful narrative. As part of this quest, he signs up to ride his bicycle across the country. He writes:

The day I remember most…was the day we rode through Joshua Tree. I got away from the group by perhaps thirty miles, and as the temperature broke a hundred degrees, I was forced to look for shade. The heat was coming up off the pavement like an oven. But there were no trees. After ten more miles, I found a metal shed next to a railroad track, and about six inches of shade landing on some concrete next to the shed. I lay my body down and put my head in the shade where there was a hot breeze swirling around. I just needed a break from the sun. I knew I had fifty more miles to go, and the miles would be, perhaps, the most miserable of my life. But in that place, I remembered about story, about how every conflict, no matter how hard, comes back to bless the protagonist if he will face his fate with courage. There is no conflict man can endure that will not produce a blessing. And I smiled. I’m not saying I was happy, but for some reason, I smiled. It hurts now, but I’ll love this memory, I thought to myself. And I do.”

Jacob, like Miller, insists that, as part of a bigger, better story – God’s story – blessing come from conflict. “I will not let you go, unless you bless me,” said Jacob. So he said to him, “What is your name?” And he said, “Jacob.” Then the man said, “You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with humans, and have prevailed.”

Jacob’s new name, “Israel,” is defined in verse 28 as “he struggles with God,” but its actual linguistic etymology is better translated as “God struggles,” or “God rules.” Jacob wrestles with God, yes. But more importantly, God wrestles with Jacob. Just as Jacob understood this unnamed opponent to be worthy of direct interaction, so does God understand Jacob to be worthy of God’s time, God’s energy, and God’s continued efforts of re-creation. God wrestles with Jacob and God wins. God always wins. And in winning, God changes Jacob – and indeed Israel – forever.

There is a scene in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe in which Susan and Lucy ask Mr. and Mrs. Beaver to describe Aslan, which is generally understood to be C.S. Lewis's representation of Jesus. They ask if Aslan is a man. Mr. Beaver replies:

"Aslan a man? Certainly not. I tell you he is the King of the wood and the son of the great Emperor-beyond-the Sea. Don't you know who is the King of Beasts? Aslan is a lion - the Lion, the great Lion.”

"Ooh!" said Susan. "I'd thought he was a man. Is he - quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion."

"That you will, dearie, and make no mistake," said Mrs. Beaver, "if there's anyone who can appear before Aslan without their knees knocking, they're either braver than most or else just silly."

"Then he isn't safe?" said Lucy.

"Safe?" said Mr. Beaver. "Don't you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about being safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you."

To be sure, this is not the stuff of children’s sermons or baptisms, affirmations of faith or benedictions, for we come to those moments longing to be reassured that God will protect us, keep us safe, and keep us happy. But don’t we also come longing for the message that God loves us enough to continually come to us, engage us, challenge us, and change us? Don’t we also come thirsty for the word assuring us that God is not finished with us?

Frederick Buechner called this story “the magnificent defeat of the human soul at the hands of God,” a theme most eloquently picked up by Ranier Maria Rilke in his poem, "The Man Watching.” The latter part of the poem reads:

How small that is, with which we wrestle,
What wrestles with us, how immense;
Were we to let ourselves, the way things do,
Be conquered thus by the great storm—
We would become far-reaching and nameless.
What we triumph over is the small,
And the success itself makes us small.
The eternal and unexampled
Will not be bent by us.
This is the Angel, who appeared
To the wrestlers of the Old Testament:
When his opponent's sinews
In that contest stretch like metal,
He feels them under his fingers
Like strings making deep melodies.

Whomever this Angel overcame
(who so often declined the fight)
He walks erect and justified
And great from that hard hand
Which, as if sculpting, nestled round him.
Winning does not tempt him.
His growth is this: to be
Deeply defeated by the ever-greater One.

Why, then, should the achiever, you and me, wrestle? Why should we come out from under our protective gear and dare to wrestle with the each other, with the world, with God? Because our history and our faith tell us again and again that the world is worth wrestling. God is worth wrestling. And we are worth wrestling. God will meet us here. It might hurt, but ultimately, it will save us. Indeed, we can only hope to be so defeated.

Amen.

True Confession

2011-07-27T18:21:00.009-05:00

Image courtesy of Operation Beautiful

I suppose I have a bit of a confession to make. Shocking, right? I know. Bear with me. This one feels especially tough. As I've mentioned, I've been reading/skimming/pretending I no longer need Geneen Roth's Why Weigh: A Workbook for Ending Compulsive Eating. (Note: There is no workbook or conference or blog or panel of experts that can end compulsive eating. Yes, I realize I cite more of these than I should, which just goes to show that I am not above wishing and hoping and thinking and praying...) I've folded down some pages to which I'd like to return, and one in particular has gotten itself stuck in my craw.

Geneen says:

Most compulsive eaters are waiting until they have the 'right' body to begin living the kind of life they want to live. You don't have to wait. You deserve to have what you want now. Being thin does not suddenly make you worthy of a job you like, relationships that are meaningful, clothes that you find attractive. Your decision that you are worthy is what makes you worthy.

She then asks the question, "What are you waiting to get thin to do?"

Though I absolutely consider myself a compulsive overeater and sympathize with so many other compulsive overeaters, I am different from many of them in that, since regaining the weight I lost when I was at my most severely anorexic, I have not had so-called "problems" with my weight. My weight has, give or take 10 pounds, stayed consistent. And I'm never overly shocked or surprised with how my clothes fit or what the number says when, once a year at the doctor, I step on the scale. Sure, every now and then I have to end an otherwise promising relationship but for the most part, my weight is not an issue. In fact, as a result, I've often felt the need to justify my presence in groups like Overeaters Anonymous or Body Love Wellness. Undoubtedly, I'm projecting, but I always wonder if other group members judge me or somehow question the authenticity of my pain since I don't necessarily wear it on the outside.

Why, then, did the above blurb resonate so? Because - and here's the confession - I think that I am waiting to get fat. Truly. At the back of my mind and sometimes at the front of my mind, I have this sneaking suspicion that it is only a matter of time before my compulsive overeating catches up with my metabolism and I reach a point of no return. I want to claim that this isn't affecting my daily life, that I'm not changing my behaviors or postponing any significant plans until this unavoidable future occurrence. And yet I realize that, when I allow it to have the attention it demands, this particular thought causes me no small measure of anxiety. Palpable anxiety. The kind of anxiety that rumbles around in my gut, muddles my mind, and preoccupies my heart. At which point I become aware that, well yeah, it has more of a place in my everyday life than I have allowed it credit, and certainly more than a lot of pleasant preoccupations that used to take up residence there.

I don't remember when I first started restricting, but I know that, then - likely towards the middle of college - it wasn't about avoiding weight gain. I'm not sure it was even about losing weight or changing my body. I think that, though undoubtedly an oversimplified explanation, my patterns of restriction fit into the design of my life at the time, namely, over-achievement. I worked hard and played - and, it became evident, ate - only in moderation.

Later, though, when I started bingeing regularly, fear of gaining weight was, at least in part, what the purging was about. Purging was a way of delaying the inevitable, of cheating the system, so to speak, of avoiding the logical and appropriate consequences of overeating. If I could just rid myself of the food, I believed, I could also avert guilt, shame, and weight gain.

And so maybe it makes sense that I feel anxious about gaining weight [though I'm aware that might be pushing it]. I eat, I overeat, and I don't purge, so consequently, I will gain weight. Maybe not now, but eventually. Perhaps my anxiety has far more to do with my compulsive overeating than it does the weight that will ensue, though clearly the weight would be the physical manifestation of the emotional issue. Admitting that I am going to "get fat" also feels a bit like throwing in the towel. Hi, I'm Kate, and I'm a compulsive overeater; I'll always be a compulsive overeater, and so while I'm not fat yet, I will be soon.

There are two things that I know, rationally, about this fear or premonition. First is that, of course, it would be okay if I did, you know, gain a whole lot of weight. I truly believe in health at every size. I am passionately against sizeism and think that the discrimination against plus-size people is appalling. I am confident that I would continue to be a good wife and minister and friend while carrying excess weight, and I am equally assured that my husband and my friends and my family would continue to love me.

Second is that, well, I still have a lot of work to do. I preach self-acceptance and positive body image, unconditional love and gentleness. But the truth of the matter clearly is that this world that constructs thinness as a religion and equates fatness with moral degradation has infested my psyche and invaded my soul such that my self-acceptance and the love and gentleness I am willing to bestow upon myself is sadly, lacking. I deserve better, thin or fat.

I am worthy of more.

Maybe that's the true confession I had to make.

Be There

2011-07-25T19:03:00.001-05:00

August 2nd, 8-9pm EST on Twitter

Making Room for Buddy

2011-07-23T09:50:00.007-05:00

It's no secret that I have a long history of ignoring my body, or rather, ignoring my body's cues, its desires, and its needs. I pay a hell of a lot of attention to my body itself, examining its superficial imperfections ad nauseum. But my hunger? My fullness? My cravings? I have made a living out of denying those, pushing those down. You will eat when I say you will eat, I've barked at my body. And you'll have what the world deems appropriate. What's that, you say? (Sometimes my conversations with my body take on a British lilt.) That's not what you want? Not what feels right? Too bad. You can't be trusted.

Lately, however, my body has been speaking up. In the form of stomach pain, muscle aches, and a head cold from hell, it has demanded that I stop. And so I have. I've taken two of the last five work days off sick and have spent the majority of the weekend on the couch. And in between my extended bouts of self-pity, I have caught up on the romantic comedies released since the last time I found myself in this condition. But still, my body speaks. And this time, it seems, it's going to take more than some run of the mill TLC to make it all better. This time, it seems, I am going to have to listen.

This month's O Magazine includes an article titled, "Our Buddies, Our Selves," by author and life coach Martha Beck. In it, she describes two individuals, who are, in her words, "vying to be your personal adviser."

The first, whose name is Fang, dresses in immaculate business attire, carries a briefcase full of neatly organized folders, and answers all e-mails instantly, via BlackBerry. In a loud, clear, authoritative voice, Fang delivers strong opinion about how you should manage your time. Fang's résumé is impressive: fantastic education, experience to burn.

The other candidate, Buddy, wears shorts, a tank top, and a rose tattoo. If you question the professionalism of this attire, Buddy just smiles. When you ask advice on a pressing matter, Buddy hugs you. There are almost no words on Buddy's résumé (the few that do appear are jokes and song lyrics), and in the margins, Buddy has doodled pictures of chipmunks.

Long ago, as a teenager, Beck gave the name Fang to her socially conscious, verbal, educated mind. Buddy was what she called "a perverse, disobedient aspect of my being, who apparently never evolved logical semantics and simply does not understand How Things Are Done Around Here." She vowed then and there to let Fang run her life. But a couple of decades later, she recalls, she noticed that while she generally did listen to Fang, it was Buddy who was most often right.

When clients tell me they need to find their "inner voice," I suspect they're already listening to one: a loud, logical, convincing Fang-voice that echoes parents, teachers, priests, and angry personal trainers. You have no problem hearing this voice; the problem is, its counsel rarely leads to fulfillment. Yet you sense there's someone else knocking around in your psyche: someone whose counsel might make you happy - the kind of wise, primordial self I named Buddy. Unfortunately, Buddy is almost nonverbal, initially unimposing, and, from Fang's point of view, way too weird to trust.

Beck goes on to issue the challenge of trusting Buddy anyway, of learning to recognize true inner wisdom, and then opening oneself to its peculiar counsel. To assist the intuitively underdeveloped, then, she provides three ways by which one can distinguish between the traits of inner wisdom, or Buddy, and its Fang opposites. First, wisdom is sensory, not verbal. Second, wisdom is calm, not fearful. And third, wisdom is chosen, not forced.

Like Beck, my default is to heed the advice of Fang. I respect wordy constructions and the complex processes of critical thinking. I respond to shrieks and shouts, the media of societal expectation and social conditioning. And most consistently, I do as I am told, and I do it well. But if Beck is right, if my inner wisdom is more likely to lead me to personal fulfillment, peace, and happiness, then perhaps there is something to be said for making room for another voice, that of calm, of quiet, of, cheesy though it might sound, Buddy.

So I'm trying. I'm eating when I'm hungry, only and exactly what it is that I want. To be fair, this is a relatively new [re-] commitment, but at 11:30, that was cheese toast and ginger snaps. I'm resting. And though, as I type this, the second half of Bridget Jones's Diary advances, muted, on the television, just barely obscured by the computer screen that sits atop several magazines opened to the articles I started to read, I'm trying to be quiet. More quiet, at least. I had been running for a while, which was at once surprising and amusing, and I've stopped, for now. Maybe I'll stick to the bike. Or try yoga. And I've made an appointment with a counselor, a third party who might help me sort out the voices in my head, but more importantly, in my gut, my neck, and my back.

+++

I suppose I'm a bit terrified of where else my inner wisdom might take me, what nooks and crannies of my psyche it might demand that I explore. Work is hard and often exasperating, for example, but making a career change seems drastic and impractical. As does a geographical relocation. But is it possible to put parameters on one's intuition? Can Buddy be boxed in?

What is your experience with your intuition? How do you know that's what it is that you're feeling, as opposed to, I don't know, fatigue, hunger, or wishful thinking? And how the heck do you go about explaining to the world that you have based your decisions on a persistent stomach ache and nasty head cold?

Body and Soul

2011-07-14T20:27:00.007-05:00

by Nanao Sakaki

Photo by JonHildy

In the morning
After taking cold shower
-----what a mistake-----
I look at the mirror.

There, a funny guy,
Grey hair, white beard, wrinkled skin,
-----what a pity-----
Poor, dirty, old man!
He is not me, absolutely not.

Land and life
Fishing in the ocean
Sleeping in the desert with stars
Building a shelter in mountains
Farming the ancient way
Singing with coyotes
Singing against nuclear war-----
I'll never be tired of life.
Now I'm seventeen years old,
Very charming young man.

I sit down quietly in lotus position,
Meditating, meditating for nothing.
Suddenly a voice comes to me:

"To stay young,
To save the world,
Break the mirror."

Just What You Have Left

2011-07-06T20:00:00.008-05:00

Image from Saucony

Saucony's new ad campaign reminds me of something that I used to have on the back of my door in high school: one part badass and inspiring, one part over-the-top, and one part totally irrelevant.

What Is Strong? (30 second) from Saucony on Vimeo.

To be honest, though, I sort of love it. Call me unrefined. Call me sophomoric and easily amused. Go ahead. But consider first, for one moment, how it might sound in poetic form. Say, for example, as written by e.e. cummings:

is it muscle? or is it something
more? is it measured in miles:
or milliseconds?

is it your best time or your
worst day? maybe
strong is just
what (you have left when)
you've used up
all your weak

Good, right? Don't kid yourself, you were just touched. Moved. You sort of want to go run a few laps around the block. And, it's okay, you can admit it: you're thinking about putting it on the back of your door.

Happy of Myself

2011-07-03T12:27:00.010-05:00

Illustration by C.I.C.L.E

Earlier this summer, a NYC police officer pulled over Dutch tourist and bike store general manager Jasmijn Rickman for wearing a skirt while riding a bike. According to this particular public servant, her exposed legs were "distracting the cars." At first, said Rickman, "I thought he was joking around." Clearly. "But then he got angry and asked for my ID."

There are so many things that could - and probably should - be said in response to this ridiculous display of power and posturing, not to mention sexism. But perhaps the most effective [and fun] response was the lighthearted protest organized by New Amsterdam Bike Show in the West Village this past week.

Image courtesy of Amelia Waiz

Two things are remarkable about the above. The first is that there are that many beautiful, interesting women in a single place anywhere in the world. I mean, really. Is it a requirement for NYC? That one be not only proactive and engaged but also fit and photogenic? The second remarkable thing is that I feel comfortable and [dare I say] qualified to comment on something even remotely related to bicycles. Let me explain.

Seven years ago, I graduated from college and was gifted a bicycle, a really great gift, especially considering my impending move to Chicago sans vehicle. Upon arriving in my sweet little 750 square foot apartment, I situated my bike as discretely as possible somewhere between the refrigerator and the fire escape. And though, during the year that I lived there, I had a great many places to go, and though, for many years by the time I arrived, Chicago had been listed among the top ten "bike-friendly cities," my bike stayed put, wedged - cozy but stationary - between the refrigerator and the fire escape.

Three years ago, I graduated from seminary. During these three plus years in Atlanta, GA, I learned a significant amount about God, the world, and myself. I learned very little about bicycles, except, I should say, that, when one leaves one's bicycle outside for the majority of a year in a wooded area in the south, pollen will find its way into crevices that one didn't know one's bike - or one's body, for that matter - had. And no amount of hosing or scrubbing will adequately erase the smudges and leftover yellowish bits that make one's transgressions known to the world. And so it seems that my history of bike ownership is not a good metaphor for grace.

And then I moved to Iowa, where there lived also the man whom I was certain I would marry. Dan's bike took a place of honor in his home. And it had a name: General Sherman. Dan and his beloved commandant had already biked from Jackson Hole, WY to San Francisco, CA. Several years later, they would go across the country, from Oregon to Massachusetts. Dan's commitment to General Sherman had been established long before I arrived on the scene and was only strengthened by steep hills and headwinds. If I wanted an equally enduring relationship with this man, it became clear, I would have to befriend the bike, both his and mine.

Long story short, the first time we went on a ride out of Iowa City, I cried. My legs hurt, and I felt slow and heavy. I had pollen residue in my hair, and I was certain that Dan wanted to go faster or farther or, I don't know, fancier. It took a long time for him to convince me that he enjoyed this time we spent together, regardless of our collective speed or distance. But eventually - and this is perhaps the great victory of the story - I quit worrying about it, because I enjoyed it, too.

For my 28th birthday, I was again gifted a bicycle. She is silver and white and called a "Dolce Elite," which I find at once lovely and ~~terrifying~~ motivating. I named her Thelma.

Photo © MGM/the Everett Collection via Vanity Fair.

Thelma: Hey Louise, better slow down, I'll just die if we get caught over a speeding ticket. Are you sure we should be driving like this, I mean in broad daylight and everything?
Louise: No we shouldn't, but I want to put some distance between us and the scene of our last goddamned crime!
[Thelma laughs and screams.]
Thelma: Oh man! You wouldn'ta believed it, it was like I was doing it all my life, nobody woulda believed it.
Louise: Think you found your calling?
Thelma: May-be... may-be.
[Thelma gets up in her seat.]
Thelma: The call of the wild!

+++

This past Saturday, Dan, General Sherman, Thelma, and I biked 104 miles. It was hard, and it was fun. It was scenic. It was, in fact, the great majority of the Cedar Valley. But more to the point, it was. It happened. I did it. My body did it, and my often so very self-defeating mind did it. How did I feel? How do I feel? Funny you should ask...

What Wags the World

2011-06-30T06:38:00.005-05:00

"The best thing for being sad," replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake in the middle of the night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world around you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honor trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn."
From The Once and Future King by T.H. White

Ego Check

2011-06-27T05:17:00.013-05:00

Image by Elegant Word Art by Bethany

"Life is a creative endeavor. It is active, not passive. We are the yeast that leavens our lives into rich, fully baked loaves. When we experience our lives as flat and lackluster, it is our consciousness that is at fault. We hold the inner key that turns our lives from thankless to fruitful. That key is 'blessing.'" Julia Cameron

Last Wednesday, I traveled to Cedar Rapids, IA to interview for Board Certification with a committee from the Association of Professional Chaplains (APC). In brief, in order to become eligible for an interview, one must have a bachelor's degree plus theological education at the graduate level, four units of Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE), documentation of one year of full-time chaplaincy experience after completion of four units of CPE, demonstrated competency in areas of chaplaincy care, ordination or commissioning to function in a ministry of pastoral care, and ecclesiastical endorsement by a recognized faith group for ministry in a specialized setting. One must also submit what adds up to be hundreds of pages of various application materials, including letters of recommendation, competency essays, and an autobiography.

Then, after the interview, the candidate is notified of the committee’s recommendation. The committee’s recommendation is reviewed by the Commission on Certification and forwarded to the board of directors for ratification. Upon board ratification, the candidate is then, finally, granted the recommended status by Board of Chaplaincy Certification, Inc (BCCI). and receives official documentation by mail. The candidate is invited to receive formal recognition of his or her achievement at the next APC annual conference.

Okay, so maybe not so brief. But it seems important for me to put it all out there, for as both those of you who skimmed over the last two paragraphs and those of you who read it in full can attest, neither is the process brief. Or lighthearted. Or easy. And you want to know something? I did it. At least, I did it so far as the interview goes, at which point, per protocol, I was notified of the committee's recommendation that I be board ratified and ~~bored~~ board certified. (A Freudian slip if there ever was one; that actually happened.)

One of the questions that my committee asked on Wednesday had to do with "pastoral authority." Before I began my current job, I got a haircut. I had been told that shorter hair made me look older, and older seemed to mean wiser, more distinguished, and more legitimate. Still, though, I told them, I often hear, “You’re so young!” And so I wonder, still, at what age will I be “just right” for the role I’ve assumed. They laughed. They exchanged knowing looks. "Within the medical model?" said the - I kid you not - nun sitting beside me. She answered, "Never."

Her colleagues laughed nervously and began to recount examples of the ways in which they have found the incorporation of spiritual care into supposedly holistic medical treatment to be damn near impossible. "It's exhausting," one chaplain confessed. "It's exhausting and thankless. But it's important."

And it's that final assertion, I told them, that sometimes trips me up. Day after day and week after emotionally trying week, it's tough to get out of bed for yet another when no one seems to notice or care that you've arrived. When you have to remind your coworkers that your input is, if not essential to the health and happiness of the patient in question, at least required by your administration. And when you are told repeatedly that there is no room for creativity and no compensation for professional advancement. Unless, you know, you are a nurse.

When I was young, I was convinced that I would change the world. I had a fairly good idea that I wouldn't make a lot of money, but I knew in my gut that I would do meaningful, person-affirming work, work that challenged the status-quo and gave voice to the otherwise disenfranchised. I also had this crazy idea that, from time to time, I would be recognized, celebrated, and thanked.

It has taken me some time and has necessitated repeating, but ultimately, I suppose I'm coming to realize that pastoral authority has very little to do with the length of my hair or my real or perceived age. It is a state of mind, a readiness to claim one’s inner strength and capacity. It is a call. It is a set of qualifications and life lessons that allow one to walk into a situation and feel, if not prepared, at least willing. Pastoral authority involves communicating effectively, professionally, and with some degree of boldness, saying those things that others might prefer to leave unsaid and, often, festering. Pastoral authority means knowing when to lead, when to be outspoken, and when to remain silent and encourage from a distance. Pastoral authority requires confidence tempered by humility, ever in awe of the gift it is to share sacred space with another. And maybe, just maybe, it means doing all of the aforementioned without recognition, celebration, or thanks.

The above has clearly been brought to you by my ego. It is my ego that wants the world to know that I am [almost] a Board Certified Chaplain. It is my ego that wants you to congratulate me, take me to dinner, give me a raise. It is my ego that wants to be recognized as vital to the inner workings of a system, any system, and it is my ego that focuses on financial remuneration as proof of my value, or lack thereof.

But here's the thing, when my ego leads, I generally end up feeling like crap. And I don't want to feel like crap. I don't want to fall prey to apathy and cynicism. I don't want to be stagnated by feelings of exhaustion or worthlessness. I don't want my focus to be on my own or anyone else's income or accolades. Or certifications. And I don't want to want, to need, or to truly, distressingly, achingly crave appreciation. When it comes to my professional life, I need my ego to remind me of one thing and one thing only: it's important. Maybe even capable of changing the world.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get to work.

A Little Perspective

2011-06-23T20:40:00.008-05:00

Photo by Richard Sunderland

I recently picked up the little book, A Short Guide to a Happy Life by author and Newsweek columnist Anna Quindlen. The book is an expanded version of what was intended to be her 2000 commencement address to the graduating class of Villanova University. I say "intended" because, as it turned out, Quindlen declined the invitation to speak when a group of conservative students threatened to demonstrate against her well-known liberal views. "I don't think you should have to walk through demonstrators to get to your college commencement," she said.

Eventually, though, Quindlen emailed her words to a Villanova graduate who was disappointed not to have heard it. She emailed it on. And on and on and on it went until finally it was published and now sits humbly among the big books with fancy titles on the coffee tables of me and millions like me. And for good reason. It's simple, and it's sweet. I picked it up again tonight, and for one reason or another found myself tearing up as I read Quindlen's final anecdote. She writes:

I found one of my best teachers on the boardwalk at Coney Island many years ago. It was December, and I was doing a story about how the homeless suffer in the winter months. He and I sat on the edge of the wooden supports, dangling our feet over the side, and he told me about his schedule, panhandling the boulevard when the summer crowds were gone, sleeping in a church when the temperature went below freezing, hiding from the police amid the Tilt-A-Whirl and the Cyclone and some of the other seasonal rides.

But he told me that most of the time he stayed on the boardwalk, facing the water, just the way we were sitting now, even when it got cold and he had to wear his newspapers after he read them. And I asked him why. Why didn't he go to one of the shelters? Why didn't he check himself into the hospital for detox?

And he stared out at the ocean and said, "Look at the view, young lady. Look at the view."

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"Don't gain the world and lose your soul (just don't lose your soul); wisdom is better than silver and gold." Bob Marley, from "Zion Train" and Proverbs 16:16

Scarcity, Abundance, and Carrot Cake

2011-06-19T06:10:00.007-05:00

Image courtesy of Tarot Teachings

Several weeks ago, in response to a friend's tweet, actually, I signed up for a FREE Body Love Breakthrough Session with Golda Poretsky.

Golda has a degree in health counseling and integrative nutrition from the Institute for Integrative Nutrition (as well as, interestingly enough, a J.D. from New York University School of Law). In 2008, she founded Body Love Wellness, a wellness company that provides individual and group counseling from a Health At Every Size perspective. Using her background in nutrition and holistic health, she now counsels women and men on how to get off the dieting roller coaster, give their bodies what they really crave, and love their bodies and themselves. Golda also teaches workshops on healthy eating without dieting and with intuitive eating and radical body love.

As a result of that free phone session with Golda, I decided to sign up for a four-month course called - wait for it - The Empress Club. (Easy, girl. I was skeptical, too. Just hear me out.) According to Golda, the symbol of the empress in tarot decks and elsewhere is usually depicted as a beautiful, powerful, plus sized woman. She is an image representing abundance, power, Mother Earth, divine knowledge, sensuality, among other things. Because of this, the empress is a fitting symbol for Golda's course, a group coaching program designed to support powerful women of every size in attaining their desires.

Each week, Golda introduces a concept that guides our conversation, the exercises and activities we share, and the weeks that follow before our next call. Last week, the concept or theme was that of "abundance." Abundance, said Golda, is "the understanding that there is enough, that you will always have what you need, and even more than that." But most of us, she continued, operate from, rather, a position of scarcity. Such a position is not always bad. When one is trying to save money, for example, thinking it terms of scarcity can be quite helpful and even motivating. But when we operate solely out of this scarcity mentality, things can begin to feel, in Golda's words, "very dire, and stressful."

When we diet, we voluntarily and intentionally subscribe to the scarcity principle. On a diet, there can never be an excess; there is necessarily a scarcity of things - sugar, fat, calories, food - so that we, too, might become scarce. When we diet, this is our goal, yet to our hearts, our souls, and our Darwinian motivation to survive, this is terrifying, and so we operate in a way that seeks these very things.

Alternatively, when we operate from a place of abundance, intuitive eating becomes possible. And vice versa: intuitive eating can induce a feeling of abundance. When we're allowed to eat whatever we want, when we truly ask ourselves and our bodies, "What do I want to eat?" and then eat that very thing, there is no longer the obsessive focus on and desire for that which we cannot have. Choices exist in abundance. Food exists in abundance. Nurture and love and possibility exist in abundance. And we will eat only that which we need, because if we need more, we can have more. There will always be more.

Golda said, "To say that you can have what you want requires trust. It requires a trust of your body and...this bigger trust in the universe, trust that there will be enough." I get that, and it's lovely. However, whether it be my heart of hearts or my knee jerk liberal reactions speaking, something makes it important for me to note that it - this "say[ing] that you can have what you want" - also requires a certain kind of lifestyle, a first-world, privileged sort of lifestyle.

Sometimes, when I wake up in the morning, I want cereal. And when that's the case, I eat it. Sometimes, I want a bagel. So I drive my 2007 Camry Hybrid to Panera and get a bagel. Good for me recognizing the abundance in the world and acting upon it. But if I did that every morning, Dan and I would have to reconsider our budget, and if the mother of three on welfare from the trailer park across town did that every morning, well, she would have to reconsider her heat. Listening to our bodies takes trust in the universe and in our nation, in our employment, in our education, and in our families, and it is a trust that much of our world simply does not have.

I have a book titled "Eating the Moment: 141 Mindful Practices to Overcome Overeating One Meal at a Time," by Pavel G. Somov, Ph.D. In a section entitled "Food Doesn't Have to Mean Eating," Dr. Somov includes an exercise he calls "The Carrot Cake Fight:"

Get a carrot cake and a roll of paper towels. Drive out to a secluded area in the country. Pack a "snowball" out of a chunk of the moist carrot cake, aim at a tree, and throw. Notice how well the carrot cake packs into a ball. Repeat until the cake is gone. Yes, I have, indeed, lost my mind. Otherwise, why would I suggest something this bizarre, right? But hold your judgment: let's just say you went along with this; do you think you'd ever look at carrot cake again the same way? Of course not! Before this, carrot cake meant only one thing: "Eat me." Afterward, it will still mean "eat me," but it may also mean "throw me." The point is that food doesn't just have to mean eating. To expand on this exercise, come up with a creative way to interact with your favorite food so that stuffing your face with it is no longer the only fun option at your disposal. (A tip: if you find yourself licking the carrot cake off your hands, use your craving-control strategy of choice, or just use the paper towels.)

I get his point. Really, I do. But I've made carrot cake; I've grated four cups of carrots for the cause. I've celebrated everything from birthdays to babies with its sweet layers and relished the final taste of cream cheese frosting left on the knife. I've eaten carrot cake that cost eight dollars and was worth every dang penny. Ergo, friends, the wasteful destruction of carrot cake is not something from which I care to learn lessons or by which I care to change paradigms. It is luxurious. It is extravagant. And ultimately, it is - and, I think, should be considered - scarce.

So there I am left, and there I leave you, stuck somewhere in the middle of abundance and scarcity, between wanting to live with an understanding and trust that the world is inherently gracious and knowing that, in fact, it is not, that the system exists in such a way that those who have, have very much, and those who do not have, have none at all. Goodness knows I have been guilty of an artificial, punishing scarcity worldview, and I have rebelled against it by bingeing, which is, simply, not good. But I have also listened my body and eaten that exact thing that it and I wanted no matter its cost to me or others, and well, I'm not convinced that that behavior is purely good, either.

And perhaps it's not for me to figure out. Perhaps the point is, rather, one of awareness, of gratitude, and of integrity. Of figuring out how to live my one, short life in a way that is at once healthy, kind, and sustainable. Of eating the carrot cake, but knowing always that it could have been different.

Summer Reading

2011-06-10T11:15:00.011-05:00

Last Friday, with a coffee buzz fuzzing up my brain and travel woes wearing heavily my heart, I wrote this:

There's been some pretty thoughtful writing on the interwebs lately, the kind of writing that makes me want to gather a handful of you together and go grab a latte or, more likely, a glass of wine (or, more likely still, a couple of glasses of wine) and discuss, concur, disagree, and generally bask in each others' wisdom and wit. But seeing as I am currently hunkered down at gate B11 waiting for a delayed flight to Chicago, which may very well turn into a delayed flight to Austin, I'm going to go ahead and call that a no go. So wherever you are, settle in with your choice of beverage for some quality summer reading. And as always, I relish your comments below.

And then we boarded, only to run to our gate in Chicago and arrive just in time for an equally delayed flight to Austin, TX, where we did not have internet (hence the lack of a post), but where we did spend some serious QT with amazing people - new friends and old - and get a gorgeous couple good and married.

So, as I was saying...what follows are some links to some pretty great articles, as well as a snippet or two that I liked best. I'd love to hear what you think!

The Bikini as a Badge of Fitness, or: "'Bikini Ready'? Who's Judging?" by Catherine Saint Louis.

About the seemingly ubiquitous spring shape-ups and bikini season count-downs, Saint Louis quotes Malia Mills, a swimsuit designer whose brand motto is "Love Thy Differences." Ms. Mills, 44, says, "It really sends the message that you’re not worthy right now to put on a suit." She recalls shoppers who often declare in one of her 10 stores: "I just wanted to see what you had. I’m coming back when I lose five pounds."

Doctors and the "D" Word by Danielle Ofri, M.D., on the NY Times' blog, "Well." And the poem Ofri references, Gaudeamus Igitur, by John Stone. The article reads:

"A few years ago," writes Ofri, "I was supervising on the medical wards during the month of July with a team of new doctors fresh out of medical school. There was one intern who hailed from below the Mason-Dixon line (something of a rarity in our New York City hospital). One morning she came up to me, her eyes heavy, and reported that Mr. Gonzalez had 'passed' during the night.

"My first reaction was to ask whether it was gas or stool that he had passed, since we’d been concerned about his intestinal symptoms. Then it dawned on me what she was saying.

"'Oh, you mean he expired?' I said.

Liking is for Cowards; Go for What Hurts by Jonathan Franzen. This one is actually from his commencement speech at Kenyon College, a gig that fell to the late, great David Foster Wallace only a few years earlier. Franzen writes:

[P]ain hurts but it doesn’t kill. When you consider the alternative — an anesthetized dream of self-sufficiency, abetted by technology — pain emerges as the natural product and natural indicator of being alive in a resistant world. To go through a life painlessly is to have not lived. Even just to say to yourself, “Oh, I’ll get to that love and pain stuff later, maybe in my 30s” is to consign yourself to 10 years of merely taking up space on the planet and burning up its resources. Of being (and I mean this in the most damning sense of the word) a consumer.

Oh, I love that. And so, at least for tonight, here's to the absence of deadlines, speaking the truth, feeling and hurting and loving for real. To good friends and marriage. And, oh yeah, the "convenience" of air travel.

On Tomorrow, or: Resetting Myself Today

2011-06-05T10:17:00.019-05:00

The above photo is one I snapped several days ago [with my phone, hence the dizzying blurriness] when, having added yet another affirmation of sorts to its edges, it became clear that the mirror above my dresser had become less of a mirror and more of a bulletin board with small reflective center. Among its messages, some of which I have mentioned before, are the following:

this print, called "Illusion of Control" from Brian Andreas' StoryPeople collection, given to me by my OA sponsor of days past;

this lovely prayer, attributed to St. Thomas Aquinas;

and this greeting card from Mina Lee Studio, which boasts one of Marilyn Monroe's more inspiring quotes: "Ever notice how 'What the Hell' is always the right decision?" I have to believe this came from my sister.

Also wedged in the frame's narrow seams is a magnet featuring the words of self proclaimed artist, author, and activist, Mary Anne Radmacher .
I mention this today because, well, lately, "tomorrow" has functioned less as an unknown to fear, less as a theoretical entity towards which to move tentatively and with courage, and more as, honestly, a cop out. An escape route. "Tomorrow," it seems, is becoming a way of avoiding the pain and hard work and exhaustion of "today." And rather than saying to myself confidently and with determined resolve, "I will try again tomorrow!" I say, defeated, disheartened, and downright angry, "@&#% it, I'll try again tomorrow."

A lot of it, as you might have guessed, has to do with food. There have been a lot of cakes and cookies at work, a lot of opportunities to consume alcoholic beverages in various and sundry outdoor settings, and, primarily due to a shift in my pharmacological regimen that has made me feel as though I am on a substandard ship on stormy seas, not a lot of exercise. I have been feeling heavy and lethargic, a self-perception made all the more daunting considering my involvement on summer wedding circuit, a series of ceremonies during which I'd prefer to feel energetic, eloquent, and dang it, thin.

In the past, when I felt the need for a "reset" of sorts, I would purge. I will not and I cannot do that again, but I would be lying if I said that I don't in some ways miss the feeling of emptiness it provided. After I had purged, I got to decide how to begin again. I had rid myself both literally and figuratively of the poor decisions I had made and started anew, with a fresh slate in mind if not in body.

Without purging, then, it's hard to know where to go from this feeling of regression and paralysis and how to go about getting there. Ultimately, I suppose, it happens in the form of baby steps, and even though I have a gaping hole where the virtue of patience is supposed to be, I'm willing to give the baby steps a go. I am willing to do some forgiving of myself and some work on myself. I am willing to intentionally, conscientiously "try again tomorrow."

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The above is a hard thing to admit. So much of what I write about food and body is, at least lately, in the past tense. But the issues surrounding food and body are not gone. And I - and my food and my body - am not all better.

That being said, I hope that you'll understand if, intermittently in the near future, I post some of my more specific exercises and musings. I'd love for you to participate, as well, if you feel comfortable and so called.

First in this [ridiculously informal] series, I'd like to respond to the questions posed in Geneen Roth's Why Weight: A Workbook for Ending Compulsive Eating. (Well here's an interesting observation: I must be nervous; I'm biting the hell of out my fingernails as I type. You might think that can't be done, but I am nothing if not an over-achiever.)

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Chapter 1: Compulsion & Awareness :: Exercise 2: Life Without Compulsive Eating

"I eat merely to put food out of my mind." -N. F. Simpson

What would your life be like...if you were to live with no conflicts about food. [H]ow would the way you live and the quality of your days be different?

If I didn't have conflicts about food...

I would have time to actually do the things I say I want to do: organize the spice rack, for example, or learn to cross stitch or create greeting cards or hell, send prefabricated cards. Cook more. Try Zumba. I would be brave in my choice of career and my choice of clothing. I would wear cowboy boots and dresses, and not be afraid that people might notice me or my curves. I would be less angry and more forgiving. I would listen to others and just assume that people liked me.
My life would be easier, fuller, more colorful and less scattered, more daring and less protected, more fun and less irrational.
My friends would envy my centered-ness and my energy, or maybe not notice.
My family would tell me that I seemed happy. My family would be relieved that it was over - the pain, the torment, the misunderstanding.
My days would pass more slowly, in a way that was more calm and more open. My days would would undoubtedly include hard work, to-do lists, and chores, but also play, relaxation, and rest.
My dreams in life would no longer be subject to excuses.

Is this possible? Might there be such thing as a world in which conflicts about food do not exist? And finally, dare you answer one of the above questions for yourself?

God's Will Be Done

2011-05-30T06:20:00.003-05:00

Vincent van Gogh, "On the Threshold of Eternity"

Cedar Heights Presbyterian Church
May 29, 2010

1 Peter 3: 13-22:

13Now who will harm you if you are eager to do what is good? 14But even if you do suffer for doing what is right, you are blessed. Do not fear what they fear, and do not be intimidated, 15but in your hearts sanctify Christ as Lord. Always be ready to make your defense to anyone who demands from you an accounting for the hope that is in you; 16yet do it with gentleness and reverence. Keep your conscience clear, so that, when you are maligned, those who abuse you for your good conduct in Christ may be put to shame. 17For it is better to suffer for doing good, if suffering should be God’s will, than to suffer for doing evil. 18For Christ also suffered for sins once for all, the righteous for the unrighteous, in order to bring you to God. He was put to death in the flesh, but made alive in the spirit, 19in which also he went and made a proclamation to the spirits in prison, 20who in former times did not obey, when God waited patiently in the days of Noah, during the building of the ark, in which a few, that is, eight persons, were saved through water. 21And baptism, which this prefigured, now saves you — not as a removal of dirt from the body, but as an appeal to God for a good conscience, through the resurrection of Jesus Christ, 22who has gone into heaven and is at the right hand of God, with angels, authorities, and powers made subject to him.

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As many of you know, during the work-week, I serve Care Initiatives Hospice as their Spiritual Care and Bereavement Counselor. Eligibility for hospice depends on a physician's certification that, if his or her illness runs its normal course, a patient’s life expectancy is six months or less. That being the case, my primary role as chaplain is to accompany patients and their families as they prepare for and eventually experience death.

In his 2005 commencement address to the graduates of Stanford University, Steve Jobs, CEO of Apple Computer and Pixar Animation Studios, said of his 2004 cancer diagnosis, “This was the closest I've been to facing death, and I hope it's the closest I get for a few more decades. Having lived through it, I can now say this to you with a bit more certainty than when death was a useful but purely intellectual concept: No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there.”

I would have to agree. And from my experience, I’d say not only do people not want to die, but nor do they want to witness death, talk about death, or acknowledge that death has occurred. Death makes people, even Christians who believe in the promise of the resurrection and everlasting life, wildly uncomfortable. And so, we avoid it, circuitously rerouting conversations from the direct and painful to the clichéd, hackneyed, and hastily delivered.

“He’s in a better place,” I hear regularly. Or, “Everything happens for a reason.” And what about, “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.” Or the fan favorite, “I know exactly how you feel,” a platitude usually followed by something along the lines of, “My cat died just last week.” While undoubtedly good intentioned, the fact remains that these words are seldom comforting.

I mention this pet peeve and occupational hazard not to chastise or embarrass, but rather to explain my initial knee-jerk reaction to today’s text. “Now who will harm you if you are eager to do what is good?” writes Peter. “But even if you do suffer for doing what is right, you are blessed.” And then again, later, “For it is better to suffer for doing what is good, if suffering should be God’s will, than to suffer for doing evil. For Christ also suffered for sins once for all, the righteous for the unrighteous.” From my own context, Peter’s words seem to dismiss the persecution, pain, and suffering of the Christians to whom he wrote, explaining it away as a natural consequence of the faithful imitation of Christ and, as such, God’s will.

Peter, however, did not write from my context. According to [Pacific Theological Seminary] New Testament scholar David Balch, “The social tensions and the suffering reflected in [1 Peter] are best explained by the conversion of Gentiles who were at home in Greco-Roman culture to Christianity, which was a despised, foreign religion…” Roman society was hierarchical, and suspicions about foreign religions included the fear that conversion would impair such established hierarchical relationships and cause slaves and women, for example, to misbehave.

Eventually, it would.

Placed in a social context whose core values were most basically rejected, then, newly converted Christians faced the problem of slander and misunderstanding from their neighbors, former friends, and families. Now certainly, Christians were not to go out of their way to be offensive or condemnatory, but, says Balch, “In the final analysis, when Christian values conflicted with those of the society around them, Christians were to remain faithful to their core convictions, even when that entailed suffering, however undeserved it may have seemed.” Their example, of course, was Christ, who also suffered unjustly. Yet just as Christ did not abandon the world, neither were his followers to do that.

This month alone, world news headlines have included increased unrest in the Middle East, record flooding along the Mississippi River, and the deadliest tornado in half a century in Joplin, Missouri. As a nation, we continue to struggle with poverty and unemployment. And in our own neighborhoods, churches, and schools, we are plagued daily by the effects of numerous afflictions, including cancer, obesity, and mental illness, to name only a few. And as if that weren’t enough, the price of gas is up, you’re in the slow line again, and the colicky baby got the seat right behind yours.

Suffering, it seems, is ubiquitous. Until God’s kingdom comes, it is our reality. And as hard as that is to talk about, in today’s text, Peter addresses it head on. Peter goes beyond the question, “Why do bad things happen to good people?” and seems to affirm, simply, “Bad things happen to good people.” Maybe even because they are good people. And what are we to do? We are to keep being good people.

Now “goodness,” in the latter part of the first century, probably implied a certain degree of passivity and submission, including Peter’s directives in chapter two and the earlier part of chapter three that slaves accept the authority of their masters, wives accept the authority of their husbands, and husbands show consideration for their wives as, of course, the weaker sex.

Today, though, I am more comfortable with Christ’s own answer to our very question: “Teacher,” we ask, as did the Pharisees, “Which commandment in the law is the greatest?The ‘good-est.’ What does it mean to be good?” To which Jesus responds, again and again, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

In today’s text, Peter asks us – tells us – to do good. In the midst of persecution, pain, and suffering, love God. When disaster strikes, when disease claims a loved one, and when day-to-day frustration outweighs joy, love your neighbor. And when it hurts the most, says Peter, when you are convinced that you will die, remember Christ: Christ who avoided easy platitudes and hackneyed explanations and chose, instead, to join his people, to listen to them, and to hurt with them. With us. “But truly God has listened,” reads Psalm 66. “God has given heed to the words of my prayer.”

“Christ also suffered for sins,” says Peter, “once for all.” Once...for all. Augsburg College professor Karl Jacobson says, “While this may seem a relatively small matter to get hung up on, it is not. Christ’s suffering over sin is a single and singular act. Its power and efficacy are not diminished over time. Christ suffered for sins - all sins - once; his suffering, death and resurrection have done sin in. Once and for all.”

He continues, “Christ suffered for all sins, and baptism is how we are joined to his resurrection - his victory over suffering, sin, and death. Noah found favor with God in the face of the world's wickedness. Noah's righteousness saved him. Baptism now saves you.”

The believers in today’s lesson are not going to be saved by quietly taking blows, nor does Peter encourage them to do so, as my uninformed knee jerk reaction assumed. But neither are they to be paralyzed by their pain. Peter not only encourages and instructs these early Christians in their identity as secured for them by Christ, but also challenges them with a commission. Their Lord who is now master of heaven and earth has already endured humiliation and suffering and been vindicated, and now their suffering may be an occasion to bear witness to this truth and the freedom it entails.

More specifically, Peter’s question of what to do in light of the reality of suffering is answered in two ways: one religious and one ethical.

The religious answer is that we do not abandon the life of love simply because it hasn’t earned us total freedom from suffering on earth. Nor do we believe our own suffering to merit us eternal life. The religious answer is that we have faith that Jesus’ suffering frees us from the eternal suffering that comes from sin. We mark that faith with baptism. That faith shouldn’t keep us from pursuing justice here and now, but that faith should lead us to express gratitude to God and to persevere humbly and courageously in dealing with the suffering that cannot be avoided, the suffering on earth. The religious answer is a more concrete formulation of the first part of the dual love command: the command that we love the Lord our God.

The ethical answer is that, given the basic fact of suffering, we show compassion to our neighbors who suffer whenever we can. We don’t offer easy, disingenuous answers to our neighbors’ questions about death, disease, and pain. We don’t leave them to their own devices. We sit with them, we listen to them, and we try to help them heal as best we can whenever we can. The ethical answer is compassion, and is a more concrete formulation of the second part of the dual love command: the command that we love our neighbor as ourselves.

Friends, I am afraid that I leave you today where I, myself, am left. Is suffering God’s will? I can’t believe that it is. But will we continue to suffer for no apparent reason, “the righteous for the unrighteous?” I believe we will. And I believe that just as Christ did so with unmitigated love for God and neighbor, so must we. Because, in the end, righteous or not, is love God’s will? I believe it is. Absolutely. Yes.

Amen.

Remember Your Death

2011-05-28T08:32:00.003-05:00

Photo by Pete Ashton

by Steve Jobs

When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: "If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you'll most certainly be right." It made an impression on me, and since then, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: "If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?" And whenever the answer has been "No" for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.

Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything - all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure - these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.

About a year ago I was diagnosed with cancer... The doctors told me this was almost certainly a type of cancer that was incurable, and that I should expect to live no longer than three to six months... Later that evening I had a biopsy... I was sedated, but my wife, who was there, told me that when they viewed the cells under a microscope the doctors started crying, because it turned out to be a very rare form of pancreatic cancer that is curable with surgery. I had the surgery, and I'm fine now.

This was the closest I've been to facing death, and I hope it's the closest I get for a few more decades. Having lived through it, I can now say this to you with a bit more certainty than when death was a useful but purely intellectual concept: No one wants to die.

Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there. And yet Death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life's change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now the new is you, but someday not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it is quite true.

Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma - which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.

Source: 2005 Stanford University Commencement Address

Gateway to Holy Ground

2011-05-16T19:25:00.009-05:00

Photo courtesy of Surat Lozowick

Today's guest post is by another friend of mine from seminary, Ashley-Anne Masters. In addition to a fabulously dry wit and gorgeous southern charm, Ashley-Anne Masters is ordained in the Presbyterian Church (USA) and currently serves as Pediatric Chaplain at Children's Memorial Hospital in Chicago and as Conference Coordinator for PC(USA) events. Her recent published works include Holding Hope: Guidance for Grieving Pregnancy Loss During Advent, Knee Deep in Ashes, and Bless Her Heart: Life as a Young Clergywoman.

I love this piece. I think adds a nuanced interpretation of what it means to honor our hunger, even if that hunger presents itself for emotional reasons. For example, because sweet baby Jesus seemed to forget spring in Iowa this year, yours truly spent a part of the last 95 degree day sweaty and annoyed in line at, you guessed it, McDonalds. As you may know, a Reese's McFlurry is capable of curing all sorts of ills.

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I’ve often found it to be an oxymoron that McDonald’s exists in many hospitals. While french fries, cheeseburgers, and McFlurries are great comfort food, they aren’t so much the most healthy option. However, in the past two hospitals where I’ve served as a chaplain, I have found those Golden Arches to be the gateway to holy ground.

I’ve shared communion with a family outside the ICU with chicken nuggets and Sprite. I’ve taken a McFlurry to a teenage boy who was having a horrible day once he found out he would be in the hospital another 4 weeks. I took a large “real Coke” to a grieving mother who, when I asked what she needed in that moment responded, “I need a real Coke and a funeral service, but I need the Coke first.” I shared biscuits and coffee with adult children of an 88-year-old woman while we sang “Morning Has Broken” as she died just as the sun was coming up that morning. I’ve taken fruit and yogurt breakfast parfaits to ER nurses after a long trauma in the wee hours of the night. I’ve seen family members of patients while we were all standing in line at McDonald’s and they’ve shared all kinds of emotions and thoughts they couldn’t or wouldn’t share in front of their loved one in the hospital room.

As I found myself in line again at McDonald’s on Sunday at an odd hour after hours in the Pediatric ICU, I heard one father sharing his fears about his daughter’s condition with her youth pastor, I heard a mother telling her 6-year-old that since she was so brave during her little brother’s tests, she could get a Happy Meal, and I heard a sister comforting her brother who was scared about his daughter’s condition.

McDonald’s isn’t very healthy for our hearts and arteries, but I know and believe it is good for our souls. Even as adults, we all have days where we need someone to tell us how brave we are and buy us a Happy Meal. So, the next time you do something outside of your comfort zone, or offer care to a friend, or interview for a job, or have a hard conversation, or take a family member to a doctor’s appointment, drive on through the Golden Arches and get a little soul food in the form of nuggets, a large “real Coke,” or a McFlurry. Being all grown up takes an awful lot of bravery some days, and you’re never too old for a Happy Meal.

Fool Me Once

2011-05-07T14:52:00.008-05:00

Image courtesy of J.Crew

Dear Pants,

First, let me just say how wonderful it was to see you again recently. It had been far too long. The winter seemed interminable, didn't it? A part of me wondered if spring would ever come. But come it did, at last, and with it, a much anticipated visit with you.

I hope you know that I think the world of you. You're a classic, as they say. And nicknames like "the everyday chino" and "the perfect khaki" hardly do you justice. You're more than a wardrobe staple or fashion statement. You usher in seasons, Pants. You ease the oftentimes turbulent transition from work day to happy hour and from work week to weekend. You encourage comfort and relaxation but do not shirk activity, errands or exercise. You make me feel more "girl next door" beautiful than a pair of jeans, and my husband loves you, which is no small endorsement.

All that said, I realize that I may have set you up for failure. Maybe I asked for heartache. Perhaps I unfairly built up our rendezvous, putting pressure on both you and me. Oh, if I had a nickel for every time...

Regardless, it seems important for me to tell you that, last week, Pants, you hurt me. You dug into my sides and chafed my tummy. You constricted my thighs and flattened my rear end. I gave you time to loosen up, to relax - I know it was a long winter for you, too - but time after time after time I shifted, only to become ever more aware of your presence, at once so agreeable, now merciless, punishing, and wearisome.

I should have known, I suppose. I should have expected that it wouldn't be long weekends and warm washes that would do us in. And yet, I have come so far in the last couple of years; I have grown into a strong, confident woman. And so naturally, I thought I was ready for a committed relationship. But it seems I have grown too much even for you.

You know how this makes me feel, right? You know the places to which it lures me, beckoning, temping. I want to go there. I want to remind myself that the reason such things happen again and again is because I am and will ever after be less than, not good enough. I want to listen to the taunting voice telling me that I am inadequate, untalented, and, to top it all off, fat. I hear the words repeated in my ears and I want to make them my mantras: love handles, muffin top, belly, belly, belly... I want to dive headfirst into something - anything - that might save me, a fitness fad, a diet, a disorder.

...At which point I can honestly say that, Pants, it's not you, it's me. It's not you that makes me feel insufficient and defective. It's not you that makes me want to get out the big black marker and go to town. It's not you that makes restriction seem like a valid option, just this once, just for today. It's me. I allow that to happen.

But here's the thing. That day? I didn't. I shimmied my way out of the discomfort and angst and into a pair of yoga pants. I folded you neatly, without resentment or regret, and placed you into the drawer. A woman of greater conviction might have gotten rid of you altogether, and perhaps that day will come. But, to be honest, there's a part of me that doesn't want to believe it's over between us. Yet.

For now, I hope that we can still be friends. Given some time and space, maybe the day will come when we can try again. If it does, mark my words, Pants, I will proceed with caution, with lower expectations, and lower stakes. After all, you've no doubt heard the saying: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

And, well, Pants, I've got no time for shame.

Exposed Indulgence

2011-04-30T09:02:00.011-05:00

Happy Meal

The above work is part of a series of hyperrealistic paintings - yes, paintings - of and by New York artist Lee Price. According to a recent article in Sociological Images, Price draws two contrasts.

First, she makes very public something we are supposed to do only in private. Not only do the paintings literally display the transgression, the birds eye view and frequent nudity exaggerates the sheer display of the indulgence. And, second, she takes something that is supposedly disgusting and shameful and presents it in a medium associated with [high] art, challenging the association of indulgence with poor character and a lack of refinement.

Similarly, BUST magazine contributor Emily McCombs, writes:

One one level, her work is about compulsivity: the aerial view is meant to conjure the sensation of watching oneself engage in a compulsive behavior and being unable to stop it. That aspect seems to resonate for many - Price often hears her work referred to as "binge paintings" or "bulimia paintings." But she asserts that the images of women in repose surrounded by unrestricted portions of decadent treats can also be seen as a kind of liberation from the constant monitoring of food choices that so many engage in.

"In this society, there's so much pressure for women to be thin," says Price. We're not supposed to have appetites - and not just for food, but for a lot of things. We're the givers and not the consumers, and I think some of my recent paintings are about the women starting at the viewers and saying, 'I'm not going to censor my appetite.'"

Price hopes that her self-portraits will "open up a dialogue about the taboo subject of women and food." "A lot of times," she says, "I feel like people are skirting the issues, like they don't want to discuss the content. I'm surprised how few people ask me what they're about. I feel like it makes people uncomfortable." Um, yeah. Ya' think? Price continues, "But I'm painting them and I'm displaying them. I'm not really trying to hide anything. I'm putting something on the table, like, 'Here, look at this. Maybe you can relate to this.'"

Jelly Doughnuts

A friend of mine actually emailed me about Price's pieces not too long ago. "It's interesting," she said. "I'm not sure what I think about it, yet. I think it's almost so familiar, it's unnerving. I feel exposed."

"I can't decide," I responded. "You're so right about it being unnerving. I wonder what the artist would say? Is it her intention to reveal a shameful act? Or to normalize an innocuous act that only society has made shameful? There's something to her being naked around the food, I think? Like it's supposed to be unnerving, undressing, even. Like it's supposed to stay behind closed doors. Oof. Trippy."

And then just yesterday, my friend wrote back, "It's so interesting to me how she talks about it being both about compulsion and liberation. I don't see liberation when I look at these - rebellion maybe, probably because of the baggage I bring to them. I can't imagine being the woman in any of these and feeling anything close to liberated. But I suppose the exercise of staring at them and trying to imagine how I might be the girl in the bathroom surrounded by 'bad' food but not miserable is kind of liberating in itself... I'm imagining binging and not doing it for self-loathing, punishing or rebellious reasons. It's kind of weird how that is literally beyond the scope of something I can conceive of in reality. Anyway, they're so charged."

Refuge

Blueberry Pancakes

Sunday

Indeed, Price's paintings are nothing if not charged. And for some reason or another, I cannot look away.

+++

What do you think, friends? What is your initial reaction? What happens in your body when you look at them? Is there one rendering that you find particularly interesting? Troubling? Liberating? And what about that liberation piece, anyway? Do you buy it?

Practice Resurrection

2011-04-24T05:00:00.003-05:00

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

by Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion - put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Hallelujah, amen!

[Good] Friday

2011-04-21T21:09:00.003-05:00

Photo courtesy of gynti_46

End of Days

by Marge Piercy

Almost always with cats, the end
comes creeping over the two of you—
she stops eating, his back legs
no longer support him, she leans
to your hand and purrs but cannot
rise—sometimes a whimper of pain
although they are stoic. They see
death clearly though hooded eyes.

Then there is the long weepy
trip to the vet, the carrier no
longer necessary, the last time
in your lap. The injection is quick.
Simply they stop breathing
in your arms. You bring them
home to bury in the flower garden,
planting a bush over a deep grave.

That is how I would like to cease,
held in a lover's arms and quickly
fading to black like an old-fashioned
movie embrace. I hate the white
silent scream of hospitals, the whine
of pain like air-conditioning's hum.
I want to click the off switch.
And if I can no longer choose

I want someone who loves me
there, not a doctor with forty patients
and his morality to keep me sort
of, kind of alive or sort of undead.
Why are we more rational and kinder
to our pets than to ourselves or our
parents? Death is not the worst
thing; denying it can be.

from The Hunger Moon: New and Selected Poems, 1980 - 2010. via The Writer's Almanac.

+++

By no means is this the same; the family cat does not equal Jesus, nor am I suggesting it is so. But somehow, today, these words seemed relevant. Applicable.

May we approach Good Friday with the same reverence and awe with which we move ever nearer to Easter. Let us not deny the darkness, for after the darkness - indeed, because of the darkness - comes light. Comes life.

2011-04-15T06:17:00.006-05:00

via Beth :: via Wild Guess

Carrying the Weight

2011-04-13T19:40:00.009-05:00

Permission for use of image granted by RunRevRun

The following piece was written by my friend, Sarah Walker Cleaveland. Sarah is a Spiritual Director and PhD student studying Christian Spirituality at the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley, CA. Her writing is a gift, graceful and life-giving. I am honored to have her words - and her wisdom - here.

+++

It’s amazing how quickly twenty extra pounds can become the new normal. I’ve been fortunate and frustrated that my weight has been constant ever since high school. A few pounds on here, a few pounds off there, but basically the same. Marriage added five pounds, for which I blame my husband completely, but otherwise, it stays the same.

Pregnancy, however, changed all that. When we lost our twin boys 19 weeks into the pregnancy I had already gained twenty pounds. (God only knows how much I would have weighed if we had been able to carry them to full term.) Having never been pregnant before, I figured that once I had given birth the weight would disappear. That only seemed fair. No babies, no baby weight. Anything else would go against my inherent belief in the karmic justice of the universe.

The universe failed me.

After the boys were born I had only lost five pounds. And, five months later, I’ve only lost a few more.

You would think that the death of twin boys and our grief surrounding that loss would be all-consuming. What is a few extra pounds in the face of such a loss? But, if I’m honest, on a day to day basis, it is the extra weight that bothers me the most. Maybe it is that the death of babies is too big to grasp most days, too big to carry around when the rest of life goes on. Or maybe it is simply that extra weight is the only thing that is tangibly different in my life now that we are no longer pregnant. Whatever the reason, the weight bothers me.

I told my spiritual advisor about it one day. It's so frustrating I complained. And I'm so frustrated that this is the aspect of our loss that frustrates me the most. Sounds normal she said. Sounds like you are carrying the weight of this loss with you in more ways than one. Oh I thought.

Oh.

I had never thought about it like that. Maybe, she continued, maybe someday when you are ready, you will be comfortable with the weight of all of this, which isn't to say that you can't lose it when the time is right, but maybe accepting it is the first step. Oh I thought.

Oh.

That was three months ago and the weight still lingers. I still find it frustrating and aggravating. I still think the universe is karmically unjust. I still struggle with it. But I’m learning. I’m learning to be more gentle with myself and my body. I’m learning to treat myself like a small child instead of a wayward soldier. Rather than using my interior voice to yell at myself, to chastise myself when I eat what I shouldn’t or fail to work out, I’m working on pretending my inner voice is a kindergarten teacher speaking to a sad and upset five year old. I’m learning to give myself second, and third, and fourth, and hundredth chances. I’m learning to start over each day, to begin again. And, it’s getting a little easier. And, the weight is coming off (slowly, oh so slowly). Most weeks it feels like taking two steps forward and three steps backward. But I’m learning. I’m learning to carry this weight for as long as it is with me.

Knowing My Own Strength

2011-04-10T06:05:00.011-05:00

Photo courtesy of Jenica26

On Friday, March 25th, I woke up with a hankering for french toast. And by "hankering," I mean that, in fact, I was willing to go to great lengths to be able to sit down with a plate of the sweet, doughy alchemy. Atlanta, GA did not seem to be too far. There is a cafe there, near where I attended graduate school, called "Sun in My Belly." Apparently, when Picasso was asked what it was that compelled him to create, his response was "the sun in my belly." It compels me to create, too: a percussion-heavy score of stomach growls, barks, and bellows, long lists of lusted after food items for which I would cover long stretches of bleak highway, and the reacquisition of a syrupy southern accent with which even my grandmother could not compete. And I quote, "Challah French Toast Stuffed with Honeyed Ricotta and served with Brown Sugar Glazed Berries + Maple Syrup." I rest my case.

My faraway motherland being quite within the realm of possibilities, so, for that matter, was a trip to my neighborhood grocery store. I lay in bed contemplating just how efficiently I could acquire the necessary ingredients when I remembered that I had a date. At the gym. With a trainer.

I thought about calling, feigning one phlegm-laden ailment or another. I thought about texting, something along the lines of, "ICMI" - short for "I can't make it" - "because MDAMTS" - short for "my dog ate my tennis shoes." I thought about rolling over and claiming later that, oh, shoot, I've thought today was Thursday all day! What a ditz I am!

I wish I could say, lying there beneath layers of down (because I live in Iowa, you'll remember, and so March 25th means a high of only 36 degrees and, that being relatively balmy after a snowstorm-studded winter, a flood warning), I dug deep and found that reserve of determination, of heart and perseverance. I wish I could say that, as my high school basketball coach so often demanded, I "opened up a can." (A can of what? you might ask. That, sweet friends, would be a can of whoop ass. Let's just say she was a little rough around the edges.) But alas, the factor necessitating my eventual move out from under the covers and into my cotton-spandex blend was that I am a downright pitiful liar, especially before a cup of coffee.

So, albeit reluctantly, off to the gym I went. I gave myself permission to take it easy. I took a magazine and some music along for the ride. And upon entering, I announced boldly and confidently that, well, I'd rather be eating french toast.

What happened next was nothing short of miraculous, à la Lazarus. (Think what you will about my propensity towards melodrama. This was for real.) Over the course of thirty minutes, and with some squats and curls mixed in, I did 135 push-ups. One hundred thirty-five. CXXXV. Seriously? Seriously!

Not in recent history, at least not since the marathon two [long] summers ago, have I felt so strong. So capable. So proud. All of a sudden, I realized that every bit of my imperfect body was working together in perfect harmony, from my stubby toes to my soft stomach to my...arms - oh, what to say about my arms? I respected them, to be honest. I respected myself.

Before I left, I asked my trainer, "Have you ever met anyone so strong?" "Never," he said, wisely. As if he had a choice. And then again, at this single moment, it didn't matter what he or anyone else thought, because I knew something precious, something true. I am strong. And though that day, it took 135 push-ups to prove it, I'd like to think that, from that point forward, it will be only one of any number of examples proving that which I already know. I am strong. I am freaking strong.

As for my hankering for french toast? Well, I have a sneaking suspicion that it wasn't about the french toast at all.

The People Beyond the Page

2011-04-09T12:28:00.009-05:00

Several weeks ago, a friend of mine sent me an email asking for my advice. "I have a close friend," she said, "who, I am fairly certain, is suffering from anorexia. Another friend and I are planning to talk to her this week about our concerns. We are very frightened that if we do not do it soon - we will lose her. I care about her deeply and don't want to see her suffering like this." She sought out my thoughts because, she said, "I know how open you have been with all that you are going through. That, and, "the more information we can get on how to handle this delicate conversation, the better."

Just last week, at work, a family member of one of our patient's shared with a nurse on our team her increasing concern for her sister. "She is more tired. She's tired all the time," she said to her father's nurse. "And she's getting thin." Not wanting to pry into what seemed personal, family business, the nurse asked only general, relatively vague questions: "What do you think might be going on?" "Is there anything that we can do?" Eventually, she revealed that her sister had suffered from eating disorders in the past, and, now faced with the imminent death of their father, it seemed possible that she might be suffering again.

Last night at dinner, Dan told me that earlier in the week, at the gym, he had seen what he deemed "the skinniest girl ever." "She was smiling and talked to everyone at the gym. And normally," he said, "I wouldn't have questioned it. I would have figured she was 'just skinny.'" He continued, "But knowing what I know now, I had to wonder if she was happy, because, whatever the reason, she was clearly unhealthy."

The National Eating Disorders Association reports that, in the United States, as many as 10 million females and 1 million males are fighting a life and death battle with an eating disorder such as anorexia or bulimia. Millions more are struggling with binge eating disorder. For females between fifteen to twenty-four years old who suffer from anorexia nervosa, the mortality rate associated with the illness is twelve times higher than the death rate of all other causes of death. Anorexia nervosa has the highest premature fatality rate of any mental illness.

In a 2003 review of literature, Dutch psychiatrists H. Hoek and D. van Hoeken found a rise in incidence of anorexia in young women 15-19 in each decade since 1930. The incidence of bulimia in 10-39 year old women tripled between 1988 and 1993. Still, only one-third of people with anorexia in the community and only 6% of people with bulimia receive mental health care.

I share these stories and these statistics only to say what many of you already know all too well, that is, that anorexia, bulimia, binge eating disorder, and eating disorders not otherwise specified (EDNOS) are real. I read blogs and journal articles and emails every single day that chronicle the ache and the torment that people suffering from eating disorders feel. And yet, if I am honest, I have to admit that sometimes, despite my own tumultuous relationship with food and my body, it is easier for me to keep the stories on the page. It is simpler and safer and less overwhelming for me to consider only the intellectual properties eating disorders, their prevalence and prevention, and to speak only of my history of anorexia, bulimia, and binge eating disorder.

What is more difficult is to consider that each of these millions of Americans is a human being with a face, with friends and family, with feelings. It is far more painful for me to open my heart to the deep hunger and wild insecurity felt by each woman and man, girl and boy, for whom calorie counts and control hold sway. And it is indescribably more exhausting, more exposing and more complicating to tell you that I still, everyday, struggle with what I can or should eat, with how I feel about and talk to and treat my body, and with what it means for me to be a woman in this big, bad world.

Dan often finds it helpful to pose the question, "So what?" Not in the "why the hell do I care?" way - I'm fairly certain he knows better than that at this point - but in the "what are you going to do about it?" way, the "how is this going to inform, direct, and change you?" way. In this particular case, is important to him that I remember that, first of all, it doesn't do anyone any good for me, having personalized and internalized the reality of eating disorders, to become sad, to sulk. The fact is, I have come a long way, and just because others have not does not translate into a necessary assumption of their burdens. Simply, empathy need not equal regression. Secondly, and similarly, Dan wants me to remember that, though the above consideration inspires me to recommit to helping those who still suffer, I cannot and will not be able to help everyone.

So what? Honestly, I'm not sure, but I think it might have something to do with the posture I assume as I make my way through my days. Knowing what I know and allowing myself to remember and understand and feel even a bit of the pain of those who suffer - even a bit of my own pain - I suspect that I will tread more lightly, more humbly and more compassionately. That I will look more deeply and more sincerely into the eyes of those who surround me. And that I will attempt again today to be a little gentler towards and a little more forgiving of the one for whom eating disorders were once the only reality - me.

I am Learning

2011-04-08T06:09:00.005-05:00

Image courtesy of Bruno Sersocima

Imperfection

by Elizabeth Carlson

I am falling in love

with my imperfections

The way I never get the sink really clean,
forget to check my oil,
lose my car in parking lots,
miss appointments I have written down,
am just a little late.

I am learning to love

the small bumps on my face
the big bump of my nose,
my hairless scalp,

chipped nail polish,
toes that overlap.
Learning to love

the open-ended mystery
of not knowing why

I am learning to fail

to make lists,
use my time wisely,
read the books I should.

Instead I practice inconsistency,
irrationality, forgetfulness.

Probably I should
hang my clothes neatly in the closet
all the shirts together, then the pants,
send Christmas cards, or better yet
a letter telling of

my perfect family.

But I'd rather waste time
listening to the rain,
or lying underneath my cat

learning to purr.

I used to fill every moment

with something I could
cross off later.

Perfect was

the laundry done and folded
all my papers graded
the whole truth and nothing but

Now the empty mind is what I seek
the formless shape
the strange off center
sometimes fictional

me.

From Teaching with Fire via Inward/Outward

Grown-Ups

2011-04-03T10:34:00.005-05:00

Image courtesy of xkcd

More. Better. Best. Enough.

2011-03-28T19:11:00.017-05:00

Photo by Benn Photo

I recently read a fascinating article in The Atlantic called, "Secret Fears of the Super-Rich" that interpreted an effort by Boston College’s Center on Wealth and Philanthropy to determine exactly how the American wealthy think and live. For the purposes of the study, a survey was sent out to which roughly 165 "super-rich" households responded, 120 of which have at least $25 million in assets. The respondents’ average net worth is $78 million, and two report being billionaires. According to The Atlantic, "Most of the survey’s respondents are wealthy enough to ensure that in any catastrophe short of Armageddon, they will still be dining on Chateaubriand while the rest of us are spit-roasting rats over trash-can fires."

"The study is titled 'The Joys and Dilemmas of Wealth,'" reads the article, "but given that the joys tend to be self-evident, it focuses primarily on the dilemmas. The respondents turn out to be a generally dissatisfied lot, whose money has contributed to deep anxieties involving love, work, and family. Indeed, they are frequently dissatisfied even with their sizable fortunes." According to the study, most of the respondents still do not consider themselves financially secure. "For that, they say, they would require on average one quarter more wealth than they currently possess." So that aforementioned billionaire? He won't be satisfied until he is a billion-and-a-quarter-aire. Oof.

It struck me as sad, as cliché and as, quite frankly, exhausting. "Chill!" I found myself wanting to say. (To whom? I don't know, Mr. Gates and his unnamed cronies, I suppose. Interestingly enough, "Chill!" is also a command I've come to use with my dog. Cesar would disapprove, I am sure, but I think Samson's getting it.) "Relax!" I wanted to tell them. "Put your feet up. Get a massage! Have a flipping drink!" I felt the need to remind them they were, ahem, millionaires. That's six dad-blamed zeros, with any number of numbers before them.

The article goes on, though, to explain the psychology of it all. "Just as the human body didn’t evolve to deal well with today’s easy access to abundant fat and sugars, and will crave an extra cheeseburger when it shouldn’t," says the author, Graeme Wood, "the human mind didn’t evolve to deal with excess money, and will desire more long after wealth has become a burden rather than a comfort." There is, apparently, a vast body of psychological evidence that shows that the pleasures of consumption wear off over time and depend heavily on one’s frame of reference. "Most of us, for instance, occasionally spoil ourselves with outbursts of deliberate and perhaps excessive consumption: a fancy spa treatment, dinner at an expensive restaurant, a shopping spree. In the case of the very wealthy, such forms of consumption can become so commonplace as to lose all psychological benefit: constant luxury is, in a sense, no luxury at all. In other words, there comes a point at which one cannot, simply, get no satisfaction.

For me, it seems odd to think that one million dollars and then some could be in any way be insufficient. But could I be more stylist and have trendier get-ups and doodads? Absolutely. Could I have fewer sun spots or scars or, I don't know, unflattering Facebook pictures? You bet your tight little butt. Could I be healthier, more balanced, thinner? Well now, of course I could. And so it becomes clear that the distance between the rich thinking they could be richer and everyone in the free world thinking they could be, somehow, better is but an elementary hop, skip, and jump. And though it seems easy for me to point fingers at the "super-rich," when it comes to seeking out the bigger and better, I am as guilty as they come.

My sister recently emailed me with the link to her wedding registry. She wanted my thoughts on "everyday china." Ever the good sister and matron of honor, I found the pattern that I thought to be most suitable for her. I also found the perfect addition to my own china acquired not even one year ago, and for a few prolonged moments, I lusted after it. More.

I remember needling Dan about proposing almost immediately after we'd made the huge decision to move in together. And after he'd proposed, I was ready to get married. He insisted, during both of these highly significant chapters, however, that we enjoy where we were, that we spend time feeling out the stages in which we found ourselves. He wanted to date. He wanted to be "engaged." I wanted to move on. I wanted whatever was next, whatever was "better."

Not long ago, an out-of-town friend asked me how work was going. I told her that it was good and bad, fulfilling and disappointing. I told her how my dad used to say that we kids needed to find our passion and make it our work; that we needed to discern the livelihood that would not only contribute to the world but also get us out of bed in the morning. Was this that? I wondered aloud to her. What this the best that was out there, the best I could do?

I bought rain boots yesterday. Yellow ones from Target. Was it raining outside? No. Was there rain in the forecast? No. But would it probably rain and some point of the course of the spring? Well, yeah. I couldn't possible face spring without them. Without them, I didn't have enough. Without them, I wasn't enough.

More. Better. Best. Enough.

In some ways, I think that this motivation to move onward and upward must be a part of the wider American ethos. It is this desire for more - and this belief that we can achieve and even deserve more - that has made us the great nation that we are. A nation of immigrants turned business people. A nation of free speech and representative government, civil rights and American Idol. (I know what you're thinking. Just go with it.)

But in other ways, I think that it is a problem. I'm sure you've heard it said before; if one is always looking ahead at what might come next, what one hopes or fears might lie just around the bend, one can never fully experience the present. We're afraid, I think, that if we relax - if we stop moving forward at full, furious speed and simply stay put - we will die. To "settle," it seems, has come to be synonymous with failure, with giving up on oneself or one's dreams.

I want to believe otherwise. I want to believe that to "settle" is to come to a point where one is ~~just, simply,~~ boldly, magnificently comfortable in one's skin, happy with the decisions one has made and confident in the karmic trajectory that one has set in motion. I want to believe that to "settle" is to refute society's claim that in order to be good or successful or well-liked we must do more and buy more. I want to believe that to "settle" is actually synonymous with wild, radical, active self-acceptance, with the knowledge that ultimately, finally, one is - I am - enough. Right now. Just as I am.

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You might also be interested to know that I thought about calling this post "Mo' Money, Mo' Problems." Notorious B.I.G., may you rest in peace.

Wannabe

2011-03-19T11:08:00.009-05:00

Yesterday, I met a woman who told me I "look like a runner." "Thanks," I said, and I had half a mind to just go with it. That's right, lady, picture me running. Picture me long, lean, and nimble. Picture me confident and carefree. And fast as the wind. Yeah, picture me that way, too. But I thought better of it, as part of my job frowns upon fabrication. "I once completed a marathon," I said. "But that was awhile ago, and my husband once told me I run like a hedgehog." True story.

I have a love-hate relationship with running. I love how I feel after I've finished running. But I hate everything else about it.

And yet - and yet! - I continue to try. I continue to climb on the dread-I-mean-treadmill and I continue to find myself dying to stop after approximately 2 1/2 minutes. (The first minute I feel like a badass, convinced that this time will be different, this time I will surprise myself and those around me, increasing my speed and incline effortlessly, slinging sweat onto the unsuspecting machine's overworked parts. The second minute I begin to assure myself that I'll get used to the pounding in my heart and anaerobic anxiety. And 'round about minute three, I promise myself that I'll do better next time, if only (wheeze) I can stop (gasp) now (hack).) I continue to read running blogs and buy running magazines. I continue to make resolutions to run more/outside/a half marathon/for charity/at all. And I continue to disappoint myself.

I want to be a runner. I want to be one of those people who has a stressful day and, instead of saying, "I need a beer," or, "I need a nap," or, "I need a day's worth of calories as quickly as possible," says, "I need to go for a run." I want to be one of those people who just loses track of time and distance and - oops! - accidentally runs for eight miles instead of three. I want to be one of those people who can meet her friends for an afternoon jog and a) keep up, b) communicate, and c) maintain control of my bowels.

I want to stand in solidarity with those across the planet who need only a pair of running shoes and a hearty backbone to get their kicks. Not high-tech gadgets, not lightweight titanium frames, not even expensive, moisture-wicking gear. I want to know what it's like to be among the few and the proud who derive satisfaction from a snot rocket and a sense of achievement from a missing toenail or bloody nipple.

In 1999 and 2000, Adidas ran a pretty memorable advertising campaign. I should be grossed out. Disgusted. Instead, I am wildly, irrationally jealous.

Jimmy Carter was a runner. Bill Clinton is a runner. George Freakin'-A. Bush is a runner. P. Diddy and Oprah have run marathons. Will Ferrell finished the Boston Marathon in 3:56:12! If they can do it, can't I?

Sure I can. Or at least (pant) I can continue (wheeze) to try (gasp).

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I'd love to hear from y'all! Does this resonate with any of you? Where have you find your inspiration? Do you have any tricks of the trade that can make my 2 1/2 minutes into something for along the lines of 2 1/2 miles?

Rock Bottom, and How I Got Up (At Least This Once)

2011-03-13T19:45:00.010-05:00

Image courtesy of Jullian Angel

Addicts often talk about an experience of "hitting rock bottom." Be it precipitated by the presumably reflective season of Lent or a seemingly interminable winter, lately, I've been thinking about mine.

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Much to the distaste of many of my friends and family, I used to quite the advocate of "The 'If' Book." Indeed, to me, a perfectly satisfying evening included gathering my best friends or family together, preparing an intricate dinner with everyone crowding into the kitchen and then around the table, eating and laughing, both or either until our stomachs ached with delight, and then finally changing into our pajamas, cuddling on the couch that’s far too small for the all of us to read aloud the diverse questions of "The 'If' Book:" "If you could choose a single body part to be frozen after you have passed away, what would it be?" "If you could have a conversation with one historically significant person – dead or not – who would you choose?" "If you could be given a single compliment, what would it be?"

I distinctly remember reading this question during one of these evenings. Interesting, I thought. How almost unintentionally, or perhaps even cunningly revealing. How truly indicative of a person’s – of our – inner desires and most cherished gifts. There is a quote I included in a photo album I made for my sister after she graduated from high school; it reads, "If I could wish anything for you, it would be to have you see yourself as others see you. Then you would know how truly wonderful you are." Undeniably, this silly little book was probing the depths of our souls and the most superficial desires of our societally-driven selfhood. I found myself on the brink of tears.

I do not remember my friends’ answers to the question. Undoubtedly, they were humble, gracious, and beautifully fashioned. Such was the truly magnificent company that kept me feeling unconditionally loved and incessantly entertained. Nor do I remember the excuses I gave to buy myself more time. But rules are rules, and our (or, admittedly, my) sincerely crafted regulations included the insistence that the all those present answer whatever question the reader chose. Including the reader. Including me. That night, in the short, agonizing time between my question and my answer, somewhere in the depths of my burning psyche transpired a desperate, deeply introspective investigation.

Eventually, finally, I had it: "Genuine. Sincere. Honest. True to my beliefs and my commitments and my God-given, indisputable, indispensable self. If I had to choose to be given a single compliment, I would absolutely want to hear that I was genuine."

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Now, clearly this was not as dramatic an event as my prose thus far has suggested. However, looking back on my life throughout the years that followed, knowing and accepting and sharing my true self has been difficult for me, and at some points in my life it has become utterly impossible. I did "good deeds;" I was involved and studious and kind, but I was all the while quite malleable. I was happy, but certainly not unremittingly so, and if it was not "appropriate" to cry, I smiled. After all, the first day of your senior year, for example, marks a time of carefree bliss for everyone, regardless of whether or not one has attended her grandparents’ interment the day before. I said goodbye to Papa and Georgia - sweethearts even to their deaths, a mere four days apart - through teary eyes. But for my roommates, I painted back on a smile befitting a Davidson co-ed.

As the season progressed, though, my grief did not. I cried constantly, randomly. I left parties early so that I might be able to work out earlier, and weight that I did not have to lose continued to drop from my already emaciated frame. When I wasn't holed up in the library or the computer lab I was hidden in my room, venting to my boyfriend in Chicago, my sister in Durham, my mother in Greenville. All of them knew, I think, but I'm not sure any of them knew how much. How bad.

I was weak. I was scared. And I was tired. I was so tired.

For one particularly relaxed religion class, our professor - a feminist theologian with an inordinate nostalgia for the sixties - required that we bring with us to each class a journal entry length write-up on our reading from the night before. One of us would be asked to read this summary of sorts in class. We would receive a participation grade and move on.

My dad tells a story about how, when I was in preschool - "Pumpkin School," it was called - I recited the songs for the yearly children’s program at church with ease and excitement for months before the event. But when it came time for the big day, as Dad recalls it, “Crash and burn!” I hid behind the teachers and ultimately left the stage to sit with my parents, terrified even at this very young age of making a mistake in front of others.

Some twelve years later, having apparently learned nothing and grown not at all, I sat in a corner of Davidson's 24-hour computer lab, paralyzed by the prospect of reading aloud.

The next day, I called my sister crying. Anne, a well-rounded, outgoing sophomore at Duke, suggested that I come up for the weekend. Her roommate would be having several of her friends from Australia visiting, as well. It'd be "fun," she said. Whatever that meant. And while the next several days remain a bit blurry, I remember a) a hunky Australian attempting conversation, b) a panic attack, complete with hyperventilation and a justifiably terrified sister , c) a high-anxiety conversation with my dad on a bad cell phone with limited battery life, and d) a yellow mustang, its indecently-exposed driver, and a dead damn phone.

That day, I drove straight home. And I stayed home for a semester. I lived in the bed that kept me warm in high school. I slept and ate, bathed and breathed. I went to counseling, and made milkshakes for my brothers. I was diagnosed with clinical depression. I did a lot that meant nothing, and much more that changed my life forever. I reintroduced myself to my family, for one. For another, I reintroduced myself to myself.

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In April of that year, I traveled to Isla Bella, a “beautiful island” off the coast of Brazil, for a rejuvenating ten days with my dearest friend, Maëlle’s, family, happy residents of this breathtaking land. At the end of our time there – there were six of us – Maëlle curled up with her mother, whom I found unusually astute and inspiringly spiritual, and asked her what she thought of these women who had traveled home with Maëlle. In telling me this after we had returned to Davidson, Maëlle said she was especially struck – touched, really – by her mother’s impression of me. “She said you were genuine,” said Maëlle.

I started crying. I cried because, well, because I could. Because I knew I would laugh again soon. Because I felt like crying. I cried because I was feeling deeply, because I feel deeply, and because I know now that such emotional experience is a gift that will forever connect me to others. I cried because, in quickly taking inventory of my life, I realized that Maëlle’s sweet mother was right.

This, today, is me, honest and sincere, overwhelmingly fortunate and forever gracious, stronger because of hurt and happier because of grace. This, today, is me - athlete, student, minister, artist…daughter, sister, best friend, wife...child of God - here for real and, with the exception of that ever-unfinished experience of growth, here to stay.

Video Love

2011-03-09T18:48:00.003-06:00

I have seriously loved some of the videos floating around the blog world lately. So while I am spending my [Ash] Wednesday evening listening to my dog, Samson, growl at his reflection in the window, perhaps you could do otherwise. Enjoy!

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Could there be a more perfect title for that one? Video via Medicinal Marzipan.

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Love, love, love this, for so many reasons. A) All of those sounds are made by Peter Hollens' mouth. What??? (Side note: oh, how I miss me some Davidson Generals a capella.) B) Caitlyn Boyle and her brainchild, Operation Beautiful, are simply amazing. (For inspiration and affirmation, visit daily.) And C) Can you beat a good montage? Negative.

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A word of warning: this one's a doozy. I wish it didn't make sense to me. I pray it doesn't make sense to you.

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And finally...

Now try to tell me you don't feel better.

Both/And

2011-03-06T14:35:00.003-06:00

"Transfiguration," a Romanian copy of an icon
in Stavronikita Monastery in Mount Athos, Greece

This morning, I had the somewhat daunting task of filling the pulpit at Mount Pleasant Presbyterian Church in Atkins, Iowa. I say "somewhat daunting" because a) their minister, a good friend of mine, is a dynamite preacher and b) they asked that I preach on not just the Transfiguration of Jesus, but also, as part of a five-Sunday series on the senses of worship, the sense of taste. It was a stretch, but it transpired like so...

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Matthew 17:1-9

Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him. Then Peter said to Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. But Jesus came and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.” And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone.

As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus ordered them, “Tell no one about the vision until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.”

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In seminary, our preaching professors warned us against using “50-cent words” in places where “5-cent words” would suffice. Instead of “indiscretion” or “transgression,” for example, we should talk about sin. And rather than “elephantine” or “behemoth,” “big.” Just “big,” or, for the especially chatty, “really big.” Sure, they told us this. And then they taught us the word “liminality.” They seemed to think that, somehow, this 50-cent word was okay. And being the impressionable students we were, we ran with it.

First coined by cultural anthropologist Victor Turner, a liminal space is, essentially, the state, conscious or unconscious, of being on the “threshold.” “Liminal entities,” said Turner, “are neither here nor there; they are betwixt and between the positions assigned and arrayed by law, custom, convention, and ceremony” (95). While written in 1969 in reference to socio-cultural rites of passage, Turner’s observations resonated with the conditions of us first year seminarians. You see, we were adults, and yet, still students. We thought we had discerned a call from God, but three years of school stood between us and the fulfillment of that call. And we still felt normal, but to the world – to our friends and families – we had becomes nuns.

I want to claim that Turner’s observations and this particular 50-cent word – “liminality” – also resonates with you. With us.

Pastor Mike is gone, and, having left this congregation a husband and a friend, he will return a father. In eastern Iowa, the snow has almost completely melted, and the farming community anxiously awaits the warming of the ground and the return to the fields. And the Presbyterian Church moves from the celebratory, light-filled season of Epiphany into the somber, dark season of Lent. From the literal manifestation of the divine on earth, to the recognition of sin and the limitations of humanity.

Here, somehow situated between the divine and the human, we sit. We wait. And here, too, we join Peter, James, and John in today’s story from Matthew.

“Six days later,” reads Matthew, reminding the reader that only six days and several verses earlier, Jesus told his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and be crucified. “Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother, John, and led them up a high mountain by themselves.” And, just like that, with no further introduction or preparation, fanfare or drumroll, “he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white.” In Mark’s rendition, he says, “His clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them.” Clearly, this was not an experience “of the earth.” This was different, heavenly, magical. It was, quite literally, a “mountaintop experience.”

Moses and Elijah then appear before them. An otherwise odd manifestation in the New Testament, Moses and Elijah, here, are generally understood to symbolize the law and the prophets, both of which Jesus came to fulfill. “You have heard it said,” said Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount, repeating the words of the law and the prophets. “But I say to you,” he added, “Turn the other cheek;” “Love your enemies;” “Pray for those who persecute you.” Jesus is met by Moses and Elijah and, in this remarkable reunion, is affirmed as Lord, as Rabbi, as he who has fulfilled and transcended the law and the prophets.

“Then Peter said to Jesus, ‘Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, one for Elijah.’” Peter, having only six days before heard that Jesus is going to die at the hands of men, witnesses the glory of God, the majesty of Christ, and wants to preserve it. Please Lord, he seems to be saying, please, let’s just stay here. You can be God, and you can shine and dazzle to your heart’s content. No one will contest it. Please Lord, says Peter, don’t make me go back down there.

Theologian Shirley Guthrie writes, “John tells us that when Jesus comes ‘the light shines in the darkness.’ Matthew…tell[s] us just what the darkness is into which the light shines. It is the same darkness in which we live…Christmas is the story of [the] radical invasion of God into the kind of real world where we live all year long – a world where there is political unrest and injustice, poverty, hatred, jealously, and both the fear and the longing that things could be different” (235).

The darkness Guthrie describes is the darkness Peter wants to avoid. Peter wants God to be a big God, a shiny God. He wants Christ to stay atop the mountain in his white, Christ-like clothes. And he wants liminality, nuance, and unbelonging to give way to divinity, once and for all.

But God interrupts. And isn’t that just like God? Matthew says that “while Peter was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved; with him, I am well pleased; listen to him!’” Listen to him, says God. Listen to him. Listen to what he has taught you, that you are to do more than that which your forefathers taught you. Listen to what he told you six days ago, that he has to die. And listen to the way in which he loves you. You. Listen to him.

Hearing God speak, the disciples fall to the ground, overcome by fear, by awe and by wonder. And at this moment – powerful and definitive – when Jesus is perhaps most blatantly divine, most radically God, and the disciples are most embarrassingly human, their faces in the dirt out of which they were formed, Jesus comes to them, and he touches them. “Get up,” he says to them. And when the disciples do get up, they see Jesus, alone and remarkably un-dazzling, remarkably un-divine, remarkably, horrifying, sadly, like them. And down the mountain they go.

According to author and pastor Leonard Vander Zee, [American evangelicalism] is less surely anchored in Christ’s true humanity and much more comfortable with his divinity, and therefore it has a greater tendency toward losing that crucial bond between the physical and the spiritual, the earthly and the heavenly, the sign of the sacrament and the reality of Christ’s presence it conveys (188). And it is to the sacrament that Vander Zee wants us to go to finally be able to hold them both – that is, Christ’s divinity and Christ’s humanity – in our hands, in our hearts and in our minds.

When Paul addresses the issues surrounding the Lord’s Supper in 1 Corinthians, he clearly suggests that union with Christ lies at the very heart of the meaning of the sacrament. “The cup of blessing that we bless, is it not a sharing in the blood of Christ? And the bread that we break, is it not a sharing in the body of Christ?" (10:16). Early theologians called this phenomenon the “mystical union” between Christ and his church, pointing to the fact that it is a mystery beyond human understanding. That it is, indeed, divine.

I have a friend who vividly remembers being a child in the church pew and receiving the ornate communion tray, clinking with its tiny glasses of wine, from the hands of his mother, who sat next to him. In their delicate exchange, however, my friend tipped the tray just so and knocked his mother’s glass from her hands. “I was horrified,” he said, remembering the story to me. “I was convinced that, because of me, my mother was going to hell.”

Without question, my friend understood communion as holy. As divine. He understood simply and profoundly what theologians for centuries have debated, that is, the presence of Christ in the Eucharist.

“Well what did your mother say?” I asked, wondering what, if anything, could have offered this poor, wise boy consolation. “She said it was just wine,” he said.

Just wine? I’m not sure I agree. But wine? Yes. Absolutely.

One of my seminary professors, Kim Long, writes: “In the Eucharist we are fed, not just with vague spiritual experience, but with real food. Especially when the bread is hearty and good, and the wine is sweet and biting, the meal enables us to ‘taste and see that the Lord is good’ – that in this meal, Christ meets even our deepest hungers, in ways we cannot fully imagine or understand. Good bread and wine also spark the imagination, eliciting questions about where this food came from and how it came to be. Who made this wonderful bread? Where did this amazing wine come from? We are connected with those who brought those gifts to our table. Does it matter that we serve communion bread that is made by someone in the church with organic flour from a food cooperative, instead of over-processed white bread that is factory-baked with preservatives, packaged in plastic, shipped across country, carried from the grocery in more disposable plastic bags, then diced into precise cubes that go stale before they are served? Yes. It matters. For God feeds us well, with what is real and good; the elements we use on Christ's own table should reflect the same richness.”

The Eucharist allows God to recognize and go so far as cater to, our “creatureliness,” communicating with us through the sacrament in such a way that neither our “crudeness and weakness” nor our unification with Christ the divine king is denied.

And so yes, it seems that we wait still in a space of liminality. Of neither here nor there, of betwixt and between. But if we keep our eyes focused on Christ, another option becomes possible. The option of “both/and.” In Matthew’s account of the transfiguration, we witness both the Jesus of the mountaintop and the Jesus of the crucifixion. In the Eucharist, we witness – no, we taste – both communion with each other and with Christ, both consumption of life-giving bread and union with the life-giving Son of God. And in worship, we look forward to Lent, knowing that this man, this very human, very mortal man, will rise again, and in doing so, will help us rise, too.

Amen.

The Center of Living

2011-03-05T08:19:00.003-06:00

Image courtesy of CardCycle

by Thomas Kelly

Strained by the mad pace of our daily outer burdens, we are further strained by an inward uneasiness, because we have hints that there is a way of life vastly richer and deeper than all this hurried existence, a life of unhurried serenity and peace and power.

If only we could slip over into that Center! If only we could find the Silence which is the source of sound.

We have seen and known some people who seem to have found this deep Center of living, where the fretful calls of life are integrated, where No as well as Yes can be said with confidence.

We've seen such lives, integrated, unworried by the tangles of close decisions, unhurried, cheery, fresh, positive. These are not people of dallying idleness nor of obviously mooning meditation; they are busy carrying their full load as well as we, but without any chafing of the shoulders with the burden, with quiet joy and springing step.

Surrounding the trifles of their daily life is an aura of infinite peace and power and joy.

Source: A Testament of Devotion

Small, Smaller, Smallest

2011-02-19T15:58:00.013-06:00

"Funhouse Mirror Effect" by dcwriterdawn

Yesterday afternoon at, oh, 4:55 or so (read: practically the weekend/mentally I'm at happy hour), I got a call from a coworker. I prepared myself for the questions or concerns regarding patient care that she might pose on this sunny Friday evening, but her question was neither academically nor professionally challenging.

"Did you take a big dookie and clog the office toilet?" she asked. And because this is not the first time that she has said something along these lines (read: shocking, ill-timed, and, were I of a more sensitive composition, offensive), I just laughed. "No, huh-uh, it wasn't me." "Well, who could it have been?" she asked, troubled. "I've already called [the social worker], [the nurse], and [the aide], and they all denied it, too." "Bummer," I said. "Sorry I'm not more help. But thanks for thinking of me." She laughed, adding, "Well you never know. Sometimes the smallest people make the biggest messes!"

And so it was that my workweek, often so meaningful and profound, ended...with a conversation - nay, interrogation - about poop.

What surprised me most about the phone call, though, was not my coworker's brazen, investigative approach into the interdisciplinary team's gastrointestinal health. (As my family can attest, I'm oddly comfortable discussing bowel habits.) Rather, I was taken aback that she suggested that I might be, well, small. And not just a small, but among "the smallest."

I recently read an old article in the New York Times called, "When Your Looks Take Over Your Life," by Jane Brody. She writes:

Many of us are embarrassed by or dissatisfied with some body part or other. I recall that from about age 11 through my early teens I sat in class with my hand over what I thought was an ugly bump on my nose. And I know a young woman of normal weight who refuses to sit down in a subway car because she thinks it makes her thighs look huge.

But what if such self-consciousness about a perceived facial or body defect becomes all consuming, an obsession or paranoia that keeps the person from focusing on school or work, pursuing normal social activities, even leaving the house to shop or see a doctor? What if it leads to attempted suicide?

"Such are the challenges," Brody continues, "facing tens of thousands of Americans who suffer from body dysmorphic disorder, or B.D.D., a syndrome known for more than a century but recognized only recently by the official psychiatric diagnostic manual." According to Dr. Katharine Phillips, a professor of psychiatry at Brown University, individuals suffering from B.D.D. have a poor quality of life, are socially isolated, severely depressed, and at a high risk of committing suicide. Terrifyingly high, in fact, as B.D.D. is responsible for a completed suicide rate of more than double that of major depression, and a suicidal ideation rate of almost 80%.

To be clear, I'm not there. But do I sometimes look in mirror and groan? Yes. Is there a body part that I find consistently troubling and that I, more often than not, try to camouflage? Yes. Is this all too common, the fodder for many a office conversation, and one of the only reasons I'm happy to no longer live with women? Yes, yes, and yes.

I want to blame my own frustrations on society's preoccupation with looks. I want to say that if it wasn't so flipping desirable to have washboard abs within three weeks of having a baby and within three minutes of eating dinner, we wouldn't give a damn. But according to Dr. Phillips, when it comes to B.D.D., there's more to it than that. "Many trace their problem to a childhood emotional trauma, like being teased about their looks, parental neglect, distress over parents’ divorce, or emotional, sexual or physical abuse," she says. "But most people survive such traumas without developing B.D.D., especially if other factors in their lives lift their self-esteem." "Rather," she explains, "the disorder seems to have a combination of genetic, emotional, and neurobiological underpinnings.

“It’s likely that the genes a person is born with provide an essential foundation for B.D.D. to develop,” Dr. Phillips wrote. In about 20 percent of cases she studied, a parent, a sibling or a child also had the disorder. And imaging studies done by Dr. Phillips and others suggest that some brain circuits may be overactive in people with the disorder.

As for me, even if it's not B.D.D. that defines my own unwillingness to see myself as I might be seen by others, it remains troubling. Am I, in fact, small? (For you kind readers prone to affirmation, that is a rhetorical question.) And can the adjective even be used alone, without comparison to another bigger or smaller than myself? Perhaps therein lies my issue. Perhaps, while I compare myself to others smaller than me or with stomachs or thighs more toned than my own, my coworker compares me a broader cross section. And ever important for me to remember, perhaps she does so with her own insecurities at the helm.

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Geneen Roth tells a story about her friend Sue, who, she says, is naturally thin. "She weighs the same now as she did in high school, when she was captain of the cheerleading squad. I hate that. She eats sandwiches with two pieces of bread, adds a couple dozen fried onion rings, and downs it all with Coke Classic." Grr. Hiss. "But before you decide you would not wish good things on Sue," says Geneen, "let me add: She is a great example of the dilemma we face when we rely on a piece of metal — the scale — to determine our self-worth."

Sue works in a doctor's office, where she occasionally weighs herself. One day she was five pounds lighter than at her previous check-in. She was thrilled. On her lunch break, she admired herself in store windows, then bought a new outfit. She ate extra onion rings and treated herself to a huge slice of chocolate cake. The next day, her boss mentioned that the scale was eight pounds off - in the wrong direction.

Sue was stunned. Far from having lost five pounds since her last weigh-in, she'd actually gained three. And that was before her lunchtime food fest. All at once Sue felt as if her clothes were too tight and she had a muffin-top the size of California spilling over her belt. "I need to go on a diet," she wailed to me on the phone that day. "I can't believe how fat I am."

"Sound familiar?" asks Geneen.

You're sailing along in life, feeling pretty good about everything, even your body. No, it isn't perfect, but it is yours and it is doing what it's supposed to do - mowing the lawn, ironing the clothes, playing baseball with the kids. Then you get on the scale. You weigh more than you thought you did, and within a nanosecond, the scary voice in your mind begins to rant: "You're fat, you're a failure, you don't deserve to feel good about anything!" Suddenly everything that was right before you stepped on the scale is wrong.

We get on the scale looking for something, waiting with bated breath for the scrolling number or jostling dial to come to a standstill, at which point we will know not only how much we weight at this one moment in history, but also how much we are worth, how much we deserve love and acceptance, and ultimately, whether or not we deserve a place on this planet. We give away so much of our power to the dadgum scale, and I think we do the same with the mirror.

"You already know how big or little you are, how fat or thin you are," says Geneen. "You already know if you've gained or lost weight this week. You know because you ate or didn't eat the food; you exercised or didn't exercise your body. You know because your clothes are either getting tighter or they're getting looser. Or they fit exactly the same as they did last week. Yesterday. Three hours ago. " But still, we go to the scale. We go to the mirror. And we look. We wait.

This is why Geneen has - and why I have also - come to the conclusion that "scales are for fish, not people." People don't need a mighty piece of metal or reflective glass to determine their weight or their worth, because people have the unique ability to turn inward, to get answers by reading our own personal radar, by trusting our own thoughts and feelings. We have it. We just have to heed it.

+++

Maybe I am small. Maybe even among the smallest. But ultimately, I don't want to feel that way. I want to feel powerful, larger than life, capable of anything. I want to feel unsquelchable, uncontainable, unstoppable. I want to exist beyond simple adjectives, especially those related to size. I want to go to the mirror and see a compassionate heart, a thoughtful mind, and a courageous spirit. And if I decide to adorn this vibrant existence with a new necklace or colorful top, I want it to be just that - adornment, embellishment, accessory - not camouflage. I want it to have everything to do with how I feel, and not at all with what I want or what I want others to see or not to see.

Dear Valentine

2011-02-14T06:30:00.003-06:00

For the One Man Who Likes My Thighs

There was the expensive cream from France
that promised the dimples would vanish
if applied nightly to the problem spots.
Then, when that didn't work, Kiko, the masseuse
at Profile Health Spa, dug her thumbs
deep into my flesh as she explained
in quasi-scientific terms that her rough hands
could break up the toughest globules of cellulite.
I screamed, then bruised over, but nothing
else happened. When they healed, my legs still looked
like tapioca pudding. There was the rolling pin method
I tried as far back as seventh grade,
kneading my lumpy legs as though I was making bread.
Cottage Cheese Knees, Thunder Thighs -
I heard it all - under the guise of teasing,
under the leaky umbrella mistaken for affection.
I learned to choose long dresses
and dark woolen tights, clam diggers instead of short-shorts,
and, when I could get away with it, skirted bathing suits.
The nutritionist said that maybe Royal Jelly tablets
would break up the fat. I drank eight glasses
of water everyday for a month. I ate nothing
but steak for a week. I had to take everyone's advice,
fearing that if I didn't, my thighs
would truly be all my own fault. Liposuction
cost too much. The foil sweat-it-out
shorts advertised in the back of Redbook
didn't work. Swimming, walking in place, leg lifts.
It's embarrassing, especially being a feminist.
I wondered if Andrea Dworkin had stopped worrying,
and how. If Gloria Steinem does aerobics,
claiming it's just for her own enjoyment.
Then I read in a self-help book:
if you learn to appreciate your thighs, they'll appreciate
you back. Though it wasn't romance at first sight,
I did try to thank my legs for carrying me up nine flights
the day when the elevator at work was out;
for their quick sprint that propelled me
through the closing doors of the subway
so that I wouldn't be late for a movie;
for supporting my nieces who straddled, one
on each thigh, their heads burrowing deep into my lap.
I think, in fact, that it was at that moment
of being an aunt I forgot for an instant
about my thigh dilemma and began, more fully,
as they say, enjoying my life. So when it happened later
that I fell in love, and as a bonus,
the man said he liked my thighs, I shouldn't have been
so thoroughly surprised. At first I was sure I'd misheard -
that he liked my eyes, that he had heard someone else sigh,
or that maybe he was having a craving for french fries.
And it wasn't very easy to nonchalantly say oh, thanks
after I'd made him repeat. I kept asking
if he was sure, then waiting for a punch
line of some mean-spirited thigh-related joke.
I ran my fingers over his calf, brown and firm,
with beautiful muscles waving down the back.
It made no sense the way love makes no sense.
Then it made all the sense in the world.

Denise Duhamel

Des[s]ert

2011-02-13T07:38:00.011-06:00

On Monday, I will begin my 30th trip around the sun. In the Morris household, this means that, from the moment I returned home on Friday to find "Happy Birthday" banners and balloons to the moment my head hits the pillow on Monday night, we celebrate my birthday, Valentine's Day, or some combination of the two. Some people have a birth-day. I generally have a birth-week. To be fair, though, my sister often claims a birth-month, insisting that a summer birthday precludes the gathering of enough people in town at any given time to properly celebrate her birth only once. Fair enough.

So, Friday Dan and I opened presents and went to dinner. A lovely [vegetarian] pizza with salad and wine, and homemade donuts to boot. (There is an eatery in Greenville, my hometown, that boasts "Ho-Made Hot Dogs" on their marquis. No freshly made delicacy has been the same for me since. But I digress...) Yesterday, I made an appointment to get Samson shampooed (a birthday present to his mama) and indulged in a little spa time of my own. Last night, we shared [vegetarian] chili with friends, complete with a red velvet cake and a chorus of "Happy Birthday." This evening, Dan will be serving up his specialty, cavatappi con fichi, a pasta dish with dried figs, cream and parmesan reggiano. And tomorrow, well, tomorrow is actually my birthday. It's exhausting being so celebrated.

And yet, though I have been surprised, honored, and made to feel so loved, it's funny what I feel I still deserve. "It's my birthday," I caught myself saying as far back as, oh, Groundhog's Day, "so sure, I'll have some dessert." "It's my birthday," rings the chorus in my ears, "so of course I'll have another glass of wine." "It's my birthday," I explain, excuse, and protest, "so I deserve to eat cake before dinner, after dinner, and for, ahem, breakfast."

I've talked about my "Getting in Touch with Your Inner Bitch" page-a-day calendar before. Several days ago, it read, "Your Inner Bitch wants you to keep this one simple rule in mind at all times: You deserve the best and nothing less." For some reason, it struck a chord with me, and I taped it on my mirror. Because it seems appropriate, right? It seems good and right and worthy of my attention. But it also makes me uncomfortable. Something about desert equaling entitlement, I think. And no matter how many times I read it, I can't quite wrap my head around what, exactly, it implies. What, specifically, do I deserve? And perhaps more vexing, is it okay for me to get - to seek - what I do deserve?

Ultimately, I've concluded that for "the best and nothing less" to make sense to me, it must take into account a larger picture. The difficult truth is that I don't deserve to take up more than my fair share of the earth. I don't deserve to indulge in ways that hurt myself or others. I don't deserve to talk to people rudely, regardless of how my day has gone. And I don't always deserve cake.

What I do deserve remains tricky. I want to say that I deserve to take a break from time to time, but what about all of those people who can't? What about the children who are forced into slavery, the women hunched over a table sorting our beans or stitching our clothes, the men who work third shift after working second shift after a pitiable night's sleep spent worrying, tossing, and turning. What about them? What have I done to deserve a break that they haven't done, too?

I'm left with the thought that maybe I don't deserve anything at all. Not because I'm worthless or miserable, but because I'm human. (Being Presbyterian probably has something to do with it, too.) Or maybe it is not up to me to decide what I do and do not deserve. Condoleeza Rice has said, "It is a dangerous thing to ask why someone else has been given more." She continues, "It is humbling - and indeed healthy - to ask why you have been given so much."

So today, regardless of whether I deserve it or not, I am grateful. For my family and friends, old and new. For surprises, balloons, and the joy, even in adulthood, of blowing out candles. For the good fortune of having found a man I'm genuinely excited to spend my life with. For good health, and the promise of spring. For cake.

And for the record, this, too, is on my mirror:

i thank You God for this most amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

-e.e. cummings

Veggie Tales

2011-02-07T18:10:00.010-06:00

Image courtesy of Hal Herzog

So, aside from the fact that I, you know, live in Iowa, which just so happens to be the self-proclaimed "Pork Capital of the World," I'm beginning to think that the universe is conspiring to make me a vegetarian.

First, I was given a book called Savor, by Vietnamese Zen Buddhist master Thich Nhat Hanh and Harvard nutritionist Lilian Cheung. It is, says Publishers Weekly, "a diet book and a meditation book, an unusual hybrid that makes sense for Nhat Hanh because it applies his essential wisdom: pay attention; breathe. If you consistently do that, you'll eat less, and at least two-thirds of Americans surely need to follow that advice." Its addition of many eat-this-and-not-that-rules, as well as exercise guidelines, makes the book difficult to recommend to both the generally healthy and well-informed as well as the food disordered. But its core meditation instructions are "quintessential Nhat Hanh," "steely and loving," and quite honestly, difficult to ignore.

Nhat Hanh and Cheung recommend a vegetarian or vegan diet, suggesting that readers reduce, if not eliminate, their consumption of meat, fish, chicken, and dairy products, including eggs, milk and cheese. But their recommendation is not based solely on the traditionally Buddhist wish to nourish compassion toward animals. (I once read a story about a Malaysian temple that had been infested with stinging red ants. Its monks, bound in faith to nonviolence, went so far as to attempt removing the ants using a vacuum cleaner, their idea being that later they would release them unharmed into a nearby forest.) Nhat Hanh and Cheung also note the staggering environmental toll of meat production, including the release of methane tied to global warming, the destruction of rain forests to expand grain production for farm animals, and the pollution of water and air from animal waste.

They write, "Some scientists have estimated that it takes one hundred times as much water to produce a kilogram of beef as it does to produce a kilogram of protein from grain." And do they ever go on: "An Environmental Protection Agency report on U.S. agricultural crop production in 2000 states that, according to the National Corn Growers Association, about 80 percent of all corn grown in the United States is consumed by domestic and overseas livestock, poultry, and fish production. Yet ironically," they add, "more than nine thousand children die each day from causes related to hunger and undernutrition."

It was what came next, however, that I read aloud to Dan. "Our society's hunger for meat contributes mightily to the production of climate-changing greenhouse gases. The livestock industry is responsible for 18 percent of the world's greenhouse gas emissions, a higher share than the entire transportation sector." And, wait for it... "Researchers at the University of Chicago estimate that, when its all added up, "the average American could do more to reduce global warming emission by going vegetarian than by switching from a Camry to a Prius." Dan and I have a Prius. And a Camry Hybrid. So, if we care that much, why on earth wouldn't we consider a vegetarian diet, which makes an even bigger impact?

So that happened. And then I heard this: Lynne Rossetto Kasper's interview with Hal Herzog, author of Some We Love, Some We Hate, Some We Eat: Why It's So Hard to Think Straight About Animals.

And then I saw this: the Oprah show during which she and 378 of her Harpo staffers took on the challenge to "go vegan" for one week, a charge led by best-selling author Kathy Freston, who has sworn by a vegan lifestyle for seven years now. Also included in the conversation were best-selling author Michael Pollan and Cargill General Manager Nicole Johnson-Hoffman.

And now? I can't stop thinking about it.

So I'm going to give it a go - the vegetarian part, that is. (Not sure I could make it without cheese, at least not yet. Let's not even get into the matter of chocolate.) It feels right. And it makes sense to me spiritually, holistically, and as a citizen of planet Earth...if not Iowa.

+++

I've purchased tofu and soysage, and black bean burgers beckon from the freezer. Kale and carrots are in the crisper, and I've got quinoa coming out my ears. So, friends, will you help me expand my palate? If you can spare them, please take a few minutes to share one or two of your tastiest vegetarian recipes. The meat-eating hubs and I will be eternally grateful.

On Breakups, or One Less Basket for My Proverbial Eggs

2011-02-06T13:53:00.011-06:00

Baby get moving (Baby get movin'),
Why keep your feeble hopes alive?
What are you proving (What are you provin')?
You've got the dream but not the drive.

The reason this works, of course - the reason that Frankie Avalon and generations of viewers feel such profound pity for the unfortunately-coiffed Frenchie - is the general understanding that beauty school is one of the more easily mastered vocational programs. I mean, really...failed shampoo?

And yet, never one to be outdone, I believe that I can top it. Last week, my sponsor, Mary, encouraged me to reconsider my commitment to Overeaters Anonymous, to "take a step back," she said, and to think about whether I was willing "to give my life to recovery." She said that she had noticed that I had attended few recent meetings, was rarely completing all of my reading and writing assignments, and seemed unwilling to give up certain foods and activities that contributed to my disease, my "addiction." She even went so far as to suggest that I am in an unhealthy, codependent relationship with Samson, my dog, using my responsibility to care for him as an excuse to avoid caring for myself.

In other words, I failed. At least that is what it felt like. I failed Overeaters Anonymous. I couldn't hack recovery. I didn't measure up to even the motley standards of 12-step programming. I became - and forever after will be - an OA dropout. And, irony of all ironies, it had nothing to do with my overeating.

At first, I cried. I called Dan and literally asked him if it might be possible that I was "failing at life." Melodramatic, I know. Later, I laughed. Who the hell gets kicked out of a 12-step program? Maybe they need a 12-step program for people who get the boot from 12-step programs.

Ultimately, I realized that Mary's suggestions, though undoubtedly intended as gentle, hurt more, or maybe just differently, than those from an demanding professor or disappointed parent. From what little I know about OA's expectations of its sponsors, they are supposed to support other members physically, emotionally, and spiritually, doing so by sharing their experience, strength, and hope. They are supposed to inform, encourage, and inspire. They aren't supposed to have unspoken barometers by which they judge the suitability or lack thereof of OA members.

To be fair, I had my issues with OA. The rules. The black and white definitions of abstinence and relapse. The strict food plans and demonization of all things sweet. The cult-like quality of its "fellowship." That being said, it was, at least, an option. All of my proverbial eggs were not necessarily in its one basket, but it remained a basket, nonetheless. It remained a place where I might have an epiphany, where my life might change. People there understood me. They knew what I meant when I said that Pop-Tarts had me in their grip, that I needed Pop-Tarts, that I hated and loved and couldn't live without Pop-Tarts. Or pizza. Or potato chips. And they had a door that was always open. Until it wasn't.

So in the end, maybe I didn't fail Overeaters Anonymous. Maybe it failed me. Maybe it couldn't hack a woman who believes that she might find strength and healing and hope from a number of different sources. Maybe it flunked inclusion, acceptance, and unconditional love! Maybe it was a, a, a I don't know, kindness dropout!

Or maybe we simply failed to work together. Maybe it is, in fact, mutual.

+++

Today, I took Samson for a walk and went cross-country skiing with my husband. I came home and had a warm lunch, a shower, and then a nap. Now, I sit cross-legged in a big chair, wearing an oversized wool sweater and drinking a glass of red wine. And I write to you.

Turns out, my "baskets" are many.

Habitation

2011-02-01T19:09:00.007-06:00

Mon amour et moi, May 22, 2010

Marriage is not
a house or even a tent

it is before that, and colder:

the edge of the forest, the edge
of the desert
the unpainted stairs
at the back where we squat
outside, eating popcorn

the edge of the receding glacier

where painfully and with wonder
at having survived even
this far

we are learning to make fire.

by Margaret Atwood

Big Fish, Small Pond

2011-01-28T11:52:00.007-06:00

Though this might come as a bit of a shock to many of you, I am a [recovering] perfectionist.

And I was a perfectionist, claim my parents, from the point at which that became a possibility, the point at which I began to have some input as to my activities and interactions. At age two, I choreographed that with which many children before and after me as well as their parents are, I am certain, familiar. My parents called it - and my husband calls it - the “Kate stomp.” If my socks were not smoothed down inside my shoes and if my shoes were not tied tightly over my neatly arranged socks, I would stomp one foot over and over again. And if I became very frustrated I would begin to alternate my stomps – right foot, left foot, right foot – fists clenched and lips pouted all the while. Additionally, my father remembers me reciting the songs for the yearly children’s program at church with ease and excitement up to months before the event. But when it came time for the big day, as Dad recalls, “Crash and burn!” I hid behind the teachers and at one point even left the stage to sit with my parents, terrified even at this very young age of making a mistake in front of others.

In high school, my proclivity towards achievement – and my stomps – had more productive results. I excelled academically. I had smart friends and a kind boyfriend. I faithfully warmed a spot on the bench of the varsity basketball team. My junior year, I left home to travel to Australia and New Zealand for a month with a group of Student Ambassadors from New Jersey unknown to me until I arrived in Melbourne the day we were to begin. I was active in student government, serving as Student Body President my senior year. I gave speeches. I elicited applause.

But consistently during this time, my dad offered up the reminder - and, I suppose, the admonition - that I was "a big fish in a small pond." If I'm honest in my nostalgia, I remember being hurt by his informal, seemingly offhand advice. Angered, even. I wanted to retort first, that the pond wasn't that small, that I had challenging classes and competitive peers and worked hard for the marks I received; and second, that the fish was pretty damn competent, thank you very much. I remember wanting to apply to Yale just to prove to him that I could.

It has occurred to me recently, however, that my dad's "big fish/small pond" exhortations might have been less about the size of the pond and the aptitude of the fish (This metaphor will end soon, I swear. Just stick it out a little while longer.) and more about the way that a change in either would affect both, because, truth be told, I enjoyed my big-fish-dom. I liked being the go-to person, the one on whom folks could count. I relished the opportunity to perform, to excel, and I depended on the praise that followed. Standing before a class or a crowd, I was assured that my ego would be fed. Returning home with a good grade or positive review, I was guaranteed trust, appreciation, and love. When my dad said that I was "a big fish in a small pond," he might actually have meant something like, "Watch it, missy, the day's going to come when you don't feel so big."

And sure enough, it did. It has. In college, I coached the Novice Rowing Team and chaired Project Life, an organization intended to raise awareness of the need of bone marrow typing. I traveled to Nicaragua with a group from the chaplain's office. I spent summers volunteering in Costa Rica, working for a human rights organization in Boston, and interning at a mediation center in the mountains of North Carolina. But at Davidson, one beautiful person or another was always in the gym before me and at the library later than me. At Davidson, everyone gave speeches. Everyone elicited applause.

The same was true for graduate school. And at a point in my life when I was supposed to begin to find some answers, all I found were questions. At the final chapel service of our senior year of seminary, all graduating students had the opportunity to stand up and read a Bible verse that they felt encompassed their theology, their particular call to ministry, or some other defining factor of their time at Columbia Theological Seminary. All around me, my peers proclaimed gratitude, hope, and faith, speaking aloud their promises to seek justice and do mercy. I read Mark 9:24b: "I believe; help my unbelief!" I was swimming, and all of a sudden, I seemed painfully, unbearably small, a perspective with which I was unfamiliar and with which I remain uncomfortable.

+++

Dan and I recently watched a movie called "Revolutionary Road," about a young couple who, in their seventh year of marriage, find that their life is much different from that which they imagined as young, zealous newlyweds. Frank and April Wheeler live in the suburbs of Connecticut. Frank (Leonardo DiCaprio) commutes to New York City where he works in an office job that he hates, and April (Kate Winslet) has foregone her dream of becoming an actress to stay at home with children. In an effort to rejuvenate their life and love, April suggests that they move to Paris, where she will get a lucrative secretarial position, leaving Frank the free time to pursue his passion. [Spoiler alert!] When this dramatic and, it seems, desperate plan fails, both Frank and April find themselves utterly disappointed, incapable of carrying on a life and marriage that is, simply, ordinary.

One of the stipulations for inclusion into the Morris family is that one always discuss a movie beyond its ability to entertain. I enter into these conversations with mild trepidation, but leave them always having learned something. As Dan and I rehashed "Revolutionary Road," I expressed my dissatisfaction with the story's conclusion. I saw the movie as a critique of the status quo, of suburbia and middle age. I wanted Frank and April to go to Paris. I wanted them to take a chance, to risk everything in pursuit of passion and fulfillment and bilingual children.

Dan, though, ever the provocative, thoughtful teacher, had a different opinion altogether. Perhaps, he suggested, my expectation for the plot and Frank and April's expectation for their life were the object of the movie's critique. Maybe, he said, it is ultimately our insatiable search for more passion, greater fulfillment, and a so-called "better" life that is the problem and that agitates a life that we would see is actually quite lovely, were we to take the time and make the effort to do so. Why is it so frightening to be ordinary? To be small or to go unnoticed? Might it be that the most radical thing would be for us to find contentment right where we are, here on Revolutionary Road in the small, quiet suburb of Connecticut?

+++

These days, I live in a small town in Iowa, a place where not a soul knows my family. I work at a relatively new organization, where no one knows the GPA with which I finished high school or recognizes the name of the college plastered on my rear windshield. I think I am good at my job, but I am not making major advancements in the field of chaplaincy, nor do I intend to do so. I have a happy marriage and a dog that occasionally pees in the house and one day I might have the 2.5 children anticipated for an American family. When that day comes, my prayer is that they will be healthy and happy.

And wildly, recklessly average. Average fish in average sized ponds with an average mama who is okay - downright pleased, even - with her life on Revolutionary Road.

A Good Day

2011-01-26T17:03:00.006-06:00

A couple of weeks ago, my colleagues and I arranged for one of our patients, a WWII veteran, to visit the Sullivan Brothers Iowa Veterans Museum. While many of those with whom he served will be honored with the opportunity to travel to Washington, D.C. to visit memorials dedicated to their service and sacrifice on an Honor Flight leaving out of Waterloo, IA in May, Mr. Gardner's declining health prevented him from doing so.

It was a good day. A really good day. Mr. Gardner was surrounded by his family and friends, flanked by American flags, and, with his beloved lemon-lime soda in hand, on fire. A man who finds it difficult to breathe, much less talk, he told detailed, vibrant stories that made people laugh and cry, engaging all present, from the museum historian to the local news crew that showed up to capture the moment. So seldom are these occasions recorded that, as this one was, I thought I'd share.

Last night, again surrounded by his family and friends, Mr. Gardner died. I'd like to think that we had something to do with enriching his last days. However, as I so often find, his last days - his energy, perseverance, and ability to laugh even at the very end - did more to enrich me.

Thank you, Mr. Gardner, for your service, for your sacrifice, and for allowing me to accompany you on your final courageous journey.

Ever With Me

2011-01-26T15:21:00.004-06:00

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

Thomas Merton, "Thoughts in Solitude"

Neoteny: Lessons from Dad, Walt Disney, and Jesus

2011-01-16T08:33:00.012-06:00

Over the holidays, my dad shared what he described as his "new thing." "Neoteny," he called it, and forever daddy's little girl, I suppose, I was sure he made it up. Turns out, I was wrong. Shocking, really. So after grieving this significant loss of the omnipotent father figure in my life and shifting my worldview to one in which my father is, in fact, human - my counselor would be so proud - I did a little research into the matter.

Neoteny, also called juvenilization, is the retention by adults in a species of traits previously seen only in juveniles. The most recent resurgence of the word, and the source of my dad's interest, is it's use in the latest leadership manual, Geeks and Geezers: How Era, Values, and Defining Moments Shape Leaders. Its authors, Warren G. Bennis (Professor and Founding Chairman of The Leadership Institute at the University of Southern California, and the author of over thirty books on leadership) and Robert J. Thomas (an Associate Partner and Senior Fellow with Accenture's Institute for Strategic Change) interviewed more than forty leaders who they deem either "geeks" (aged 21-34) or "geezers" (aged 70-82) to evaluate the effect of era on values and success. The two groups varied, they found, in terms of their ambitions, heroes, and family lives, but members of both sets shared one common experience: all had "undergone at least one intense, transformational experience," which the authors call a "crucible."

In some cases the crucible was an actual hardship, like the 16 years geezer Sidney Rittenberg spent in prison in China for speaking out against the government. For others, it was a dramatic experience, such as NYSE pioneer Muriel Siebert's entry into male-dominated Wall Street in 1967 or geek Liz Altman's stint working at a Japanese Sony factory before becoming a Motorola VP.

One of the most important characteristics of the "geezers" interviewed was, you guessed it, neoteny. "Neoteny," Thomas writes, "is more than retaining a youthful appearance, though that is sometimes a part of it. Neoteny is the retention of all those wonderful qualities that we associate with youth: curiosity, playfulness, eagerness, fearlessness, warmth, and energy." Unlike some who have been defeated by time and age, the geezers who are also the most successful leaders have remained much like the geeks - "open, willing to take risks, hungry for knowledge and experience, courageous, and eager to see what the new day brings."

“I still look at the world,” Walt Disney wrote as an older man, "with uncontaminated wonder." And the authors were "continually struck" by the sense of wonder in the geezers. As a result, they encourage their readers to think of neoteny as "nurturing your inner four-year-old." They write:

Those people who remain a four-year-old - that is, who retain those distinctive qualities of fearlessness and openness - have little time for mourning what is lost. They have things to do. That quality of utter engagement with the world is as attractive in an 80-year-old as in a preschooler. One leader told a wonderful story about writer Norman Corwin, whose 100-year-old father would call him every day and say, “Norman, are you keeping your mind active?” These older leaders keep their minds active as a matter of course, but they also tend to use their bodies with a youthful spirit as well. Near-octogenarian Bob Galvin windsurfs and takes pride in teaching the sport to others, including Sony founder Akio Morita. Former Securities and Exchange Commission Chairman Arthur Levitt, Jr., enjoys excursions with Outward Bound. Architect Frank Gehry and former Los Angeles Mayor Richard Riordan play ice hockey on local teams. These leaders do not deny the aging process, but they refuse to be defined by it.

For my dad, an oncologist who is constantly reading thick volumes with names like "Blood" and "Cancer," neoteny means, simply, asking questions, especially of those people with whom he does not work. He said that he recently visited with a patient of his who works as a security guard at the new Duke Nuclear Power Plant in Seneca, SC. "I asked what that meant, exactly," my dad said. He continued, excitedly, "Did you know that their predominant threat is that of terrorism?" No, I didn't. And neither did he...until he asked. And while both of us probably could have gone our entire lives without knowing such a seemingly insignificant detail, we are smarter - and perhaps more interesting, though that is certainly contestable - as a result.

I love it. And this whole conversation has gotten me thinking about what in my life I might like to learn more about. Not for work, necessarily, and not for the sake of my blog or health or marriage, but just because. Vegetarian cooking, for example, might be interesting. How does one work with things like textured vegetable protein and seitan, the latter of which I'm not even sure how to pronounce? I'd like to meditate, just to see what happens. I'd love to learn Spanish. And what about art, and history, and hell, why not throw in some ethics, considering I've got an expert in the house? I think Abraham Lincoln is a fascinating figure about whom I'd be interested to learn more. And would you believe I've never read Shakespeare?

This concept of neoteny reminds me of a couple of things. First, I'm not dead. Currently, I have certain responsibilities, but those daily tasks do not have to limit me, precluding forays into other worlds. No, I am not in college anymore, and yes, I have to pay bills and buy groceries, but dammit, the world can still be my oyster. I can still dream and create and wander.

Second, there are things more interesting and important and worth doing than eating or exercising, or thinking about what I should be eating or how I should be exercising. There are things that make it worth getting out of bed and moving, even when there is snow on the ground and a frosty layer of ice on your heart.

Today in church, we read from the first chapter of John.

The next day John again was standing with two of his disciples, and as he watched Jesus walk by, he exclaimed, "Look, here is the Lamb of God!" The two disciples heard him say this, and they followed Jesus. When Jesus turned and saw them following, he said to them, "What are you looking for?" They said to him, "Rabbi" (which translated means "teacher"), "where are you staying?" He said to them, “Come and see.”

"What are you looking for?" asked Jesus. And he asks it still. I want to claim that it doesn't always matter what our answer is, as long as it is something. If we look at the world with uncontaminated wonder, I can't imagine we'll be disappointed.

+++

Humor me, will you? What subjects do you want to know more about? What skills are you interested in learning? What books are you dying to read? What figures or events in the world inspire and intrigue you?

You Might As Well

2011-01-13T05:55:00.007-06:00

Image courtesy of Eye Fetch Photography

IF IT IS NOT TOO DARK

Go for a walk, if it is not too dark.
Get some fresh air, try to smile.
Say something kind
To a safe-looking stranger, if one happens by.

Always exercise your heart's knowing.

You might as well attempt something real
Along this path:

Take your spouse or lover into your arms
The way you did when you first met.
Let tenderness pour from your eyes
The way the Sun gazes warmly on the earth.

Play a game with some children.
Extend yourself to a friend.
Sing a few ribald songs to your pets and plants -
Why not let them get drunk and wild!

Let's toast
Every rung we've climbed on Evolution's ladder.
Whisper, "I love you! I love you!"
To the whole mad world.

Let's stop reading about God -
We will never understand Him.

Jump to your feet, wave your fists,
Threaten and warn the whole Universe

That your heart can no longer live
Without real love!

From: "I Heard God Laughing - Renderings of Hafiz"
Translated by Daniel Ladinsky

Mamalita: An Adoption Memoir

2011-01-09T08:08:00.008-06:00

"I've never given birth," write Jessica O'Dwyer, "but I know the exact moment when I became a mother: 10:00AM, September 6, 2002." It was at this moment that O'Dwyer and her husband sat huddled on a sofa in the crowded hotel lobby of the Guatemala City Camino Real hotel, awaiting their baby girl. And in some narratives, this would mark the end of the story. For O'Dwyer, though, it was only the beginning.

In Mamalita: An Adoption Memoir, O'Dwyer outlines in beautiful, heartfelt prose her journey to motherhood, from learning that she would be unable to bear children due to early onset menopause to a decision, nearly two frustrating years and several thousands of dollars later, to quit her job and move to Antigua, Guatemala, to finish the adoption herself.

"This is Guatemala," O'Dwyer's lawyer reminds her, "This is not Argentina. This is not Paris. This is Guatemala. Things are different here." By that, he meant that neither she nor her husband were to interfere with the adoption in any way whatsoever. "To do so would jeopardize the outcome," he said. And yet, as O'Dwyer realizes and documents throughout, it is only by interfering with and indeed fighting against what she discovers to be a corrupt, exploitative, and negligent system that she remains hopeful, even optimistic.

Mamalita is, according to Publishers Weekly, "[H]arrowing and moving...deftly handled." And I agree. But as a young woman beginning to consider the possibility of one day becoming a mother myself, it is not only the enjoyment that I experience in reading a "deftly handled" memoir, but also the thought, conversation, and questions that such a memoir provokes that, to me, make O'Dwyer's book worth reading. One such question has persisted, and has found its way into conversations even now, long after I finished the book. When, I have wondered time and time again, does a woman become a mother?

I have heard it said that a woman becomes a mother when she learns that she is pregnant. This is said as a means of comparing a woman to a man, who apparently becomes a father when he sees his child for the first time. I fear, however, that such an analogy oversimplifies both genders, failing to take into account, well, everything. For instance, what about those women who cannot or choose not to have children and who, instead, adopt? When do they become mothers? Is their plight to "wait and see" alongside a father-to-be, remaining simply women until their baby rests securely in their arms? Or is it a process? A widening of not their bellies but their lives, a slow but sure incorporation of another little being into their schedules, their homes, their futures?

I have dear friends who made the decision to adopt a little girl from China four years ago. Four years. During this time, they have completed countless pages of paperwork, opened their home to a social worker's scrutiny more than once, darkened the doors of many a governmental office, attended parenting classes, sat through conference calls, and answered questions from well-meaning, impatient friends and co-workers. For four years they have done this. In November, they received word that a little girl had been chosen for them, and in February, they will, at long last, bring their daughter home.

Now when did my friend become a mother? Was it four years ago, when she and her husband began the process? Was it when they signed their names on one dotted line or another? Was it upon seeing their daughter's picture? I remember her saying with a chuckle, "Look at those chubby little legs! She hasn't missed a meal!" It was as though even then, even without having met her or knowing her, she was concerned about providing for her daughter, feeding her, helping her grow. It was as though she had already internalized some sense of her daughter's dependency on her. Or will my friend become a mother only when her daughter is finally placed into the fold of her arm, her chubby little legs resting comfortably, her dark eyes finally meeting mama's.

For O'Dwyer, too, the question of when one becomes a mother - of when she became a mother - seems foremost. For though she begins her book with the clear assertion that she became a mother at 10AM, September 6, 2002, it remains ambiguous in July of the next year, as she considers her decision to move to Antigua and live with her daughter, Olivia, until the adoption finalizes and they can move to the United States together. "For a few anxious seconds," writes O'Dwyer, "I reflected on how little Spanish I spoke and how far away from emergency medical care I would be. At the Camino Real, Tim had always taken the lead, running the bath water and sterilizing the baby bottles. What if she got a cold or a fever? I would be in charge. But those fears were fleeting. Olivia would live with me. I would finally be her mother."

That fall, it seems that still, O'Dwyer wondered.

My obsession with finished the adoption was matched only by my obsession to get Olivia to consider me her mother. And, frankly, finishing the adoption felt like the easier task. Because at least with the adoption, I could write daily goals on my to-do list and cross them off. "Meet with Rodriguez, check status of other mothers' cases, follow-up with Gilda. Pick up renewed passport from Millicent." Whereas I couldn't make Olivia love me. I could hold her and feed her, teach her to walk and to talk. I could point to myself and say "Mommy" until she mimicked the word. But that didn't mean she loved me or trusted me or felt safer with me than with anyone else.

And so, perhaps there is yet another possibility to consider. Maybe a woman becomes a mother when her child recognizes her as such.

On November 1, everyone in Guatemala flocked to their local cemetery to fly kites. November 1 was Day of the Dead, and kites were believed to be a conduit through which the living could communicate with the spirits of the deceased...

As I moved down the cobblestone lane among the mausoleums, I realized that the biggest attraction seemed to be Olivia and me. Everyone was staring and pointing at us, as though trying to figure out who we were an what our relationship was.

"Haven't they seen a mother and daughter before?" I asked Olivia. Without other American parents around, I felt uncomfortable and conspicuous. Kendra had the right idea, going to Santiago. We were more anonymous in a bigger crowd. It was easier to blend in. I had planned to stay at [the cemetery] for the afternoon, but it felt as if it were time to go.

Olivia, however, had no intention of leaving. She was perfectly content at the cemetery. She scrambled from my arms to inspect the pine needles, then swept the cobblestones as though with a tiny broom. She discovered that a mausoleum substituted nicely for a play structure, so much more interesting that the usual cathedral steps. And the sounds made by the string quartet were definitely worth investigating. Olivia took my hand and steered me toward the players for closer inspection.

As I followed her to the church steps, I hoped that the families who had been wispering about us were watching. See? I wanted to say. We don't look alike, but I am her mother. It's been a long road to get here, but I am her mother.

No need to reveal to those families the depths of my real doubts. My fear that some part of Olivia would never - could never - belong to me, in the effortless way their children belonged to them. Such defeatist thoughts would get me nowhere. It was like riding a bicycle up a very steep hill: Never think about getting to the top; deal only with what was two feet ahead.

I concentrated on listening to the music with Olivia. In the mournful strains of the violins, I recognized Pachelbel's "Canon" and the recognition cheered me. Revel in this moment as it's happening, I told myself. The quartet finished the Canon and waited while the assembled audience applauded. I hitched Olivia up to my hip and she looped her arm around my shoulder. She was finally beginning to trust me. Baby steps.

Whatever the case, it becomes clear throughout Mamalita that no one - no one - can define the time or place when a woman becomes a mother, or anything else, for that matter, except for that woman. And perhaps it is this, this deeply personal, life-changing and life-defining conviction that is at the heart of O'Dwyer's memoir. Ultimately, O'Dwyer is absolutely sure that she was put on this earth to raise a child, to love a child, to be a mother to a child. It is what fuels her tireless journey in Guatemala. It is what motivates her to return not eight months later to adopt a son. And it is what makes her memoir so compelling. O'Dwyer becomes that which she believes she is, that which she believes she must be.

Grumpy Old Men and Ornery Young Women

2011-01-06T05:19:00.004-06:00

Per his wishes, Dan and I got my father-in-law a cardigan for his birthday. Simple, cozy, and professorial, I was pleased with our selection, as, I think, was he. He called last weekend to thank us. He said it was perfect, "just right." His justification? As he gets older, he explained, people will expect the cardigan, a seemingly small yet defining detail in a larger, bucolic depiction of an elderly man, unassuming and innocuous. And then, out of no where, [and I quote,] "Whabam!" At which point, it seems, the aforementioned people would be floored, quite literally, by my otherwise kind father-in-law's cane (an accoutrement which he, as of yet, does not have). And so it was that I was reminded to never judge a book by its cover or, in this case, its cardigan.

Though I feel fairly certain that it wasn't my father-in-law's cane, something has come out of nowhere and knocked me to the ground, reeling. Just as I put the finishing touches on my New Year's post, I began to feel unsettled, restless, certain that I had spoken too soon. Instead of my conclusive "Hallelujah and amen," I should have written, "Knock on wood," thereby ensuring my continued well being, or at the very least discouraging complacency.

It started on Tuesday. And while it's difficult to explain, a certain dis-ease began brewing in the pit of my stomach almost immediately. I went about my day, sending up little prayers throughout. As I left work to return home for lunch, I whispered, "God, I just need a little something to remind me that I'm doing okay." Not five minutes later, I braked hard for the car in front of me, clearly startling the driver behind me, and I was greeted by not one but two angry middle fingers as he sped past. Dan said that to attribute such blatant hostility to God would be asinine and unwarranted. It was a coincidence, he said. I'm not so sure.

And then I got two amazing emails, both from relatively new friends, both expressing their respect for and admiration of little ol' me. But I'll be damned if I didn't manage to disregard such sentiments, choosing instead to focus on the uncomfortable, anxiety-producing interactions of the day. As a result, I was uncomfortable and anxious. What did I expect?

I haven't been reading my Overeaters Anonymous literature, or any positive literature, for that matter. The book I'm reading now is about one woman's struggle with her life as a nun and progressive disillusionment with faith. (I think she comes to find some sort of peace, as she has gone on to write many other books, including one called The Case for God, but I'm not there yet. In the book, I mean.) I haven't been calling my sponsor because the time we decided to talk no longer works. I haven't been attending meetings because I've been out of town or hosting visitors.

But I have been exercising, I have been cooking, and I have been praying. Maybe I'm experiencing sadness that the holidays are over. I don't know when I'll see my family or Dan's next. Maybe it's the fact that Dan's vacation ends soon, and off he will go for yet another semester of commuting. And yes, I know it hasn't ended yet and that by focusing on when it does end I'm actually failing to take advantage of what of it remains. I know that, but what I know doesn't seem to matter in times like these. Maybe it's the weather.

Regardless, last night I pitched a hissy fit. I didn't want to go to yoga, but earlier in the day I'd begged Dan to go with me, so he insisted that we go. I pouted. Even my toes, unpainted and bloated, pissed me off. I didn't want to cook, but I'd told Dan I'd make potato pancakes, so I cooked. And pouted. I accidentally pureed the onions. I wanted a glass of red wine, but we didn't have any, so I drank water. And pouted. It was too cold, I actually said aloud. I refused to look Dan in the eye. And when Samson crawled into his crate, I became irrationally and embarrassingly jealous. I wanted to hide, to feel safe inside some small, dark, warm enclosure. I wanted to bury myself in blankets and not come out until I felt better. Or perhaps until spring.

It's probably important to note that I didn't follow my dog into his crate. Instead, I put on an old, oversized pajama shirt that once belonged to my grandfather, cried a little, and put my sorry asana to bed, none too soon. And again, I said a littler prayer. I apologized for not giving credit where credit was due. My sign from God might very well have been via email rather than via the bird. And had I been able to see outside of myself for even a moment, I might have recognized more. I expressed gratitude for the people in my life who put up with me, who forgive me time and time again. And I asked for a new day tomorrow, for some perspective, some patience, and some grace.

Lucky for me, I hear God's good at that.

New Year's Eve (Why No News Really Is Good News)

2011-01-03T05:30:00.011-06:00

Yesterday, Dan and I returned from a week of holiday celebration with my family in South Carolina. The week before that, we spent a week with his family in Iowa. In sum, it amounted to four parents and one grandparent, six young adults, five dogs, one engagement, three houses, two Christmases, a New Year's Eve, thirty two hours in the car, and many, many meals. With such seeming chaos, one might think - and in fact, I did think - that I would, in short, lose my shit. But here, on this side of it all and exhausted though I am, I can honestly say that I have very little to report.

It has been a year since I began writing. A year since I first began to be honest with my family and friends. A year since I initially opened myself up to the questions and comments of strangers. I have shared some scary moments, troubling doubts, and experiences that have quite literally brought me to my knees. But in the end, it seems that these often difficult, always challenging junctures have added up to something else. Something good.

Dan and I spent New Year's Eve at a small shindig hosted by my sister, Anne, and her new fiancé, Lee. My parents were there, as were several acquaintances from high school, their pregnant (and beautiful) wives, and two other engaged couples, friends of Lee's from college (also beautiful). Having spent the great majority of the two weeks prior being happy, cordial, and hilarious - seriously, folks, I was damn near jolly - I was tired, and not too sure I wanted much of a New Year's Eve anything except that which might involve an overstuffed chair and octogenarian Times Square staple Dick Clark. But, as it was our last day in town and I am, in fact, an adult, I hitched up my big girl pants, tucked them neatly into a pair of high heeled boots, and got my rear end in gear.

And here's the real kicker...I had fun. Honest to goodness. I talked to intelligent, interesting people, I ate good, warm, hearty food, I spent time with my family of whom I see far too little, I held a sleeping puppy, and I laughed. A lot. As Dan and I drove home a little before midnight - we had an early morning and a long car ride in front of us, and did I mention how fun I had been for two weeks straight? - I said, "Anne's friends are great. So smart. So unpretentious!" It was as though I was utterly amazed by the possibility that someone might be able to spend time with me without judging me, without sizing up the circumference of my heart and brain and thighs and deeming me wanting. But I simply couldn't get over how much I liked them, how much I had enjoyed my evening. And it was, I guess, surprising.

The next day, as Dan and Samson and I found ourselves somewhere south of Indianapolis, my mom called to check in. "Where are you?" she asked. "How much longer do you have?" "How are the roads?" And then, "You know, Kate, I think the reason you enjoyed Anne and Lee's friends so much has far more to do with you than with them." She continued, "You're much more willing to be kind to others - and to assume the kindness of others - when you're kind to yourself." She was right. So, so right. In the past, those same young women would have been, to me, simply beautiful. Simply skinny. I would've assumed the worst of them because I believed the worst of me. I would've felt inferior not because they judged me, but because I judged me. And when I judged myself, I deemed myself invariably, adamantly, and most fundamentally, wanting.

In the past year, something has changed. It isn't dramatic, or loud. It isn't exciting, and in fact, I'm finding it difficult to write about. English psychiatrist and author Anthony Storr once told the annual meeting of the Royal College of Psychiatrists that genius tended to be born of madness. "Creativity should be linked with mental instability," he said. "Blissful happiness is not conducive to inventiveness. If we were content in the world, would we be moved to write great novels? The most inventive are at odds with the world and themselves."

He continued, "A great many of the most interesting people in the world are disturbed. Dr. Storr cites the metaphysical poet John Donne and his Defence of Suicide as proof, as well as the many writers, including Ernest Hemingway, Thomas Chatterton, Virginia Woolf, and Sylvia Plath who took their own lives. William Collins, William Cowper, John Clare, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Edgar Allen Poe, Coleridge, Tennyson, Tolstoy and Ruskin, too, he said, were all brilliant depressives who toyed with the idea of suicide. And he insisted that friends of Graham Greene were convinced he would take his own life. "We label them as mentally ill," said Dr. Storr, "but there is something wrong with our definition. A so-called normal person is incredibly dull and excruciatingly boring."

Perhaps my creativity has dwindled. Maybe my ability to craft a story in words both brilliant and inspired has diminished. But it is with every bone in my body that I can say today, so has my pain. So has my madness, my self-disgust, and my compulsion. It is for good? Of course, I cannot say. Today, I simply choose to continue on my course. Inevitably, there will be bumps. Turbulence. New Year's Eve parties that don't go so well. But lucky for me, I have a hell of a lot of really amazing people to accompany me.

So, friends, it seems that at some point over the course of this blessed year together, I have become, at long last, incredibly dull and excruciatingly boring. Hallelujah and amen.

Noel, Noel

2010-12-23T20:11:00.003-06:00

[little tree]
by e. e. cummings

little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don't be afraid

look the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you're quite dressed
you'll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they'll stare!
oh but you'll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we'll dance and sing
"Noel Noel"

+++

Merry Christmas, friends! May your days be filled with snowy landscapes and warm conversation, hugs that nourish and food that sustains. You have blessed my life this year. I am beyond grateful.

Holiday Humility

2010-12-19T10:09:00.005-06:00

Saturday evening, Dan and I attended my office Christmas party, and last night, the last member of my Vermont family arrived in Cedar Falls. So marked, it seems, the beginning of Christmas.

In so many ways, I am thrilled. I love Christmas - the sounds of carols and hymns on the radio, more optimistic and festive and, I don't know, benign than the musical selections of January through November; the smells of pine and cinnamon; and the colors, the light, rich and bright and somehow capable of filling a space and making it seem special, sacred.

I love the opportunity to be with family and friends, to share with them tokens of my appreciation, love, and thoughtfulness. Even coworkers seem more inclined to affection. I got a hug from my boss last night. I never get hugs from my boss.

But there is, too, tucked in amidst the energy and excitement, a perceptible anxiety, and clearly, I am not alone. The blog world is rampant with articles touting solutions to maintaining one's sanity and one's waistline while also wowing one's guests this holiday season, a goal, I'm discovering, that is actually about maintaining control and impressing one's ego.

Saturday morning, at the Overeaters Anonymous meeting I attended, we read the seventh step: "Humbly asked God to remove our shortcomings." What I found interesting about the discussion that ensued, both in the reading and over the course of our gathering, was the focus not on our shortcomings, but on humility. "Humility, as a word and as an ideal," writes the co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, "has a very bad time of it in our world. Not only is the idea misunderstood; the word itself is often intensely disliked. Many people haven't even a nodding acquaintance with humility as a way of life."

I myself have avoided meaningful considerations of humility, for I've come to the conclusion that I'm fine, and in fact rather expert at self-deprecation. It's not humility that I've got to work on, I always assumed, it's self-confidence. Self-acceptance. Self-reliance.

But that, I was reminded, is simply not what humility is, what humility implies and demands. I read aloud:

For just so long as we were convinced that we could live exclusively by our own individual strength and intelligence, for just that long was a working faith in a Higher Power impossible. This was true even when we believed that God existed. We could actually have earnest religious beliefs which remained barren because we were still trying to play God ourselves. As long as we placed self-reliance first, a genuine reliance upon a Higher Power was out of the questions. That basic ingredient of all humility, a desire to seek and do God's will, was missing.

Last weekend, I made four dozen chocolate chip cookies, eggplant parmesan, chicken tetrazzini, and biscuits. I snapped green beans and washed lettuce greens. I purchased two boxes of white wine, two bottles of red wine, and a six pack of beer. And I swept and scrubbed until I could see my face in the faucet and eat off the floor. All this, I thought, for my guests. I wanted to make them feel comfortable, welcome, and at home in this foreign locale. More than that, though, I wanted to prevent the possibility of anything going wrong, of giving anyone the opportunity to find me at fault. I wanted to be a "good wife." I wanted not to be a "bad wife." But ultimately, I wanted control.

And then I remembered. This family - my family - loves me. They'd love me whether or not I there was dirt on the floor and toothpaste on the mirror. They'd love me even if they had to help prepare a meal or two. They first loved me because I loved their son. And now, they just love me. They just do. It's out of my control. Thanks be to God.

If we cannot have faith in this season, this sacred time during which the world receives a gift destined to change us forever, then when possibly can we? If we insist upon control and order in this rare and precious moment, how can we prepare ourselves to accept the unexpected, inconvenient, unprecedented gift of a baby in a manger, foreordained to save our fragile souls?

At the end of each OA meeting, the attendees join hands and say together Reinhold Niebuhr's "Serenity Prayer." "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." It is Christmas. This season, it is my hope that I can recognize the holy in every space, filling it as I can with love and good-intentions, but all the while understanding with humility that, when all is said and done, the grace of God can do for me what I cannot do for myself.

My Leggings, My Self

2010-12-12T11:00:00.005-06:00

Last Friday, I wore leggings to work. No big deal, right? Not for everybody else, maybe. I think leggings look terrific on everyone, no matter the body shape. I love, love, love them and envision much of the population donning a pair with a long, chunky sweater and boots without giving it a second thought.

But leggings on me? Terrifying. They seem too revealing, too risque, as though the piece of fabric between my legs and butt and the world is simply not thick enough, leaving my body and soul utterly, painfully, vulnerable. At which point one is apt to forget what the hell we're even talking about.

Sometimes, though, my infatuation with fashion leads me to places I would not normally venture. And so Friday, I wore leggings. "Are they too much?" I asked a coworker early that morning. "I'm wearing them!" she assured me, seemingly incapable of rationalizing my internal dilemma. "I know, and they look good on you, but..." And so I tentatively went through the remainder of my day.

Mid-afternoon, though, delirious from a long work week or giddy with excitement for the upcoming weekend, another sort of conversation took place.

Coworker #1: Kate has a cute butt. (It should be noted that this coworker is female and, I'd like to think, a friend.)

Coworker #2: Kate, we like your ass. (Same goes for her.)

Me: (Lifting my shirttail and shimmying a little...) Thanks. You know, I've had a love/hate relationship with it, but it's growing on me. (Pause) Get it?

Compulsory chuckles followed.

Strangely, over the course of the day, I had come to some sort of peace with my leggings and, I think, as a result, my body and myself. Rosie Molinary writes in Beautiful You: A Daily Guide to Radical Self-Acceptance:

I was the type of girl who wasn't confident enough to wear a costume for the "Tacky Party" or whatever the theme party was in college. A few years later, as a teacher doing something that I loved and that I was good at, sporting a costume for Halloween was not at all a stretch. With a boom box in hand, my hat tipped sideways, and wearing oversized athletic wear, I wasn't afraid to delight my students with my impersonation of the gangsta' rappers they loved at the time.

Dressing up for Halloween made me realize that taking yourself too seriously can actually keep you from accessing confidence. It's when you are willing to laugh at yourself that you realize how debilitating self-seriousness can be. Taking yourself lightly can enhance your ability to embrace yourself and maintain a healthy perspective on life.

It wasn't a Halloween costume. It wasn't daring or outlandish or even unorthodox according to most people's definitions of the terms. (According to most people's definition of "chaplain," however? Well that might be another story.) But for me, on Friday, leggings were a stretch away from my comfort zone and towards some other, more playful, more confident space, a space where, I've got to say, I'd like to spend more time.

So today, or perhaps tomorrow, I encourage you to do as Rosie says.

Wear something a little bit absurd. Maybe it's a funny bauble given to you by a friend, maybe it's a slightly loud shade of nail color, maybe it's a pair of funny shoes that will get noticed. Just wear it, check your ego at the door, and watch your brilliance shine as you get a kick out of yourself all day. Others will get a kick out of you too.

Mary, Martha, and Writer's Block

2010-12-11T10:16:00.005-06:00

Friends, many apologies for my prolonged absence. My internet has been out. And while I suppose I could have written a post at work, or at Panera or Starbucks or one of the many other establishments capable of allowing me to be online and warm, my creative juices have been feeling a lot more like creative sludge, made all the more sloth-like by the unreasonable cold of an Iowa winter. So I suppose that's my real excuse. I'm in a slump.

Case in point? I just asked Dan, "What do you call it when you can't think of anything to write?" "Writer's block," he said. Good, Kate. Good.

So this morning, as I continue to massage my temples and run in place and brainstorm with the hope that one day I feel witty and loquacious again, I share with you an oldie but goodie, a sermon that I preached several years ago to the congregation at Emmaus House Episcopal Mission Parish in Atlanta, Georgia. I hope you enjoy.

And in the meantime, don't give up on me. I will be back.

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Luke 10: 38-42

Now as they went on their way, [Jesus] entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, "Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me." But the Lord answered her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her."

“A woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary.”

Thank you for having me here today. It is truly a blessing to be able to worship with you in this community, in this sacred space. And yet I have to admit that I remain somewhat uncomfortable assuming the rather daunting role of your “preacher,” your “minister,” your “reverend.” Now clearly, as I am well into a seminary career and excited about the prospect of serving a congregation in the future, this is something with which I will continue to struggle. But there is a part of that discomfort that may persist, and well, maybe should persist. For it may be true that I am simply more comfortable defining myself by certain of my other roles. I am a student, and have been a student since I can remember. I suppose I am also a teacher. I am an athlete, or, well, how does “an enthusiastic competitor” sound? And on my good days, when the stars are aligned just so and the Holy Spirit is acting in my favor, I am an artist. I am a daughter. I am a friend. And, perhaps most of all, I am a sister. I am a big sister. I am a good sister.

But with that role as with any role comes a wide range of responsibilities, or at the very least expectations. Author Barbara Alpert says about a big sister, “She is your mirror, shining back at you with a world of possibilities. She is your witness, who sees you at your worst and best, and loves you anyway. She is your partner in crime, your midnight companion, someone who knows when you are smiling, even in the dark. She is your teacher, your defense attorney, your personal press agent, even your shrink.” That, my friends, is quite a job description. Interestingly, Alpert continues almost as an aside, “Some days, she's the reason you wish you were an only child.” Hmm.

Alice Walker, too, in her “Poem for Aneta Chapman on Her 33rd Birthday,” writes, “You are the big sister. The big sister as hero. The one who sees. The one who listens. The one who guides, teaches, and protects. The one who sacrifices, the one whose sure reward is love.”
“The one who guides, teaches, and protects,” says Miss Walker. The one who guides, teaches, and protects. And so, it is with this slightly more developed image of a big sister that we again meet Martha who, as the homeowner, we can assume to be the older of the two sisters. “A woman named Martha welcomed him into her home,” says the author of Luke. “She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord's feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, ‘Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.’”

Martha guides. Martha teaches. And here, Martha is sure that she knows. She knows to welcome Jesus into her home and to serve him. She knows to turn to Jesus, to appeal to Jesus as the authority. And she knows that she will be justified, that Jesus will provide the vindication she seeks and that Mary will soon be hurried off to the kitchen behind her, having yet again been reminded that she is to follow the example of her guiding, teaching, knowing older sister. “Tell her,” Martha says to Jesus. “Tell her!” What Martha didn’t know, however – what Martha never could have expected – was that Jesus would respond as he did. “Martha, Martha,” said Jesus, “you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.” “Martha, Martha!” said Jesus, “Indeed you teach and goodness knows you guide. You are good and you serve me well. But today? Today you must learn from your sister, from your baby sister.” Jesus, being Jesus, took Martha’s expectations – well-meaning to be sure – and turned them on their head, asking her to abandon her seemingly God-given, society-sanctioned role to be surprised, to be taught and led by assuming another.

This summer, I had the great privilege and, to be honest, sometimes exhausting responsibility of working at the Emmaus House Summer Camp at D.H. Stanton Elementary School. One afternoon, as I sat with a few of the first graders coloring-by-number – and yes, I color-by-number – one of the young girls at the table said to me, “Ooh Miss Kate, you have pretty toenails.” Without even thinking I responded, “Eww, no, my feet are gross! They’re just pink.” And then, after a few moments of what I assumed to be thoughtless silence, she continued, “Miss Kate, don’t ever talk bad about yourself.” I looked up, shocked. “You’re right,” I said, “You’re right and I’m sorry.” And with more grace than I would ever have expected from a seven-year old, she said, “That’s okay. You just shouldn’t ever talk bad about yourself.” And where, I wondered, did this child learn these oft forgotten words of value and love? “Well,” she told me, “I read my Bible. Do you have a Bible?”

That afternoon at camp, I was struck – and embarrassed, really – by how easily I let myself fall into a strange cultural norm, a norm that allows and even instructs women to degrade ourselves and our bodies, even our toes, in the company of others. And yet with profound mercy, this young lady spoke to me, her teacher, of the utter worthlessness of it. This first grader reminded me, a “preacher,” of the Gospel that makes such self-loathing inappropriate and in fact unacceptable. This baby sister awoke in me, a big sister, the overwhelming truth that while I might be a teacher and a preacher and even a big sister, I am also – I am first – a child of God. As is she.

Expecting to be vindicated, I was humbled. Expecting to live out my role as big sister, to mirror and witness, to defend and protect, to teach and to guide, I was taught. I was surprised. I was transformed. And so I find myself alongside Martha. And so, I suspect, we all might find ourselves alongside Martha. For who among us – who among us who so readily teach and guide – would ever have expected that it would be modest Jewish carpenter who would teach us. Who would guide us. Who would ultimately save us.

Thanks be to God for surprising prophets, thanks be to God for little sisters, thanks be to God for those who have chosen the better part, from whom it will not be taken away. Amen.

Today

2010-11-30T07:15:00.003-06:00

Brought to you by Studio Mela : surround yourself in positivity

Hunger Pangs

2010-11-29T18:16:00.008-06:00

Last night, as I sat on the couch - book in hand, dog in lap, and the NFL's Sunday night offering chirping sweetly in the background - I observed aloud to Dan, "I can't decide whether I'm hungry or full." "You've said that before," he said. "It's so weird." "Yeah," I agreed, "I know."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the kind of conversation approximately seventeen years of higher education will get you.

So I'll say it again, and this time hope for a bit more inspiration. Sometimes, it's true: I can't decide whether I'm hungry or full. Or, perhaps it isn't deciding with which I struggle, as that seems to insinuate some sort of knowledge on which to base a finding or preference. Rather, it is the investigation. I can't read the clues appropriately, I can't piece together the pertinent information necessary to figure out whether I am, in fact, hungry or full.

Quite often, there is a feeling of some sort or another in my stomach. Sometimes, it's discomfort, bloating or nausea or cramps. Other times, though - more usually, in fact - it is a benign, innocuous, but nonetheless noticeable feeling. I've come to attribute it to anxiety, fear, sadness, or excitement. It happens when I'm speaking to a crowd or starting a new job, when I see the hubs after a long separation, and when I'm about to do something that scares me shitless, run a marathon, e.g. It also appears at both ends of a very common continuum. Hungry. And full.

So, I guess all of this is to say that there is more work to be done in what I now assume will be a lifelong process, that is, getting to know my body. Getting to know the feelings that arise not only in my stomach, but also in my head, my heart, my legs, and my hands.

Last night? Turns out I was hungry. I woke up in the middle of the night even more so. But, miracle of miracles, I chose more sleep in a warm bed over a snack. And when I finally got out of bed, still hungry, I ate breakfast. Could it be that it's just that easy?

Foodie Fight

2010-11-23T05:39:00.008-06:00

This weekend, I received messages from three - count 'em, three - friends who wanted to let me know that CBS Sunday Morning was airing "The Food Issue." This is remarkable for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that I have the kind of friends who think of me on their days off. Lounging in their pajamas, coffee in hand, they reach for their phone or computer or whatever and think of me. Très cool, right?

Also remarkable, though, is that...well let's see, how do I put this nicely? Simply? Ultimately, I didn't - and after days of considering and reconsidering the subject matter - I don't give a damn. Let me explain.

CBS Sunday Morning is one of my favorite programs on television. I consider it sort of the NPR of TV - a comparison with which I realize some of you might argue in favor of PBS, and I suppose you'd be right, but just go with it. The stories on which the program focuses are interesting, personal, well-written, and, in my opinion, quite moving. Unless, that is, they revolve around food.

I want to be a "foodie," a lover of all things culinary including its consumption, preparation, study and news. (Wikipedia distinguishes between a gourmet and a "foodie" by saying, "Gourmets are epicures of refined taste who simply want to eat the best food, whereas 'foodies' want to learn everything about food, both the best and the ordinary, and about the science, industry, and personalities surrounding it.") It hurts me to admit it, but that is simply not me. Not yet, at least.

My love for food is currently limited to the consumption of it. And even then, I think that I might, in some ways, be too afraid of what it means, what it looks like to really love food - too frightened of my unbridled passion for it - to ever truly engage such an affection.

When I was anorexic, I wanted nothing more than to be around food all the time. I begged my brothers, who, in their efforts to beef up for their various athletic endeavors were eating around the clock, to let me make them milkshakes into which went full fat peanut butter and ice cream, milk and sometimes added sugar, grilled sandwiches lathered in butter and oozing melted cheese, and bacon, its grease popping in the pan as I cooked it to a crispy brown. That which I wouldn't allow myself, that is, fat and calories and taste and comfort, I longed to be around, I longed to give to others. They, of course, remember that time fondly. I remember it as wildly controlled, and, even in the midst of all of that food, feverishly deprived.

And then it happened. One of my friends - again, so well-meaning - sent me a box of cookies from a local baker, the baker to whom her family always turned for their saccharine and sentimental needs. She sent it in lieu of a hug, which she was too far away to give. And I accepted it. With open arms, I accepted her hug and her cookies, eating approximately thirteen of them and stuffing my emaciated body to the brim. I remember going downstairs and telling my parents what I had done. They laughed, probably relieved to know I had it in me, and told me to lie down. They promised the discomfort would go away, which it did, but I was terrified, terrified of what I had done, of the extreme to which I had gone having allowed myself free reign in the presence of cookies.

On any given night, my sister will concoct coq au vin, pork tenderloin with a balsamic reduction, an eggplant stack or a pan of roasted vegetables in a browned butter sauce. Really. And we grew up with a mother who did the same. Most people, I have heard, have twelve or so recipes from which they rarely stray, but Mom consistently surprised us with delicious and nutritious spreads that involved both research and creativity.

Me? I'd prefer to have my meal put in front of me. Perhaps it's because I have already spent far too much of my life thinking about food, whether obsessing over the way in which I might decrease an already scant daily caloric intake or counting down the minutes until I might be set free from community and obligation to, finally and indulgently, binge. Food has consumed me. So why, knowing that, would I want to willingly subject myself to more of it?

"Eat, Drink, and Be Merry," touted CBS Sunday Morning, "A Celebration of All Things Epicurean!" As I sat watching the witty and adorable Mo Rocca explore the weighty dilemma of whether to choose a wholesome breakfast or a decadent brunch, I thanked God for my friends, friends who without fail give me the benefit of the doubt and assume - or perhaps hope - that my relationship with food is healthy and happy, that I remain curious and interested, and that I am a "foodie."

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This evening, Dan and I invited some new friends over for a little dessert shindig. To attempt the whole "hostess with the mostess" thing I've heard so much about, I made a pumpkin pecan pie and "Better than Crack Brownies." And then, exhausted, I served my husband frozen pizza. I mean, I cooked it, but you get the point.

I can only do so much. Today, it seems, it's confession, and a prayer that my thoughtful friends are not offended. Yesterday, it was pie. And tomorrow, it might just be getting myself out of the damn bed. I'm learning how to feed myself. Perhaps, in time, that will involve spices and recipes, creativity and television. For now, though, well, it's looking like peanut butter toast and a banana for this girl.

On Being Alone

2010-11-20T18:46:00.008-06:00

Photo courtesy of Stephen Bussell

They took him to a small room with a large table and many chairs. The walls were perforated with windows that looked out to the surrounding office, which was filled with police detectives doing their police work at their desks, just like on Law & Order. Wooden blinds filtered the blue light that crept into the room, rippling the table and floor with long shadows.

No one bothered him. A bad cop didn't pull his ears or hit him with a telephone directory or smash his fingers in the door or smack his head against the chalkboard, as often happens on television. No. After being booked and fingerprinted and photographed, he was put in the room, alone, and left there, as if the police had forgotten him entirely. He sat by himself. He sat for hours with nothing. No coffee, no water, no restrooms, no radio. No distractions. His crime and his punishment and himself. Alone.

Did he despair? Did he silently berate himself for allowing himself to be in that situation? Or did he finally realize what it is like to be me, to be a dog? Did he understand, as those interminable minutes ticked by, that being alone is not the same as being lonely? That being alone is a neutral state; it is like a blind fish at the bottom of the ocean: without eyes, and therefore without judgment. Is it possible? That which is around me does not affect my mood; my mood affects that which is around me. Is it true? Could Denny have possibly appreciated the subjective nature of loneliness, which is something that exists only in the mind, not in the world, and, like a virus, is unable to survive without a willing host?

I like to think that he was alone for that time, but that he wasn't lonely. I like to think that he thought about his condition, but he did not despair.

From The Art of Racing in the Rain, by Garth Stein

Puppy Dog Eyes

2010-11-16T18:44:00.004-06:00

This is the face that greets me at the door these days, the face I see when I wake up. This, friends, is Samson. This face is making me smile, making me laugh, and making me remember, everyday, how important I am, how loved I am, and how very tasty I am. This face is helping me.

But goodness, how could it not?

This I Know, Sort of, Sometimes

2010-11-12T06:15:00.013-06:00

I suppose it's time I share something with you. I've recently been attending Overeaters Anonymous meetings. Not everyday, but sometimes.

I'm not sure why that is such a hard thing for me to reveal, but I'd be lying if I said that it wasn't. It's awful. It feels like a huge admission of failure, of defeat. As though basically, what I'm saying to you is what I say to those around the table each night: Hi, my name is Kate, and I'm a compulsive overeater and bulimic. I'm hopeless. Lost. I'll never be anything more or anything else. And while I know that everyone in the room during these meetings cannot possibly be as crazy and screwed up and totally unsalvageable as I am, I have a sense that they might at least understand. But you? There's a good chance that you'll judge me. Dismiss me. Realize that the love and support you've promised to give has taken a turn for the unsustainable. The exhausting. The downright crazy. And so I go, down the rabbit hole.

But there, I've said it. I figure it can't hurt, and just might help.

My first assignment, as given to me by my OA sponsor, Mary, was to read the first three of the Twelve Steps, which originated in Alcoholics Anonymous and remain the heart of AA, OA, NA, and other-A recovery programs. They read:

We admitted we were powerless over food - that our lives had become unmanageable.
Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood him.

My sponsor paraphrased, "I can't. God can. I will let God." But who, she asked, is God?

Easy, I thought. Piece o' cake. I majored in Religious Studies in college. I went to seminary. I have read the Bible in both Greek and Hebrew. I have a degree, a Master of Divinity, for Pete's sake. If anybody knows who God is, I do. Or I should. Right? Totally. But as our conversation continued, I realized - as did she - that I don't. "Write it down," she said. "Write down who God is as you understand him. Or her or it or whatever. Just write it down."

And so I wrote.

I want God to be accepting, respectful, dignifying, honoring, and a lot of other words that fall under "antonyms" of shaming and punishing.

I want God to be loving, unconditionally. I want her to help me figure out what that means.

I want God to respond, to communicate with me. I want a burning bush, dammit.

I think I want God to be a woman, with a warm smile and ample bosom and smelling of baked goods or Chanel No. 5. Like Georgia, my maternal grandmother, or Helen Mirren. But maybe I want it to be a man.

I want God to be filling.

I really want God not to give two hoots what I put in my mouth, only whether or not I'm caring for myself.

I want God to be cuddly, touchy feely in that non-creepy sort of way. I want to feel God's warmth and be comforted by it.

I want God to be funny, not easily offended, and understanding of my need to curse, fuss, and occasionally say mean things about other people.

I want God to be huge, capable of anything, and able - and willing - to change my life.

I want God to show up and make his presence known. Everywhere. In trees, in patients, in coworkers, in strangers, in the sidewalk, in a piece of toast.

I want Got to be energizing and inspiring.

I want God to never yell, to never hurt, and to never be disappointed in me.

I want God to provide. I want Got to make me believe that there is always enough.

I was surprised by how difficult this exercise was for me. I could hear my professors and the reformed theologians we studied day after day for three and a half years chastising me. How saddened and frustrated they were, in my head. I felt as though I had created for myself something or someone that I needed, rather than thanking my lucky stars for the God who, I had been taught repeatedly, already is, and, for no good reason, cares. "Who am I," I heard ringing, reverberating in my ears, "that God is mindful of me (Psalm 8:4)?"

My sponsor was less than impressed. "You want?" she asked. "You want?" she repeated, this time more incredulous and imposing. "What about what you have? What about who God is? Is it possible that this God might actually already exist?" She continued, "Why can't you believe this? Why can't you trust that this God - this God who loves without shame and guilt, with total abandon and utter acceptance - is your God?"

I stuttered. "I don't know. I don't know. God expects more of me, or something. God deserves my best. I don't know. God has bigger things to worry about. And I know, 'Even the hairs of [my] head are all counted' (Matt. 10:30), but..." I trailed off. "It's amazing," I told Mary, "I am capable of convincing even the most unforgivable that he is forgiven." Just last week, in fact, I attended the death of a man who, having spent all that he had on a gambling addiction and essentially abandoning his family, was terrified that he wouldn't go to heaven. "But God is a loving, forgiving God," I promised him. "God knows your heart, and you have a good heart." When it comes to my own hope of a relationship with God, though, well, it seems the bar is somehow higher. Perhaps the bar is too high.

"It seems," Mary suggested, "that you've decided that you're not worthy. In which case, you've made yourself your own God. Because ultimately, you know - and I know you know - God is the one who decides. And God," she said, slowly now, "has decided that you're really, really worthy."

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Friday afternoon, I visited with a woman whom I have met many times, but who, due to advanced dementia, never remembers me. She was sleeping when I entered. "Helen," I said as I rubbed her arm gently. "Helen, it's me, Kate, from hospice." She opened her eyes and smiled. "What have you been up to?" she said. "I'm just here to visit with you," I responded. "What have you been doing?" she asked again. I humored her, "Well I just came by to sit with you, Helen." "What have you been up to?" Okay, I thought. Just go with it.

"Well, my husband came home last night."

"Oh!"

"We ate dinner together and watched a movie."

"Oh!"

"We're going to go to the Humane Society today after work."

"Oh!"

I paused.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you too, Helen." Sweet, crazy old woman, I thought.

"I really love you. You really mean a lot to me."

"Thank you, Helen." Easy girl.

"You are really special to me. I love you."

"I love you too, Helen." Tears now streamed down my face.

And as Helen closed her eyes to continue sleeping, I knew that, when she awoke next, she would not remember our conversation. But I would. Because in our brief time together, in her seemingly illogical, unfounded words, I realized that I had seen God, and that God loved me.

God loves me.

God will forever love me, whether or not I have done a damn thing to deserve it.