Saturday, April 24, 2010
1 1/2 buttered toast (sugar free bread, real butter)
This is what I was thinking about as I finished my toast:
Does the normal development of a human being mirror our relationship with God?
Or is it a mirror image and therefore opposite: do we mature spiritually by becoming more and more dependent on God as opposed to depending on our own will power?
Why are we given the spiritual gift of self-control if we are only really happy when we surrender completely to God? (What does this have to do with toast? Bear with me, please.)
When a baby is newborn it is completely dependant on its mother and if it is developing normally the child grows more dependant on him or herself. But when it comes to spiritual matters, the opposite seems to be true. I know that no matter what I think I want, what I really, really want is to know God’s will and to be able to do whatever He wants.
For example (I think as I shake the toast crumbs off my shirt):
I think I want to lose weight in order to be healthy. I start to pray for that. But as soon as the prayer is formed, a cry, like a foghorn in treacherous waters goes out "Seek first the kingdom of God!"
Born an American girl I have always equated good health and a good life--in fact, all goodness with being skinny. In my household the word “skinny” was synonymous with clean, worthy while "fat" was equivalent to evil: dirty, lazy, stupid and bad. (Easy to see the why I have struggled with an eating disorder, right?)
I’ve always believed that the eating disorder was a lack of self control. But I am beginning to see that it is more a matter of anger and an act of defiance than it is about self control. Or maybe it is equally about anger/defiance/self-control, or lack thereof. I don't know.
The first rumblings of the disorder came in defiance some forgotten thing that infuriated me on the way to school in second grade. I remember riding to school, sitting on the edge of the seat and clamping my gut so tight, like a little hidden fist, tightening as I swore “I will never, ever be like my mother!”
I don’t know what she did to make me so mad or to swear to never be like her. But now, when I think about dieting or controlling my weight, that same little, internal fist tightens. And ‘it’ is much stronger than my best intentions.
For years I was anorexic and/or bulimic. I felt in control when I was strong enough to stick to my food plan (which was at its most extreme: one small apple and ¼ cup of wheat germ. Period. (For THE WHOLE DAY.) But in the late 1990’s I got sick and tired of starving myself. In a fully conscious act of defiance I declared war on dieting. That single act of defiance, however, did not initiate healthy eating habits. I was still obsessed with foods and treated food like an idol. Food was the answer to all my issues (I thought) and if I could just eat the right kind, then the right amount would be easy to maintain because the ‘right food’ would satisfy all my needs (like God ;) the right food would produce homeostasis.
Right Food was a two-faced idol. One side showed the beautiful array of all natural food, the other side showed a person happily engaged in active recreation. An image of a very clean blond woman in dazzling white tennis gear flashes before my eyes; it was probably a TV commercial or cereal ad that burned its way into my impressionable mind.
Do you recognize this Idol? Who in our society does not believe (like a good indoctrinated person should) that “Diet and Exercise” are the keys to good or bad health?
The mantra is repeated in every doctor’s office: Diet and Exercise, Diet and Exercise, all hail the Right Diet and Exercise! Every grocery store checkout line is bombarded with advertisements for diets and exercise plans. And the First Lady has declared it her campaign to put an end to childhood obesity, which has intensified the mantra so dear to our hearts: Diet and Exercise.
If eating the ‘right’ foods is key to our happiness, why it is that in-between commercials for the right diet and exercise programs are advertisements for chocolate, which, by the way, has even more power than the Right Diet and Exercise to satisfy our every desire (and I do mean every desire.) Diet and exercise, we are told will make us healthy and happy; but we all secretly crave, and deserve forbidden foods too, like that chocolate I was talking about.
So what, exactly, is the scoop?
As I sipped my morning coffee I started listing the food I’d consumed today. I did this so that I could enter it into a computerized calorie counter. “This time,” I said, “this time I will stick to a food plan and lose weight. I will be like the saints, who ate very little. If I don’t get my eating under control it is my own fault that I have health problems. I just need to find and stick to the right diet and exercise program. Right?”
But the internal foghorn sounded:
No. Janice. “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and all these things shall be added unto you.”
So I said, "No. I will choose to avoid this pitfall. Dieting may not be a pitfall for some, but it is for me. No. This time I will choose to ‘eat’ my spiritual food first: the word of God in the Divine Office. I will choose to give my will over to God and I choose to trust that if I do this, and if I listen to Him and not to the TV or magazine adds, I will have everything that brings me peace, whether peace means I’ll be ‘skinny’, or not. God will take away the anger that fuels this eating disorder and He will replace it with knowledge and understanding. If self-control is a natural gift of the spirit, then the Spirit will teach me how to develop it. I will begin by exercising my will power by changing the mantra: Diet and Exercise! To 'Not my will, but Thine be done…'
I will resist the urge to add, "but please God, can I please be skinny?”
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Let's Face it
Is it just me, or is it a little awkward when you meet a facebook friend face to face after ‘talking’ to them mostly on facebook? The person I ran into today is a delightful person, someone I know fairly well; not too long ago I saw her at least once a week. I absolutely love and admire her. Since The Lupus, however, most of my dealings are with doctors, nurses and lab technicians. Friends, through no fault of their own, had begun to fade into a misty, not-where-I-am land. (I live in the land of the disappeared.)
Well, not long ago I started a facebook account as a lark--just to show my college aged children that I could do it. I didn’t use it or check it very often until my friend Wendy came over for lunch one day. I don’t remember what she said, but since that day I have been ‘on facebook’ at least once a day (usually more often than that.) I am having a blast with it! Not only is it is a way to stay in touch with friends but it’s a creative outlet for the writer imprisoned inside my cell-f. (I had not let her out for quite some time. She is still a little stunned; the light hurts her eyes, but she’s happy.)
When I (read: collective ‘I': cell-f, and the person to person me) ran into my friend at the library, for a split second I felt confused. I wondered just how to be.
You see, the facebook me can delete what I say if it comes out the wrong way. (Oh, sure, sometimes I get trigger happy and press enter and wish I could take it back. But even if I do commit a facebook faux pas I can always go back an entry later and tidy things up. But real-time face to face is different. I was exposed and vulnerable; I remembered what it is like to be human: invigorating, risky.
Now I am home again, and after having time to think about the encounter I realize that that split second in which I felt a little awkward was a break in the facebook-real-time continuum; a Heisenberg moment of uncertainty, an opportunity to choose: particle or wave? cell-f or self?; am I a continuously scintillating human being, or am I a semi-polished facebook persona? Or both?
Well, not long ago I started a facebook account as a lark--just to show my college aged children that I could do it. I didn’t use it or check it very often until my friend Wendy came over for lunch one day. I don’t remember what she said, but since that day I have been ‘on facebook’ at least once a day (usually more often than that.) I am having a blast with it! Not only is it is a way to stay in touch with friends but it’s a creative outlet for the writer imprisoned inside my cell-f. (I had not let her out for quite some time. She is still a little stunned; the light hurts her eyes, but she’s happy.)
When I (read: collective ‘I': cell-f, and the person to person me) ran into my friend at the library, for a split second I felt confused. I wondered just how to be.
You see, the facebook me can delete what I say if it comes out the wrong way. (Oh, sure, sometimes I get trigger happy and press enter and wish I could take it back. But even if I do commit a facebook faux pas I can always go back an entry later and tidy things up. But real-time face to face is different. I was exposed and vulnerable; I remembered what it is like to be human: invigorating, risky.
Now I am home again, and after having time to think about the encounter I realize that that split second in which I felt a little awkward was a break in the facebook-real-time continuum; a Heisenberg moment of uncertainty, an opportunity to choose: particle or wave? cell-f or self?; am I a continuously scintillating human being, or am I a semi-polished facebook persona? Or both?
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Praying the Divine Office
Here is a great site for praying the Divine Office:
http://divineoffice.org/
http://divineoffice.org/
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Fighting Demons
I have been fighting demons in my dreams for as long as I can remember. In my dreams I always know exactly what to do: pray. In my dreams it is easy to recognize a demon. It fights by trying to suck the breath out of me; I fight back with prayer. Sometimes the demon is so close to my own mouth that I cannot muster enough breath for a prayer. But if I whisper or even mouth the name of Jesus then the demon can’t hurt me and is defeated.
Recently I have begun to fight the demons while I am awake. I finally recognize them. They don’t look like the demons in my dreams; they don’t have demonic faces. Rather, they are more of a shadow that passes across a person’s face: my own face. The demons curl themselves into the corner of my consciousness, whispering words that demean and undermine my efforts to live a fruitful life.
“You should feel horrible about yourself, your body, your finances, your house, your parenting skills, or lack thereof. What a loser! How can you live with yourself? You are a drain on society; you’d be doing the world a favor if you die…” This is the poisonous vapor that spews from the lips of demons; this is the toxic haze of depression.
But now that I recognize the demons I fight them the same way I have been trained to fight them in my dreams. I can pray. I can draw close to God, and he draws close to me; the devil has no choice but to flee. God arms me with weapons of light. His words are the weapons in my armament. His comfort is my reward and my refuge.
Recently I have begun to fight the demons while I am awake. I finally recognize them. They don’t look like the demons in my dreams; they don’t have demonic faces. Rather, they are more of a shadow that passes across a person’s face: my own face. The demons curl themselves into the corner of my consciousness, whispering words that demean and undermine my efforts to live a fruitful life.
“You should feel horrible about yourself, your body, your finances, your house, your parenting skills, or lack thereof. What a loser! How can you live with yourself? You are a drain on society; you’d be doing the world a favor if you die…” This is the poisonous vapor that spews from the lips of demons; this is the toxic haze of depression.
But now that I recognize the demons I fight them the same way I have been trained to fight them in my dreams. I can pray. I can draw close to God, and he draws close to me; the devil has no choice but to flee. God arms me with weapons of light. His words are the weapons in my armament. His comfort is my reward and my refuge.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
But Seriously,
I'd like to introduce Rexington Gerard, reporter for the Barker Daily. He is a freelance writer who has graciously agreed to write a column for the Barker Daily, which you can read online at http://www.barkerdaily.blogspot.com/
Rex shares a profile page with me, so to find out more about him please visit my profile page. He will be reporting on a wide variety of topics so be sure to check in from time to time.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Black Iris, for S.G. and Rishi
I didn’t mean to lie.
In fact,
I didn’t realize that I had lied
until I was driving home.
As I turned west off the main highway, twilight bloomed:
sudden velvet: a black iris sky.
It was in that moment that the truth struck me.
I am still having nightmares, even though I told you that I am not.
In fact, I had one last night that took most of this day to shake;
I spent I don’t know how much energy trying to ignore how angry and helpless I felt in the dream. I told you that my dreams were mostly entertaining; it seemed completely true to me at the time. The memory of the nightmare, shrunk into a tiny corner of my mind; it seemed insignificant and so far away.
It would have been rude to waste your time with something trivial, something I'd worked hard to forget.
So even though you pressed me, gently, asking the question in a slightly different way, my answer was the same.
“No." I beamed. "My dreams are technicolored and entertaining. It’s like going to the movies. I get the whole range of shows: comedy, drama…” I started to say horror and mystery too, but that would have been too complicated for such a short conversation.
I didn’t mean to lie; I was just trying not to muddy the waters.
And my dreams are funny and dramatic, sometimes.
A similar, but not quite the same thing happened when I was talking to one of my children. We were talking about how traumatic it is for a child to suffer one form of loss after another. We were talking about pets. I said, “Well, you guys only had one cat that died.”
She said, “No we didn’t! What about…” And she began to name the cats that we have lost over the years, and not only the cats, but all the pets we have lost and grieved.
How could my mind pass over truth like that? I was not trying to deny the truth. Why was I unable to see certain parts of our shared past that were so vivid to my daughter?
Of course, before the words were completely out of her mouth I remembered. For a moment everything was clear, the way a windshield is clear seconds after the blade swishes left to right. How long does it take for the raindrops to obscure the view again? For that interval I could see and feel the whole truth.
It shimmered.
Once I had a Garfield comic strip that I pinned to the wall in my yoga room. In it Garfield was staring at a blank, white screen, obviously wondering what all the fuss was about. Then his (human) sidekick comes and pulls the shade. A bright, sunny day appears and Garfield says, “I knew that.”
Trauma may very well cause a person’s memory to fracture, but why is mine still so, I don’t know, separated like a pane of stained glass?
Everyone has a certain amount of changeability when it comes to remembering the truth; by its nature memory is elastic and slippery; is perception more of an art than a science?
As the sky was losing its velvet, I wondered how to tell what is true.
Wondering made me want to tell it better.
In fact,
I didn’t realize that I had lied
until I was driving home.
As I turned west off the main highway, twilight bloomed:
sudden velvet: a black iris sky.
It was in that moment that the truth struck me.
I am still having nightmares, even though I told you that I am not.
In fact, I had one last night that took most of this day to shake;
I spent I don’t know how much energy trying to ignore how angry and helpless I felt in the dream. I told you that my dreams were mostly entertaining; it seemed completely true to me at the time. The memory of the nightmare, shrunk into a tiny corner of my mind; it seemed insignificant and so far away.
It would have been rude to waste your time with something trivial, something I'd worked hard to forget.
So even though you pressed me, gently, asking the question in a slightly different way, my answer was the same.
“No." I beamed. "My dreams are technicolored and entertaining. It’s like going to the movies. I get the whole range of shows: comedy, drama…” I started to say horror and mystery too, but that would have been too complicated for such a short conversation.
I didn’t mean to lie; I was just trying not to muddy the waters.
And my dreams are funny and dramatic, sometimes.
A similar, but not quite the same thing happened when I was talking to one of my children. We were talking about how traumatic it is for a child to suffer one form of loss after another. We were talking about pets. I said, “Well, you guys only had one cat that died.”
She said, “No we didn’t! What about…” And she began to name the cats that we have lost over the years, and not only the cats, but all the pets we have lost and grieved.
How could my mind pass over truth like that? I was not trying to deny the truth. Why was I unable to see certain parts of our shared past that were so vivid to my daughter?
Of course, before the words were completely out of her mouth I remembered. For a moment everything was clear, the way a windshield is clear seconds after the blade swishes left to right. How long does it take for the raindrops to obscure the view again? For that interval I could see and feel the whole truth.
It shimmered.
Once I had a Garfield comic strip that I pinned to the wall in my yoga room. In it Garfield was staring at a blank, white screen, obviously wondering what all the fuss was about. Then his (human) sidekick comes and pulls the shade. A bright, sunny day appears and Garfield says, “I knew that.”
Trauma may very well cause a person’s memory to fracture, but why is mine still so, I don’t know, separated like a pane of stained glass?
Everyone has a certain amount of changeability when it comes to remembering the truth; by its nature memory is elastic and slippery; is perception more of an art than a science?
As the sky was losing its velvet, I wondered how to tell what is true.
Wondering made me want to tell it better.
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