My current reading circle is reading Omaha native Roxane Gay’s Hunger, A Memoir of (My) Body. The book is an uncomfortable read. Roxane tells the story of building her own cage, a body weighing 577 pounds. She created this structure, she explains, as a way to feel safe, a way to avoid a desiring male gaze. She did this in response to being gang raped by a group of boys from her suburban middle school at age 12. Continue reading So many sorrowful questions
Category: Mindful musings
Busted monk
Back when I was a teen in the throes of my eating disorder, I often despaired that I wasn’t an alcoholic instead of a compulsive binger and exerciser. I lamented not being able to simply stop eating, swearing off food and all the decisions it required of me. Or pills, I thought, that would be okay too. I could stop taking meds forever. But no, my addiction revolved around food, the second most important ingestible to my survival.
Today, however, I am thankful for my history with food. I can see that by learning to negotiate outings, desserts, rest-stop snack options and all the emotions and anxiety they conjure, I have grown. I see that the beauty of my struggle lies not in denying myself certain experiences, but in learning to be in relationship with them.
This rush of gratitude came on the heels of hearing a classic Chinese Zen tale about an old woman who graciously housed a monk on her property. After many years of witnessing his austere practices and delivering a daily meal to his hut, the woman one day decided to send a beautiful maiden in her place, instructing the girl to embrace the monk very warmly before leaving his hut. Later, the old woman questioned the monk about the test, asking how the girl’s warm body felt pressed against his. The monk replied, “like a withering tree in the winter”. With that, the crone cursed the religious man, called him a fraud and kicked him off her land, very angry he had learned nothing in all that time.
This story hits home to me in a very visceral way. As I continue mindfulness studies and exploration, I am beginning to understand that spirituality in no way requires perfection or shutting off a part of ourselves like the monk in the tale. Instead, spiritual growth is entrenched in humanness. Humans respond to beautiful young bodies, just like they respond to warm loaves of banana bread fresh from the oven. Human bodies make all sorts of gloriously sticky messes and human minds make all sorts of holy and elaborate mistakes in their never ending quest to seek positive feelings and avoid negative ones.
The art of being a spiritual human is not to not be tempted, to not make mistakes or to not feel uncomfortable, sad or fearful. The art of being human is to feel all those things, but to know deeply, at the same time, that all is okay, even if the physical body is in distress, the emotions are overwhelming or the ego is begging for something that could potentially be dangerous.
Had I been an alcoholic like I’d once wished, perhaps life would have been more cut and dry, a little more black and white. Perhaps I would have learned much quicker how to deal with difficult emotions once cut off from the bottle. Or perhaps that learning curve would have been too steep and those I love would have had much bigger and more painful repercussions to deal with as a result of my addiction. Luckily, that was not the case, and luckily, having to navigate the world of consumption has provided me ample opportunity to learn, grow and pay attention to my body and its messages, though they haven’t always been so obvious.
With time, binging morphed into limiting calories. (Who has time and energy to run all those miles to burn them?) Restriction eventually led to avoiding hunger. Grasping for a feeling of ideal satiation led to hoarding nuts like a squirrel. A high-fat diet eventually led to an angry gall-bladder. And this sensitive organ now speaks to me very clearly about my food choices, my increasing tolerance and my physical and mental health.
What a ride!
Different than the monk living in isolation and deprivation, my journey with addiction has allowed me to transform while also staying connected to the world, to my body and to the people I commune with over food and drink.
And the journey continues.
Lately it is providing me insight regarding more general discomfort and pain. I have discovered I can go hours without eating and be okay. I have realized I can be really hungry and be okay. Surprisingly, I can be very full and be okay too. And the beauty lies in these discoveries seeping out of my food world and into my emotional life. I am finding that I can be angry and be okay. I can be sad and be okay. I can be confused and overwhelmed and be okay. I can even disappoint others and be okay. I do not have to stuff the feelings with food, purge the feelings with exercise or completely lose my shit to shake up overwhelming emotion. I can pause and ground my body by sensing the breath in my belly and the weight of gravity holding me securely to the earth. By tuning in and paying attention, I can perceive information the body gives me about my experience, which is vital, as the body seems to know long before the mind can comprehend.
For this growth I am grateful for my complicated, yet slowly simplifying relationship with food as well as for my yoga practice, which teaches me time and again how to return to my corporeal home, physical proof of my humanness and glorious gateway to the spiritual.
Namaste. Cheers. And buen provecho.
From those to whom much is given, much is expected…
I don’t know when I first heard a version of this quote, but it’s been present in my consciousness for as long as I can remember. It taps into existential guilt I feel about being born white, American and well-off. Not only did I grow up with plenty of food to eat, plenty of clothes to wear and live in a big house on a nice street, I was also well-aware that I had, as Dr. Suess says,
Brains in my head
And feet in my shoes,
I could steer myself
Any direction I choose Continue reading From those to whom much is given, much is expected…
International Women’s Day
I wrote this poem a while ago. Before quitting my job. Before taking regular walks in the country, and before gathering weekly with a circle of my soul sisters. I dedicate it to all the women of the world searching for their voice and their freedom– from the boardroom to the bedroom to the backyard. Happy Women’s Day, sisters.
Freedom
Being a strong, authentic, and assertive woman
as well as a good mother
and wife
and daughter
and neighbor
and citizen
and friend
is so fucking hard.
I want to undo the word good. To hold it in my hand like a fuzzy dandelion and blow all its trappings to the wind.
Poof. Gone.
No longer needed, I want to take hold of the lash’s tail, and with newfound Herculean strength, send the whip master flying through space
to be lost forever
I want to purge the shame and the guilt that have taken root in my being and poisoned my spirit for so long. I want to rip their heaviness out of my depths and tend to the wounded space they hoarded.
I want to scream and flail and shake out of my skin like a
snake possessed
Feeling Rawness and Emptiness, I will birth new cells.
Growing my hair long and letting it tangle, coloring my naked feet with the earth, I will listen for my gut-master.
Devouring her teachings, I will compassionately disappoint,
keeping my compass always pointing
North
Moving slowly and deeply and suckling Mother Earth’s breast,
I will cultivate patience.
I will learn to trust.
I will pulse in rhythm with the universe.
kids’ questions, mindsets and the women’s march
During dinner on day two of our Costa Rica trip the boys asked me a question that continues to boggle my brain. It came after spending an afternoon traveling to a nearby village with our new friends from New York. The family of four wanted to escape the surf culture of Tamarindo and spend a laid back afternoon in a village less affected by gringos. Hence, we cabbed it to Villa Real where we ate the midday meal in a local seafood restaurant and ambled along the town’s dirt roads taking in the flora, fauna and rudimentary architecture of the bucolic town. Upon returning and talking about the day’s adventures, the boys asked:
“Do you speak Spanish as well as Jeff does?” Continue reading kids’ questions, mindsets and the women’s march
Sí, se puede
I haven’t blogged forever. I have been blocked. I let the holidays bog me down, and I spent most of December moving in little cyclones of frantic energy. But luckily, despite the craze, I answered the urgent calling to take my boys on an adventure. Doing so was difficult as there were a gazillion reasons not to: school, basketball tournaments, band and orchestra concerts, classes to teach and the big one, lack of interest in 2/3 of my kids. I’m pretty sure my husband thought I was crazy, making plans last minute, paying top dollar for plane tickets and fighting the kids the whole way. There was fear too, the sort that happens every time you try something new. I hadn’t taken my kids out of the country solo before, and never out of the state against their will. But I am so thankful for the girlfriends who cheered me on, reminding me, “they don’t know what they want” and “you follow your heart, sister”. Continue reading Sí, se puede
Reteaching a thing its loveliness
In the last few weeks I’ve come across the same quote in three very different books:
…sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing… Continue reading Reteaching a thing its loveliness
Goddess messages
I attended my first full moon circle last Friday night. It was magical. Upon arriving, we each picked a goddess card. I picked
the Green Tara: Start delegating
Bor-ing. The message didn’t seem very spiritual or goddess-like. And besides, I do delegate. Max unloads the dishwasher and folds laundry, TJ does his share of the driving and perhaps more than his share of the cooking and shopping. I pay a friend to clean my house. And I think I ask for help when I need it.
I shrugged, reviewed how I had come to choose that specific card and assured myself it was because it was calling me. I decided I simply must not understand yet and told myself to be patient. Continue reading Goddess messages
Note to our treehouse host
Peter,
The morning we left your Airbnb abode I wrote in your guest journal a smidgen of thanks and praise for being the host of the most. Feeling the pressure of an impending flight, I didn’t express myself as well as I wanted. Please accept a redo…
Dear Peter,
I believe the universe conspired to bring me and Angela to your enchanted treehouse. Like you said, it’s booked through 2019, but I stumbled upon your place (in a city I had no desire to visit) while on-line last summer,saw availability and booked immediately. The universe then challenged me with an email alerting me to a processing error, asking me “are you sure about this?”.
Hell yes.
My husband wasn’t keen on a trip to Georgia or spending 48 hours in a tree, but I knew with quiet confidence that accompanied or alone, I would experience an Autumn retreat. Days later, listening to my dear friend’s excited banter about tiny houses, I mentioned having a treehouse rented for a weekend in October. She asked, “not the secluded intern tree house in Atlanta?”
Exactly that one. I had my travel partner.
As you know, she drove from Texas, retrieved me at the airport, parked the car, and we only got in it again to return to the airport.
The time in-between was the most magical and healing time I’ve experienced in many years. The nest you’ve created with trust, vision, earth-love and the discerning eye of a man raised antiquing with his mother at flea markets held us safely in its pockets. Spending 40+ hours cradled in mother nature’s arms, while at the same time enjoying the amenities of home, was a gift we cherished every single moment.
When during the tour of the treehouse’s three rooms you shared their names, body, mind and spirit, rivers of chills coursed through my body, only to amplify and chart new courses as the weekend progressed.
We immediately felt protected upon being introduced to the Old Man, the 160-year-old, enormously tall pine around which the room spirit (our meditation and yoga deck) was built.
Body was the cottage-like bedroom, housing the most comfortable mattress upon which I have ever slept. There, with the bed rolled to the deck under the open sky, I willed myself to stay awake as long as possible in order to savor the cool night air gently tickling my hair, the radiant warmth of the heated mattress and the night sounds of the forest. This was a near camping experience like no other.
We enjoyed most of our delivered meals and wine (thank you, Postmates!) in the Swiss family Robinson meets Sundance room christened mind. Here we read in the stack of journals on the table stories of past travelers, lovers and friends who have retreated to the charm of your creation. Here was also where we sipped morning coffee on the tiny balcony overlooking the creek while watching the squirrels scamper and searching for owls whose hoots we heard the night before.
Just as essential to the experience was the feeling of being taken care of. To be awoken by the tinkle of a small bell, knowing that meant you’d left the coffee and tea you’d prepared for us in a small basket at the property’s edge was warming to both our souls. I can’t possibly know if you make every guest feel as welcomed and valued as you did us, but it seemed we only had the urge to ask you a question and it would be answered. Thank you for showing us the parts of Atlanta that I’m sure very few visitors get to know.
This blessed abode beckoned our friendship to deepen as we bore witness to each other’s insights and discoveries about the earth, humanity, mothering, partnering, adulting and each other. Sure, friendship can deepen anywhere, but the backdrop, built upon seven ancient pines offering refuge to weary souls amplified our journey. The luxury of two days of story-telling, (Oh, how great the power of telling our stories!) looping back to pick up threads set down hours or days before was a blessing made richer by our surroundings.
In your trees we swapped stories, how-to’s and book titles, but more importantly, we celebrated the magical powers of the divine feminine within ourselves and we felt the presence of the divine masculine holding space for our growth.
Thank you, Peter, for more than you’ll ever know.
I look forward to next time,
Katie
Holy heat
The summer heat is stifling, so much so that it dictates the day’s plans, forcing us to bow to it, surrendering to the water or a day in the A.C.
It is on days like this when I stumble across a pair of sweatpants hiding in my shorts drawer that I am in complete disbelief. I can’t fathom ever wanting to pull those things onto my body. I can’t imagine the cold. But the fraying drawstring is proof that I have done this often, and my 40 years experience leads me to believe that I will be cold enough to do it again.
Likewise, I am shocked in the winter when donned in wool socks, a stocking cap and leg warmers I find a rogue swimsuit in the back of my bureau. How could I ever expose so much skin when I can’t imagine disrobing anywhere outside of a steamy bathroom? But the lingering scent of tanning lotion and chlorine is proof that I have often felt differently.
These experiences of seasonal disbelief remind me of my seemingly sticky moods.
When I’m riding high and the blood is flowing and I’m feeling great, I really can’t remember what it feels like to be down. I don’t believe it’s possible to feel any different than the amazing and connected way I feel right then. Why would I contemplate feeling other than fantastic anyway? I push the thoughts of depression and despair out of my mind and savor the freedom of joy.
Until I feel the opposite.
And then I can’t remember what it’s like to feel good. Darkness is all I see. I unconsciously conjure up yucky memories and replay past conflicts, big and small. I make mental lists of why I suck, why my life sucks, how people may be screwing me over and how I’m fucking up my kids. I back away from the light and cower in the corner.
This was my MO for many years, whiplashing unaware between emotional states, feet off the ground when flying and sprawled facedown on the ground when not, but I am oh-so-gratefully noticing that my modus operandi is changing.
Instead of being caught completely off guard, I am beginning to see the dark clouds approach and to observe my mind begin to interact with them. I witness my thoughts transform as my mind shuffles through past experiences picking out the negative ones, as well as picking out the ugly in others. I watch this happen with a little more distance and curiosity and a little less fear, and I do it without completely getting swept up in the river of negativity. I remind myself that like the seasons, this too shall pass, even if it seems impossible to believe in the present moment.
In the meantime, one foot ashore, I remind myself what I know to be true:
- this could be symptomatic of low blood sugar or lack of sleep (eat and rest)
- these thoughts should NOT be taken seriously / acted upon (observe, note, wait)
- my imagination can run wild (stick to the facts)
- my breathe can be my guide back to a more manageable place (BREATHE DEEPLY)
- gratitude can be a gear shifter (remember the good, say it out loud, write it down)
- sensorial stimuli shifts too (take a shower, listen to music, enjoy a favorite scent)
Perhaps more important than any of the above is to remind myself that like the midwest seasons, moods ebb and flow. This is not only normal and natural, but BEAUTIFUL, so I benefit to relax, wait patiently, and ride the waves. The scariness only happens when I allow the gremlins that are my negative thoughts to take over in my mind and turn a passing storm into a monsoon. There’s no room for them if I stick to the points above and repeat the mantra:
I’m okay. It’s okay. The kids are alright.
Because I am. It is. They are.
OM. ON.