tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65099653385542999082024-02-08T01:18:12.196-05:00fancy pantalonsfancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-66124539004062928802011-04-12T19:01:00.001-04:002011-04-12T19:11:38.983-04:00cycles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTpC8KkJg_M2X6qDoR_RVP5VVqTNfX8BxiXoBzM3FbOcsUrhf3KlxThejA_z6vXg_gCqnaRuvqAu7y80QyQ_fOqm1GA4kAY3U-iWbq6g1fzcKjCK3p3k_3iXT8Y36vZXdryFvYp_kaCr8/s1600/IMG_6461.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTpC8KkJg_M2X6qDoR_RVP5VVqTNfX8BxiXoBzM3FbOcsUrhf3KlxThejA_z6vXg_gCqnaRuvqAu7y80QyQ_fOqm1GA4kAY3U-iWbq6g1fzcKjCK3p3k_3iXT8Y36vZXdryFvYp_kaCr8/s400/IMG_6461.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><br />
Guilt. Who needs it?<br />
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I do, apparently, because I can't seem to let it go.<br />
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I was reminded yesterday of the last course I taught. My anxiety in full throttle, I cancelled more classes than I should have because I convinced myself that somehow I could not get through them. I would procrastinate my preparation, cobble together a lesson plan the night before, and lose myself to panic in the morning. It was a cycle I repeated week after week, until finally -- after receiving the first negative evaluations ever in eleven semesters of teaching -- I gave up. Resigned my teaching assignment for the spring. And I've felt guilty ever since.<br />
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For a while I just told myself that teaching wasn't for me. "I'm a <i>terrible</i> teacher" became the go-to loop running through my head. But here's what I've come to: I'm not a terrible teacher. In fact, I'm a rather good teacher, but I made poor decisions and didn't seek the right support. There's also no sugar-coating the other stuff: I failed to give those students a proper course, and as much as I want to comfort myself with the thought that they've probably forgotten all about it by now, the truth is that I don't know, and I'll never know. I have to be o.k. with the fact that I messed up. I made a mistake.<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">A therapist once told me to substitute the critical voice in my head with a kinder one: "What would you say to a friend who was going through your situation?" she asked. I was reminded of Geneen Roth's approach, referring to yourself as "darling" or "sweetheart." Geneen suggests that when stress drives you to that third piece of chocolate cake, simply say to yourself: "Honey, you're feeling empty, it's true. But it probably isn't hunger." Sometimes I eat that third piece of cake. But sometimes I choose to feel whatever it is that's masquerading as appetite. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>So I say to myself, "Sweetheart? Here's the thing. You taught a pretty terrible course, and you may or may not have turned those kids against reading for life. Please accept it, and please move on." But I don't accept it, and I don't move on, and it's not just that failure of a semester, either. I'm torn up with guilt over a million insignificant and yet apparently wholly crucial events. And the worst guilt of all? That my life is filled to the brim with blessings -- I have my health and my family, and it's springtime out there for goodness sake -- and yet I'm mired in the should-haves and why-didn't-Is.<br />
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Suddenly I understand what Marianne Williamson meant when she said that the fear at our very core is not that we are "inadequate . . . [but] that we are powerful beyond measure." If I dare to shed the guilt, to accept the past and focus on this one moment now, the only moment that ever really exists, what if I find that it's not enough? That I'm still not fulfilled? Wallowing in guilt ain't a pleasure cruise, but at least it's familiar. I want to know for sure that if I break out of the old, unproductive cycles that I'll feel better, more at peace. I want guarantees.<br />
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And so I leave you with no pronouncements grasping at a moral, no assurances that I'll do better next time. I'm just going to breathe. And possibly pet a cat or two.fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-54886021457259744252011-03-20T19:39:00.000-04:002011-03-20T19:39:02.866-04:00fancy cuisineI'll still be posting here, but I decided to start a second blog, an online cookbook, if you will, so I don't always have to start from scratch every evening.<br />
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<a href="http://cuisinedefancy.blogspot.com/">cuisine de fancy</a>fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-60483278809782382742011-03-02T19:08:00.000-05:002011-03-02T19:08:45.408-05:00roots and foldsThursdays you'll find me spending the afternoon with my grandmother, my mother's mother. We talk about her mother's mother, and I ask to hear the stories I've heard a million times. But this time I'm writing them down.<br />
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I like to hear about what Irene was like as a young woman, as I only knew her as my Babci, an eighty-something great-grandmother, who smacked her gum and cooked a mean <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Go%C5%82%C4%85bki">galumpki</a>. I like to hear, too, about <a href="http://fancypantalons.blogspot.com/2010/06/family-ties.html">Pelagia</a>, she of the embroidered apron and yellow coverlet. And of Pelagia's husband, Roman, who sported a mustache that spanned the entire width of his face.<br />
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I like hearing stories of my grandfather, too, although those feel different. He is gone, like Pelagia and Roman and the other ancestors whose unfamiliar faces look out from yellowing photographs. But I didn't know them, and I knew him. My heart breaks when I consider that my grandmother lost the love of her life, and so the stories -- even the happy ones -- are always already tinged with sadness. But I like talking about Grampy despite the ache in my heart because I know it makes my grandmother happy.<br />
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We laugh as we remember his bone-dry wit. She tells me how, when he asked her if he could have another dance that first night they'd met, that she'd asked, "Why, are you trying to get out of it?" I tell her that I'll never forget returning home after a weekend away to find that the bottom portion of my bookcase had been transformed -- clearly by magic -- into a boudoir for my dolls. The left compartment had become a closet for their hanging clothes, hung up with tiny pink metal hangers; the right side held three wooden drawers with ample room for their bloomers and pajamas. I remember my delight, and I remember my mother telling me, "That's how you know how much he loves you."<br />
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This is my favorite photograph of my grandfather.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_HCPhqKT8tPKVX3Nt-sYcwHhcdxuc8ho4gb-BApRuTZjTu0Zyp6qwc6OM5InYlS55V-33pVROdiwYzEkz02R_D1aQ_sfrqVG1lQ1eH8BbvPYf6hmwusR1aWvFGIcRz_y6UQh6eSZUOgA/s1600/IMG_6492.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_HCPhqKT8tPKVX3Nt-sYcwHhcdxuc8ho4gb-BApRuTZjTu0Zyp6qwc6OM5InYlS55V-33pVROdiwYzEkz02R_D1aQ_sfrqVG1lQ1eH8BbvPYf6hmwusR1aWvFGIcRz_y6UQh6eSZUOgA/s400/IMG_6492.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
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My grandmother kept it folded in her pocket while he was away in the Navy.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMy5GZJh2afK62BM9jcxcyvWTUvDBu3vCdsBRKc88AX76688Q-GrxeiPvkvAbRAcafRABqpIQHzBFG5rTm9_pW8mIyDo2o7joIx8v7ynGpKAIDD6MZ5VL-mKjpPjBBJtoPUIGcYfuwmek/s1600/IMG_6493.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMy5GZJh2afK62BM9jcxcyvWTUvDBu3vCdsBRKc88AX76688Q-GrxeiPvkvAbRAcafRABqpIQHzBFG5rTm9_pW8mIyDo2o7joIx8v7ynGpKAIDD6MZ5VL-mKjpPjBBJtoPUIGcYfuwmek/s400/IMG_6493.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
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I like that those folds are a tactile reminder of how much my grandmother loved my grandfather. And I like that my descendants, a hundred years from now, will see those folds and know, if nothing else, that she kept him close to her heart.<br />
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<!--StartFragment--> <!--EndFragment-->fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-29028104060120976792011-03-01T18:59:00.003-05:002011-03-01T19:01:44.173-05:00retracing my steps<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1wWA0JUSaEGiJRPceRXjmmDpOaFggLG8IsPgM-FHUkhqqOCrnwFcVr8yOoLrPD1hjwsbEFAvtb6dw-EtacAL-NQ06bC7DY4LkSKz1BIMDnbwlUHy_YSIl5YTRrbiNmtaYLKYhfhdEWD0/s1600/IMG_6435.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1wWA0JUSaEGiJRPceRXjmmDpOaFggLG8IsPgM-FHUkhqqOCrnwFcVr8yOoLrPD1hjwsbEFAvtb6dw-EtacAL-NQ06bC7DY4LkSKz1BIMDnbwlUHy_YSIl5YTRrbiNmtaYLKYhfhdEWD0/s400/IMG_6435.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>I've just reread my last few entries here (it's been a while, hasn't it?). It is difficult to read through the pain because I experience it all over again when I see it on the page. It makes me want to give myself a hug.<br />
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I wrote in September: "I have decided that I'm going to open myself up to the universe, to God, and relinquish control over my life's path. I don't know what I'm supposed to do next. And I have decided to be okay with that."<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>I also didn't know what was going to come next (of course, we never do, do we?), otherwise I might have been a wee bit less willing to relinquish control. I wonder sometimes if I would have given up eating as an emotional outlet -- as way to numb those uncomfortable feelings -- if I had known what surrendering to those emotions would actually feel like. It's not a productive line of thinking, of course, but sometimes you just need a few moments of feeling sorry for yourself.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">+++</div><br />
During the past year, I have lost a lot of weight. And it feels really weird. Not awesome, like I always thought it would feel. Weird. On the other hand, all of this yoga of the past few months has reawakened a love for my body that I haven't experienced since...well, since I was a child who spent the summers swimming in Long Pond, and running, barefoot and whining, across the pebbly lawn of my grandparents' lakehouse.<br />
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In December, at my first yoga class in New Bedford (and second yoga class ever), my instructor said: "In preparation for the shoulder stand, please lie back on the mat, feet flexed . . ." and then I stopped listening because I was freaking out. Big time. "I'm too heavy," I thought. "Can't do it." And so I went to the wall and tried it there, and it was very hard for me. And I thought, "I'll never be able to do it."<br />
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I guess sometimes I just stop listening to that voice because even though I knew I could never do a shoulder stand, I kept trying, kept practicing until a quite momentous day last week when I rolled back and my legs shot up and <i>stayed</i>. I rolled back down, sat up, and said to the cats, but mostly just to myself, "<i>Whoa</i>."<br />
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Here's to knowing you can't do something and doing it anyway.fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-90673041136939680552011-01-02T12:15:00.001-05:002011-01-02T16:10:44.860-05:00practice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEP77OY6oMR-M7YGxJb-h-QpcIbjfKCS4nyGRTFEJ97Q3EYRL5649zu7twptT1LnCUA3KM74tdV0mGO3Ydu7uKpX7LG60ynGPgM5i5EvXoYMILbcaVYT264-V4WOKqxDnxzj2V1js8Rqg/s1600/IMG_6353.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEP77OY6oMR-M7YGxJb-h-QpcIbjfKCS4nyGRTFEJ97Q3EYRL5649zu7twptT1LnCUA3KM74tdV0mGO3Ydu7uKpX7LG60ynGPgM5i5EvXoYMILbcaVYT264-V4WOKqxDnxzj2V1js8Rqg/s320/IMG_6353.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A new year. I feel different. I've been reading <i>Eat, Pray, Love</i>, and it occurred to me this morning that my "About Me" section is kind of funny. I'm seeking God, and beauty, and stillness, am I? As Ketut says, it's same-same. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I've never really thought about seeking God, not earnestly. I've wanted to be that kind of person, the Liz Gilbert-type, who tirelessly searches for evidence of the divine. But I've never actively done so. I think maybe I'd like to start.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Sometimes I miss how I used to feel. Not really contented, but at least grounded in some way. With a plan. There's a comfort to be found in living life passively -- reacting, never striking out on my own initiative. But it didn't get me far, or at least, not to a very healthy place. So I've been working on the healing.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Since last week, I've been participating in a psychiatric day program, and my favorite social worker there asked, penetratingly, "How badly do you want to feel better?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUWsdP5axaxMR8KR2kxLQ77RUYmnr3l7X8eFUTE6lGtyty0zarwZFkwi1MNlqt3W-VtWg_x9Y5oU-FdwvpMu43ntIh9PBUJydEO8hyniTyjfWIFREGgEAkkJdhMFyqCdCtjdnGC0dva4k/s1600/IMG_6350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUWsdP5axaxMR8KR2kxLQ77RUYmnr3l7X8eFUTE6lGtyty0zarwZFkwi1MNlqt3W-VtWg_x9Y5oU-FdwvpMu43ntIh9PBUJydEO8hyniTyjfWIFREGgEAkkJdhMFyqCdCtjdnGC0dva4k/s320/IMG_6350.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">How badly <i>do</i> I want to feel better? In the throws of distress, the answer comes easily, desperately: SO BADLY. So very badly. But when the anxiety dissipates and the depression clears, ever so slightly? Well, not quite so badly, it seems. It's too easy to become lax in my self-care practices when the need is less urgent. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When I wake in the morning, I am compelled to follow my self-imposed schedule: two rounds of sun salutations (only two, but lordy, it takes it out of me), balanced breathing, then meditation. Then a shower. Then breakfast. Lying there, in a warm bed, I dread all of it. And so I ask myself: how badly do I want to feel better? And I peel off the covers, and force myself to just stop thinking, and <i>do</i>. There is no psyching myself up for this morning of rituals. There is just doing it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This morning, I woke up too late (way past dawn), took my sweet time getting downstairs to where my purple yoga mat sat patiently in the corner, and probably lasted about ten minutes in seated meditation before my back hurt too much and my right foot was just a <i>leetle</i> too numb to bear. So I compromised and meditated lying down. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Maybe tomorrow I'll last eleven minutes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-30567590957323538632010-11-08T09:58:00.000-05:002010-11-08T09:58:11.554-05:00TodayFeel fear, live fearlessly.fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-6189062623817590682010-11-05T21:58:00.000-04:002010-11-05T21:58:15.220-04:00still hereI've been waiting to update for a time when I'm feeling better. I'm not feeling better, but I am feeling like writing.<br />
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This, right here, right now, is a difficult time. I've only written about tough times that have already passed. So easy to write about the past, even when it sucked: When I'm in a better place, and I can reflect and take stock with a clear head, a perspective at a distance.<br />
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So I'm going to try something new and write when I'm feeling the pain. My hands are shaking because I haven't had a lot of sleep this past week. I've also been so nauseated that I can barely eat anything at meals, which, you know, totally, totally sucks. I love food, I love eating. It's incredibly frustrating to prepare a meal and sit down, expecting to savour it, only to find that my stomach turns. I take a bite and it turns some more. A few months ago, I would eat quickly, distractedly, trying to weigh down my own body and my anxiety. Today, I ate quickly, distractedly because I needed to get some nutrients into my system. I learned a Spanish proverb <a href="http://sproutedkitchen.com/"><span id="goog_1680756245"></span>here<span id="goog_1680756246"></span></a> that resonates strongly right now: "The belly rules the mind." I need to get to a place where I am eating and sleeping normally, and I know that the anguish will lessen.<br />
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Since this really rough time began last week, I've seen a Primary Care doctor, a holistic physician, and psychologist. Next week, I'm going to make an appointment to see a psychiatrist. I have a whole morning routine filled with meditation and oil massage and yoga and walks. But it is really hard to accomplish those things. Sometimes the thought of making lunch is so overwhelming that it makes me cry.<br />
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But I am learning things. There is something beautiful about this pain, something instructive. In a very bad spell this weekend, after I'd done yoga, gone for a walk, and yet couldn't still my racing, panicked thoughts, I had no choice but to sit on the couch, and let go. I sobbed. It occurred to me that I wanted to read Eckhart Tolle's <i>The Power of Now</i>. I read one sentence and looked outside at the trees. I wrenched my gaze back to the book. Again and again. It took me a half hour to read one page. The thought occurred to me that I was being given this pain to prove to myself that I could take it. That it wouldn't break me. Because I've run from fear and anger and sadness my whole life. And right now I'm feeling all of that because I couldn't feel them before. For a second, I was able to let go, to release all of my resistance to feeling the absolutely terrifying, paralyzing fear. And, suddenly, without warning, my entire body relaxed, and I felt my spirit lifted upward and outward. Warmth ricocheted through me and I sobbed hot tears of gratitude and love for the release of the pain and for the glimpse of what lay beyond it. I don't care how cheesy it sounds: it was transcendent.<br />
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When you hit a wall, you're forced to make a change. I'm exercising now not because I need to lose weight, or to make myself look better, but out of utter desperation. I'm going to wake up tomorrow and meditate -- hard as it is -- because I know how strong I am, and I want to get better. Even at the darkest time, I can still sense a whisp of hope that this different life I'll be embarking on -- this healthier, more spiritual, connected life -- will be filled with unexpected opportunities to give of myself and -- most important to me right now -- deep, profound stillness and immeasurable joy. I know what that feels like, and, by God, I'm not giving up.fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-19911048416174051072010-10-25T21:15:00.001-04:002010-10-26T11:12:41.577-04:00a review<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB-1yoTCD5SlV6iqkGVvms9lRJeQHiLHQn5mn2-mlpBlkqhGZAQN3rrbzTKGvURqbc8sWBWPgAzmY-s3kinUf-iuRzUMGRMp8-Q-Gt7N2upMqo01W8A3RObtQCocLdhN6tpS4P-z9geIY/s1600/by-cover-home.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB-1yoTCD5SlV6iqkGVvms9lRJeQHiLHQn5mn2-mlpBlkqhGZAQN3rrbzTKGvURqbc8sWBWPgAzmY-s3kinUf-iuRzUMGRMp8-Q-Gt7N2upMqo01W8A3RObtQCocLdhN6tpS4P-z9geIY/s1600/by-cover-home.png" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The past few weeks have been rough going. Perhaps it's the transition into a new season, perhaps the move from my parents' house to our new apartment in New Bedford. I can feel calmness creeping in, and I'm thankful for that. I feel grateful for my family and friends (and for you, lovely readers) for offering perspective and love. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Several weeks ago, I learned that <a href="http://rosiemolinary.com/">Rosie Molinary</a> would launch a blog tour to publicize her newest book, <a href="http://rosiemolinary.com/beautiful-you"><i>Beautiful You: A Daily Guide to Radical Self-Acceptance</i></a>. Now, I adore Rosie. We have never met, but I feel pretty confident that we're kindred spirits, <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">à</span> la Anne Shirley and Diana Barry. Receive a copy of <i>Beautiful You</i> from the publisher and write a review on Fancy Pantalons? Sign me up, please.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">+++</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">With my first therapy appointment scheduled for later this week, I've been feeling energized to start healing my tendency toward anxiety. And to start just feeling better. I've been reading <i>Don't Panic: Taking Control of Panic Attacks</i> by R. Reid Wilson, Ph.D., and I find that much of what he advises penetrates directly to the core of not just my anxiety but also my fears about my body, my relationships, my future, all of it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><blockquote>Helping someone face panic when he or she has adopted a depressed attitude is a difficult task, for obvious reasons. If I believe I am basically inadequate, that nothing ever really changes in my life, that tomorrow will be about the same as yesterday, then why should I bother considering alternatives to my present state of affairs? There seems to be no point.</blockquote>Thanks for telling it to me straight, Dr. Wilson. And now please get out of my head.<br />
<blockquote>There are two ways to begin changing this depressive attitude. The first is to directly wrestle with your negative beliefs: to listen to how you state those beliefs in your mind, to learn how those statements influence your actions, and then to explore other attitudes that might support your goals. The second way is to begin to change your activities even before you change your attitude. Try some specific, small activities, without needing to believe they will help you. Change your patterns of behavior during the day, alter your routine, do some things that you imagine someone else might consider "good for you."</blockquote>Change your activities before you change your attitude. It's so simple, but (for me, at least) utterly transformative. Even if I dig in my feet, thinking things will never change, that the fog will never lift, that the void will never be filled, I can take steps to make myself feel better.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">+++</div><br />
And thus I come to the principal point of this post. <i>Beautiful You</i> is real, and completely unpretentious. I like that I can pick it up whenever I feel like it, read one page or read twelve. And I like that it makes me feel that a more peaceful place is within reach. I think the most glowing recommendation I can make about a book of the self-help persuasion is that I can read it -- and glean wisdom from it -- even when I'm down in the dumps.<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
There are some days when suggestions like # 246, "Create an Inspiration Board" or #102, "Remember That Your Body is a Blessing" are just what the doctor ordered. When you're rejuvenated, brimming with the desire to be better to yourself. And there are other days when that energy is fleeting, and the very best you can do is pour yourself a cup of chamomile tea, collapse on the couch, and just breathe. And that's just fine. And you know what else? You can check off #291 and #285.<br />
<i><br />
</i>fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-58231971896215506022010-10-13T07:42:00.000-04:002010-10-13T07:42:12.978-04:00comfort<div style="text-align: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span></span></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWlwdh6P1UgauNGn4T61nBYsCe7Wjbrj5swJlcDVR4VhXbS-CUdIzFUJisqeNwUyBG_vdx44vSi4090H1kXoi4WlLpWTo2LaYcmzBfDKA6zDOwdxgQCLFHP-jazlWea5Ye2GXET049nck/s1600/IMG_6204.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6GrF5ySyKyQ9c-MSeEn6PSb6eZ76Rhbf2sSg9VdRfg1LxNHslild8UE_YH59HrCUXfQfRM_5gFl8QNALu1YCu5BqWxVg2NGA2LKEXPh6hKWoNyIoiddHjMYucBfK1esxMU4SYTTTKkXU/s1600/IMG_6204.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6GrF5ySyKyQ9c-MSeEn6PSb6eZ76Rhbf2sSg9VdRfg1LxNHslild8UE_YH59HrCUXfQfRM_5gFl8QNALu1YCu5BqWxVg2NGA2LKEXPh6hKWoNyIoiddHjMYucBfK1esxMU4SYTTTKkXU/s400/IMG_6204.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"> Purchase Street, New Bedford, MA</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">I've been too afraid to blog. Feeling too low and dark and not wanting to spread any of that around. And, too, not wanting to give credence to those feelings in case it made them permanent. Here's what I wrote two weeks ago:</div></div><blockquote>I feel scared. And sad. </blockquote><blockquote>I can't see the beauty of the world when it's so dark over here where I am. </blockquote><blockquote>I know things will turn</blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Turn around? Turn brighter? I don't remember what I hoped for. And then a week later I wrote this:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><blockquote>Emotions come fast and strong when I don't squelch them by overeating. This is both exhilirating and terrifying.</blockquote><blockquote>Sitting with feelings. Sheets in a bunch, my side of the bed. Legs crossed, back hunched, gaze focused on nothing in particular. My first urge is to eat, to snack, to horde. But there's an automatic response to that now, and it's this: "That's probably not hunger you're feeling." It never is. And then I sigh because I know the next part isn't easy. </blockquote>When I started this blog, I decided that I would write as authentically as possible. And I find now that remaining silent when the going gets tough feels insincere. So here I am, trying to write.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">+++</div><br />
My mother is a student of Buddhism, and she reminded me last night that Life is Difficult, and it's Difficult because we set our hats for impermanent things.<br />
<br />
I'll be happy when I get this anxiety under control.<br />
<br />
I'll be content in my body when I lose just a few more pounds.<br />
<br />
I can't seem to stop those thoughts, even while I realize their futility. So I observe the thoughts, let them pass, and go on with my day. I suppose that's what I'm doing in general these days: understanding that some times are dark and some are bright, and it's okay because that's simply how it is. How it's supposed to be. It's not an uplifting thought, but it feels rational and that, today, offers comfort.<br />
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</div></div>fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-35323198496907831072010-09-23T17:18:00.000-04:002010-09-23T17:18:56.554-04:00better<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGi3CiI6hNl-dunZh-fA_QuVuV2jH8EHxNtEbBkLXcc68oLFa1ReqKR1RrnpNfnFfF354xMl973lVbMoRAhaWvZn-W949AZM41HAFmTxjpfzRPpBvDhcA0NarOYsdSK0q_zs7iaZHVLC8/s1600/IMG_6168.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGi3CiI6hNl-dunZh-fA_QuVuV2jH8EHxNtEbBkLXcc68oLFa1ReqKR1RrnpNfnFfF354xMl973lVbMoRAhaWvZn-W949AZM41HAFmTxjpfzRPpBvDhcA0NarOYsdSK0q_zs7iaZHVLC8/s400/IMG_6168.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I know that I said I don't believe in epiphanies. But I just had one, so perhaps I'll have to make some modifications to <a href="http://fancypantalons.blogspot.com/2010/07/aha.html">this</a>.<br />
<br />
It occurred to me that I excel at being who other people want me to be. Lately I've been resetting my bearings, having been thrown off the course determined by my eleven-year-old self: "When I grow up, I will be a professor of English Literature." And my reasoning? A student teacher had said that she thought I'd make a really good teacher. At eleven, I had a sneaking suspicion that I was the reincarnation of Emily Dickinson. And yet to this day, to this very moment, I feel like if I don't follow that course, I will have failed. Geneen Roth says: "We follow instructions given to us years ago by people from whom we wouldn't ask for street directions." Even people who imagine that they're Emily Dickinson the Second.<br />
<br />
And so I've begun exploring other options. But each time I do, I realize that I'm redefining who I am to fit whatever career I've alighted on. Of course, some modification and catering is necessary to get a job; you'd hardly want your resume to contain a list of your most embarassing flaws. But somehow in the process, I seem to have lost sight of what I want to be doing. Have I ever known?<br />
<br />
People tell me that I'm overly sensitive, and I agree with them. Stop caring about what other people think of you! I say to myself, exasperated. Fed up with hanging on far too long to feelings hurt over trivial matters. <br />
<br />
But here's the funny thing: having directed my life based on others' expectations, to suddenly stop caring about what others think would, in fact, be insane. That's how I've learned to function. What if -- like overeating -- being overly sensitive to others has been the best way I've found to take care of myself? It may not work out so well, but it's the path that I chose somewhere along the way.<br />
<br />
So I'm not going to berate myself for it anymore. I am overly sensitive. I care about what you think of me. I will go to great lengths to avoid pissing you off, even if it means internalizing anger, sadness, or resentment. And since I don't like feeling this way, I'm going to try a different path in the hope that it becomes a better, kinder way to function. I have decided that I'm going to open myself up to the universe, to God, and relinquish control over my life's path. I don't know what I'm supposed to do next. And I have decided to be okay with that.fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-69826649689817803542010-09-22T21:23:00.004-04:002010-09-26T18:09:08.465-04:00too sweet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYaosb-S-CW-wYSUH8L6Vqx7uLaSdcvXcOTX50z5fOBLUQA5OtiWQK9X0F3oa-NCZGBqZ_TkldtNN21hQ48zEidLJJpG-YSl_uth2jG2EdfiOLe6x4rdq6E6lY5H8BYmt28_2mfk3dwtA/s1600/IMG_6189.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYaosb-S-CW-wYSUH8L6Vqx7uLaSdcvXcOTX50z5fOBLUQA5OtiWQK9X0F3oa-NCZGBqZ_TkldtNN21hQ48zEidLJJpG-YSl_uth2jG2EdfiOLe6x4rdq6E6lY5H8BYmt28_2mfk3dwtA/s400/IMG_6189.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
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<br />
So now, where were we? Ah yes, four hundred women. Eyes closed. Savoring a Hershey's kiss.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">+++</div><br />
Geneen didn't let us eat the chocolate right away. The pixie cup we were handed contained two raisins, two tortilla chips and one Hershey's kiss.<br />
<br />
I was not pleased.<br />
<br />
I'd read about these eating exercises of Geneen's. In fact, it's how she begins <i>Women, Food, and God</i>. I had an inkling of what was to come, and when I'm feeling anxious, the very last thing that I want to do is eat. And chips, raisins and too-sweet chocolate? Thanks, but I'll pass.<br />
<br />
But I'd paid a king's ransom for this retreat, so I decided to play along, placing the tortilla in my mouth as instructed by Geneen. Had I just put a salt lick in my mouth? The taste was so aggressive that I nearly gagged. When was the last time I'd had a tortilla chip? Months, years, even. The saltiness triggered something in me: I felt naughty and dirty, and not in the good way. "This is way. too. damn. salty. And it's too white. These are not whole grain chips. I feel bloated already. Awesome, now the nasty chip is soggy. Why is this still in my mouth?" I was barely able to swallow it. Then came the raisin, which, thanks to a palette coated in salt, was the most sharply sweet nugget of dried fruit I'd ever encountered. Five minutes had passed, and I'd eaten only a chip and a raisin, and was getting cranky.<br />
<br />
I looked down into my cup at that shiny morsel wrapped in silver and rolled my eyes (well, figuratively, anyway). I could see Geneen's plan completely: we were supposed to see the chocolate as a sinful, irresistible vehicle for drowning whatever particular emotion we didn't quite feel up to facing that day. "Whatever, Geneen; I'm not playing that game. I'm going to take the teensiest bite possible so I can at least say that I tried some, but I am not eating more of this kiss because this thing is too sweet for me. These women are out of their mind if they think this is a treat because it is nothing more than sugar processed within an inch of its life."<br />
<br />
With disgust and self-satisfaction, I swallowed that teensiest bite and opened my eyes. Rows and rows of women sat before me, eyes squeezed shut, lips pursed and undulating.<br />
<br />
"My God, look how happy they are."<br />
<br />
I was wrenched out of myself and suspended in a place that felt still and wonder-filled. These women were allowing themselves to taste -- to really <i>taste,</i> and savour, and relish<i> </i>-- this small bit of chocolate, maybe for the first time since they were children. They were treating themselves. Not because they had been "good" but because for a brief moment, they knew that they couldn't be anything other than good, anything other than enough.<br />
<br />
I sent out a prayer to Geneen, to those beautiful women, and to that too-sweet Hershey's kiss. The joy in that room washed over me, and I felt humbled.<br />
<br />
Baptism by chocolate.fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-75182444933898431912010-09-14T21:04:00.000-04:002010-09-14T21:04:12.237-04:00emergent<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf9S3QNOpRpLe1lwFFlxQZt8Yx9cPOqcce_KuwOFn9ABYqvUmEKNDQAZ6W_ajEkqMYxL1KgqhtXVV6XxrYCMom7g3zGsVVN9h6DookhhXaqc9lS92Lyf1zW2ZEezSCeI02mk2k6aV0Fjk/s1600/IMG_6112.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf9S3QNOpRpLe1lwFFlxQZt8Yx9cPOqcce_KuwOFn9ABYqvUmEKNDQAZ6W_ajEkqMYxL1KgqhtXVV6XxrYCMom7g3zGsVVN9h6DookhhXaqc9lS92Lyf1zW2ZEezSCeI02mk2k6aV0Fjk/s400/IMG_6112.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf9S3QNOpRpLe1lwFFlxQZt8Yx9cPOqcce_KuwOFn9ABYqvUmEKNDQAZ6W_ajEkqMYxL1KgqhtXVV6XxrYCMom7g3zGsVVN9h6DookhhXaqc9lS92Lyf1zW2ZEezSCeI02mk2k6aV0Fjk/s1600/IMG_6112.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> the view from Kripalu </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> (Lenox, MA)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Geneen set the woman straight, kindly but pointedly.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I'm not going to fix you," she said. The woman nodded, and the rest of us -- four hundred hopeful, eager women in an overly warm conference space -- let out an inaudible sigh. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was Day 1 of the <i>Women, Food, and God</i> retreat, and Geneen Roth was not about to encourage the disillusioned.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I'm not going to fix you."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Which meant, of course, that she wasn't going to fix me, either. So I accepted rather begrudgingly the reality that I would have to put forth some effort on my own behalf. For two days, I proceeded to treat myself to Geneen's wisdom, again and again (what else would you expect from a re-treat?), and Sunday afternoon, I emerged on the other side. Not fixed. But not broken.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">+++</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I meant to write about my expectations for the retreat. I meant to reread <i>Women, Food, and God</i>. I meant to buy some yoga pants. I accomplished none of these, but managed to get through the weekend just fine (although I really should have packed the pair of stretchy black pants <i>without</i> the hole in the rear section. Ahem.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Having no expectations, I could not be disappointed. I learned some things, too, like that Geneen Roth is an Abraham Lincoln buff. My notes are filled with quickly scribbled pearls from Geneen, and my raw, ineloquent responses to her prompts. Wound tight with anxiety, I somehow managed to sit through most of the sessions, including my very first yoga class. I soaked up the sweet, authentic company of the incomparable <a href="http://thighsandofferings.blogspot.com/">Kate</a> with whom I shared a teensy cubicle of a bedroom where a monk had once slept (really). I ate zucchini and mint fritatta, and a quesadilla, and homemade gluten-free bread, and cashew cream, and I remembered anew why I love food. And eating. And eating with friends.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">+++</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Stay tuned for more thoughts on the retreat, including what it feels like to watch four hundred women close their eyes and savor a Hershey's kiss.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-72637737531580869692010-08-26T11:46:00.000-04:002010-08-26T11:46:10.204-04:00Betty Bear's BirthdayToday is my 28th birthday.<br />
<br />
In the early morning of August 26th (going on twenty or so years now), I read Gyo Fujikawa's <i>Betty Bear's Birthday</i>.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxPwX23m9199SK1BlBO2VALSjyi4DLHYQYx-lsvVYSW37uBlIvd4GSsbbNr1YkSKpujdID0JQK9Fz21CPnWfzsMyCIpZCSeSyqytt8MiD0KDNqWXJI0VSwkSkbyeg4AZP2phaQJ7r9w1E/s1600/1707024128a007956522c010.L._AA300_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxPwX23m9199SK1BlBO2VALSjyi4DLHYQYx-lsvVYSW37uBlIvd4GSsbbNr1YkSKpujdID0JQK9Fz21CPnWfzsMyCIpZCSeSyqytt8MiD0KDNqWXJI0VSwkSkbyeg4AZP2phaQJ7r9w1E/s400/1707024128a007956522c010.L._AA300_.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Oh, Betty Bear. Your ensembles are stylish without being fussy. You love your friends and family very, very much. You are sweet as can be. But for most of your birthday, you are sad and perplexed because every friend you meet in the forest seems to have forgotten your birthday. Poor, sweet Betty.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Don't fret too much for Betty, though; her friends and family haven't forgotten her; they've been preparing a special birthday surprise! So in the end, all is right with Betty's world. She is celebrated and loved, just as she should be.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now, I love Betty Bear, too, but I think that I learned the wrong lesson from her story. I don't blame Betty entirely, of course, but I'm kind of weird about birthdays. I expect a whole lot of fanfare. I remember friends' birthdays fastidiously and can hardly handle if I forget one. So, as it is with so many things, the way I live my life determines my expectations of others. Last year, I removed my birthday information from Facebook to see who would remember it. That ended just as well as you might imagine. My "experiment" left me miffed and not a little sheepish. And then I read a Dear Prudence column about a woman who felt slighted that a friend hadn't properly wished her a happy birthday, and Prudie kindly told the woman to grow up already. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And so I took the hint. Because you what? When it comes down to it, there are two ways to approach this whole birthday thing: needing to feel singled out, special, unique and relying on others to fill that void is one way (that's Betty Bear's method). And then there's simply appreciating the love others convey because we're all worthy of that love.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There is more joy to be gleaned from a life led not in the interest of building up oneself but in reaching out to others. I pray that the coming year offers me more opportunities to be still inwardly, live generously and joyously, and reach outwardly with love.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-23392815873697663252010-08-17T17:14:00.000-04:002010-08-17T17:14:30.415-04:00parts of the whole<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipPFfNXTOJVCAtExd_fiMZUHzw-k_cAlQ-WYVeDKR0eeXJGCJT48adXkEi0EMzsYPN6fnI7o8ZL8djqeXshdqkhQ-4tJMFC7soQCgiergQmELsO6NsOJEJZHEOJ9Z1hapzZiacjez3ayU/s1600/IMG_5609.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="327" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipPFfNXTOJVCAtExd_fiMZUHzw-k_cAlQ-WYVeDKR0eeXJGCJT48adXkEi0EMzsYPN6fnI7o8ZL8djqeXshdqkhQ-4tJMFC7soQCgiergQmELsO6NsOJEJZHEOJ9Z1hapzZiacjez3ayU/s400/IMG_5609.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
We are more than the sum of our parts.<br />
<br />
I recognize this, and I recognize that I am more than the sum of my roles: wife, daughter, sister, friend. Writer, baker, Ph.D. candidate, admirer of the seaside.<br />
<br />
I believe that these roles do not define me. If I were to lose every single title by which I'm known, I know that my soul would abide. And yet.<br />
<br />
I cling to these roles like a skirt to pantyhose. Somehow I can't separate the act of removing emotional attachment to these roles from the act of losing a significant part of who I am. I don't know how to cherish the enjoyment I get from baking without then falling to pieces when the cake turns out dry and crumbly.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">+++</div><br />
I spent a year in France, studying the language, devouring the delicacies. I blossomed, finally released from the shyness that blocked the fun, creative, loving energy that I had been afraid to convey. And I was so funny, you guys. And then I came back to the States, and asked my best friend: "What are the top three adjectives you would use to describe me?" (Doesn't everyone love that question?). And funny wasn't in the top three. I was crushed, confused. "But," I protested to myself, "I have shed the layers of shy Elyssa to reveal hilarious Elyssa underneath! The true Elyssa, who happens to be wicked, ridiculously funny! Top-three caliber funny, even.<br />
<br />
And now I realize that yes, I'm funny. I want you to think I'm funny, <a href="http://fancypantalons.blogspot.com/2010/08/decades-of-fancy.html">obviously</a>. Sometimes I'm shy. And I get easily offended when my perceived foundation -- the person I've always believed myself to be -- is threatened in some way. Somehow I've forgotten that there's something even deeper than those layers, something unextinguishable. Something wholly different from the roles I play and the adjectives I attach to myself. And I'm ready to relinquish that dependency.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">+++</div><br />
And so I find myself back at Lesson 2 of <i>A Course in Miracles</i>: "I have given everything I see in this room [on this street, from this window, in this place] all the meaning that it has for me."<br />
<br />
I'll report back soon.fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-79114048144296000182010-08-11T22:29:00.000-04:002010-08-11T22:29:02.265-04:00Decades of Fancy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Some lessons in being Fancy, brought to you by Fancy Pantalons, age 8-10ish.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Lesson #1: Go with what you know, and go for broke; less is never enough, and more just barely cuts it. Demonstrate your passion for impeccable music and a "street" attitude with a tasteful patch featuring the name of your favorite boy band from Boston over your left front pocket.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF7CfFubvAD1NZAoGFLq_KtVANuKHrmK0A1gnvljfWkxNldi2PxBeDPxSPFhLVJ7_Jh-gwXvXaGDTg4qnAjYFzpk_DspBliT7QS2PHBsx2Mg9SyUQ3O8_7DMmIBasjQgHM1856WcrEACE/s1600/Jeans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF7CfFubvAD1NZAoGFLq_KtVANuKHrmK0A1gnvljfWkxNldi2PxBeDPxSPFhLVJ7_Jh-gwXvXaGDTg4qnAjYFzpk_DspBliT7QS2PHBsx2Mg9SyUQ3O8_7DMmIBasjQgHM1856WcrEACE/s400/Jeans.jpg" width="227" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Lesson #2: Fortune and fashion favor the bold. Sport unfortunate pairings (e.g. socks and sandals) before others realize they're a no-no, thereby remaining always pre-trend. Sunglasses convey an uppity sensibility, so choose frames in a friendly color. Always accessorize with a small child, preferably several (plastic children will work in a pinch).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFqLmfXusDRec1uw08g1lreapee49mlhYF1rcjns9ItzYZt3Gw00ejV9lDTmbeHZpw-X6H6RCqoEE5W9Nq4Eiq7CTPv2kW40x2FbnHL68svAJ4ZDEXr4kSExnBbms1r15ZxVjICkozw38/s1600/Neon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFqLmfXusDRec1uw08g1lreapee49mlhYF1rcjns9ItzYZt3Gw00ejV9lDTmbeHZpw-X6H6RCqoEE5W9Nq4Eiq7CTPv2kW40x2FbnHL68svAJ4ZDEXr4kSExnBbms1r15ZxVjICkozw38/s400/Neon.jpg" width="262" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Lesson #3: Fashion does not exist in a vacuum. It's important to contextualize, and nothing says "I'm successful!" more than a nod to the institution that facilitated your greatness. Ties to patriotism should not be too overt, however; a grimacing visage tempers the grandiose surroundings, telling the onlooker: "I care. But just a barely appropriate amount." Be always attentive to body language: arms crossed, legs in fifth position say: "Don't mess with me, I sort of know ballet." When in doubt, pink tights.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw-qjtjzAiQnHpZk3V4vo1kFqC5xdstBFzXRGACsLh7qH7wv1Mo4WVEsKRCkVCtKQaMnzZk3DU8TIktaj5j86b9ocfzbkPUWYr2sfTz1ptLrP_5Z1cyEJW_ELHSTOPG78_CMVi6XY8t60/s1600/Abe+Lincoln%27s+Gals.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw-qjtjzAiQnHpZk3V4vo1kFqC5xdstBFzXRGACsLh7qH7wv1Mo4WVEsKRCkVCtKQaMnzZk3DU8TIktaj5j86b9ocfzbkPUWYr2sfTz1ptLrP_5Z1cyEJW_ELHSTOPG78_CMVi6XY8t60/s400/Abe+Lincoln%27s+Gals.jpg" width="236" /></a></div>fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-32565267177519534582010-08-10T13:35:00.014-04:002010-08-11T21:32:50.509-04:00e.a.t.: a manifestoMy initials spell E.A.T.<br />
<br />
This delightful accident was not lost on my elementary school peers. (Nor was the abbreviated version, E.T.).<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTJJ5BY4unFBOxCdwi2V9_p4kcmjFgU9LVm0xPInvnTwgYRjhyphenhyphenOguQ9uWdfTQa-anXbFuuzqeCzndd4MzzMJcWVLanH4WCjAxsOObhEvWPWMiXRz8Yv0R2Z1Mbnd1-tpezZziJwDoN_GI/s1600/Baby+E.T..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTJJ5BY4unFBOxCdwi2V9_p4kcmjFgU9LVm0xPInvnTwgYRjhyphenhyphenOguQ9uWdfTQa-anXbFuuzqeCzndd4MzzMJcWVLanH4WCjAxsOObhEvWPWMiXRz8Yv0R2Z1Mbnd1-tpezZziJwDoN_GI/s400/Baby+E.T..jpg" width="327" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Note the E.T. t-shirt. (That's some parental sense of humor right there.)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>And so, perhaps it goes without saying that I think a lot about eating. And not just in the "Ooh, snacktime!" kind of way. I mean to say that I often ponder the <i>act </i>of eating. Writers wax wistful over the joy, the pleasure, the euphoria of eating. But there can be suffering, too, in that act: when there isn't enough to eat, when food becomes a bitter enemy, and even when food is an enabling friend, allowing you temporary respite from whatever emotion you're evading. Eating is complicated.<br />
<br />
Since modifying some of my eating patterns based on certain Ayurvedic principles and the wisdom of Geneen Roth et al., I've noticed other changes in my life as well: in the way I see myself, and in the way I see others.<br />
<br />
Karen's piece <a href="http://kclanderson.com/before-and-after/how-i-want-to-be-in-the-world/">"How I Want to be in This World,"</a> resonated so strongly, and I find myself going back to that notion, again and again. So what follows here is an essay, in the truest sense: a tentative attempt to explain how I want to be in this world. And how eating fits into all of that. It's a manifesto (a mani<i>feast</i>o? Too much?).<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">+++ </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Food possesses no inherent morality. It is neither good nor bad. Some food is filling, or nutritious, or energizing. Other food makes me sluggish, or jittery, or downright sick. I'm Fancy P. before a plateful of fried clam strips, and I'll be the same Fancy P. after it. If I eat those clam strips because I'm struggling to cope with the stress of a deadline, I am free to do so. Permission granted by moi.<br />
<br />
I want to handle those negative emotions -- anxiety, sadness, anger -- in a more productive way. I want to express those feelings, sit with them and know that I'll come out okay on the other side. Sometimes I can do just that. Other times, I'm lying on my bed eating fried clam strips. And it's all okay.<br />
<br />
I am always doing the best that I can.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My body relies on my mind to remember what makes it feel like sick. Sometimes my mind doesn't listen. But often it will, and my body gives a big ol' high five to my mind. Thanks, mon ami! But strengthening that communication between body and mind? That's a process of change I can get behind; I'm changing a behavior, not how much I'm worth.</div><br />
I will not choose to wear something because it's slimming. I accept my body as it is, right now. Period.<br />
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I will not use food as a reward or exercise as a punishment. If I'm feeling great, I can take a walk or jump in the pool and feel even greater. No problem! Look at me go! But I'm not doing that extra twenty minutes because I ate those clam strips. Nope. (Can you tell that I've eaten clam strips recently?)<br />
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Whatever it takes, I will smile when I see myself in a photo. <br />
<br />
I drink hot water the whole day through. Sometimes I even infuse it with fresh ginger. My stomach feels like the champion of a hugging contest. It calms me, soothes me. I think it's even making me a better wife.<br />
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I will no longer focus on losing weight as a goal. If I lose weight because I'm eating thoughtfully and moving my body as much as it wants, I want to get excited for how healthy I am, how whole I feel -- not how much less I weigh.<br />
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I want to show the people I love how dear they are to me. Toward that end, I want to bake for them and for my neighbors, too: pies, and cakes, and confections -- fancy, all. But <a href="http://fancypantalons.blogspot.com/2010/06/dont-read-this-post-if-youre-hungry.html">not as sweet</a>.<br />
<br />
I want to relish every inch of me, all the while accepting that my body will change, for it is earthly and temporal. (I am nearly twenty-eight and already going gray. Hooray for acceptance!) I want to remember that I am whole and good, and when I look out, I want to recognize the wholeness of my neighbor. Even (especially) the peevish ones.<br />
<br />
And I want to be grateful, always, that I have a voice and that someone is listening. Thank you. I want to listen to you, too.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"> +++</div><br />
Friends, you've gotta meet <a href="http://loisstearns.blogspot.com/">Lois</a>. She's eighty-three; she's witty; she's gorgeous. She inspires me. And if you say to her:<br />
<br />
Your people want to make a statue in your honor. What will it be made out of and what victory will it commemorate?<br />
<br />
She'll reply: "Chocolate. Having been on a diet for about 70 out of my 82 years, it will commemorate my brave decision to eat whatever makes me happy for whatever number of years I have left."<br />
<br />
Awesome.<br />
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</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><br />
</span></span></div>fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-62385687260941095712010-08-06T22:53:00.000-04:002010-08-06T22:53:46.905-04:00pilgrimage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieVTPK_6fdlyzHptuuUNh1-pmB-Ytp2mX76iOn_eh7f0mUVSN481MmPuhf3byDa24NRqAhGSgP9xYNjxTed2j6aj6yiTUQH3DxV7WvsJQKISwI-K01VvOCOPDWl3w6c4czDWmJ001Qzpw/s1600/IMG_3565.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieVTPK_6fdlyzHptuuUNh1-pmB-Ytp2mX76iOn_eh7f0mUVSN481MmPuhf3byDa24NRqAhGSgP9xYNjxTed2j6aj6yiTUQH3DxV7WvsJQKISwI-K01VvOCOPDWl3w6c4czDWmJ001Qzpw/s400/IMG_3565.JPG" width="267" /></a></div><br />
There are so many places to have a panic attack on a walk across campus.<br />
<br />
Wide open space. Too many people around, too: prospective students trailing a tour guide, grounds workers whacking weeds. And me, teeth clenched, palms clammy, forcing my legs to keep moving forward.<br />
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I am trying not to feel ridiculous when I tell you that crossing that wide open space and getting the mail at work every day this week was far and away my greatest accomplishment this month. Maybe this year, even. I'm trying not to feel weird about that. I'm not succeeding.<br />
<br />
But when I'm faced with the fear of a panic attack, what I'm really having to take on are my anxieties about what others think of me, my fear of confrontation, my deep-seated but slowly dissolving sense that I'm not worth receiving love, care, or attention from others, and especially not from myself. And when the panic attack comes, it literally feels like I'm dying. If you've never experienced it, undoubtedly you think I'm overreacting or waxing a bit much toward the melodramatic. Not so: my mind convinces me that I'm dying and that I need to get out, get away, get anywhere but there.<br />
<br />
In terms of severity, my anxiety in the last two weeks has been the worst I've ever experienced. But! I feel absolutely fantastic. Emotionally exhausted, but so proud of myself for hanging on. And the craziest thing? I feel so very grateful that the universe presented me with this opportunity, this temporary job which forced me very much outside of my comfort zone, reintroduced the panic attack back into my life (instead of just the unending fear of one), and, most important, reminded me that there is life (literally and figuratively) after a panic attack.<br />
<br />
I strode across campus today, all symptoms of anxiety intact. And I looked up at the trees, swaying to and fro in the hot wind, and I thanked the universe. I thanked God. To be honest, I wasn't really specific. To no one in particular, I said, simply, "Thank you." The breeze picked up suddenly and -- <i>whish</i> -- brushed against my face, my eyes fluttering from the unexpected force.<br />
<br />
And I remembered that God is in the wind.fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-4734783678154135192010-07-31T21:40:00.001-04:002010-09-23T07:39:21.423-04:00self-relianceLady Gaga's "Telephone" in my ears, I sped home from work Friday and tears of relief puddled in the rim of my sunglasses. My new job could not be easier; in fact, it's enjoyable, surrounded as I am with funny, smart, generous women. And sticky notes in a rainbow of colors.<br />
<br />
Yet every morning of this past week, I nearly didn't make it out of the house. I had to convince myself again and again, the first morning and the next and the next, that I would be safe, fine, okay, probably even panic-free. It sounds ridiculous, no? That the fear of a panic attack could reduce me, a 27-year-old woman, to desperate, urgent tears and the near inability to accept that I could venture outside my comfort zone?<br />
<br />
It's ridiculous. But it's absolutely real and immediate, and I'm going to have to forgive myself and call it something other than ridiculous because belittling the problem serves only to exacerbate it. So, I have this thing, this anxiety disorder, and I need help managing it. So I'm getting help. But in the meantime, there's life to be led, and a job to convince myself to drive to every morning. And it is exhausting.<br />
<br />
Anxiety has an odd way of erasing the memories of what it was like to feel normal and grounded. Or whether I ever even felt that way. I have to remind myself that I once spent an entire year in France. Was that me? I used to teach a class five days a week. I stood up in front of twenty students, some attentive, others less so, and I cracked jokes, summoned energy I didn't have at 7 a.m. so that I could make Composition useful and fun. How did I do that?<br />
<br />
<div>Driving home Friday, I celebrated Independence Day: I faced a fear, I accepted the panic, the panic passed, and I felt capable and strong.<br />
<br />
And so I wondered: When did I forget how to do things by myself? How did I learn that I'm not able to be alone and be okay?<br />
<br />
I've always paid extra-special close attention to others' opinion of me, and I suppose eventually I stopped paying attention to my own opinion. It started innocently enough: relying on my dad to take care of my car's oil change, asking Stefan to pick up dinner on his way home. Innocent, perhaps, but indicative of something latent in me: the fear of not being capable.<br />
<br />
It's a habit of dependency that I've nursed -- for years, apparently. As much as I take from others, I try to be generous and loving in return. Yet I sense within me a woman who knows when she needs others and too when she is needed, but who, at the end of the day, can rely on herself. I'm trying to find her again.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">+++</div><br />
It didn't feel like a day to swim. Awake at 6 a.m., I wanted to walk, but sneakers and socks seemed fussy, unnecessary. So, flip-flops on my feet, I headed up the trail behind our house.<br />
<br />
At the top of the hill strewn with rocks and fallen oak limbs, I crept onto a ledge and looked out.<br />
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</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvSF9RXO5Dx3k-87IDCkR9lx7JZ7PRPcgHQQbIRSGr2-vCcQ7UmqTyaEEWj88czdVFkGXN1K1iVevsoAW2gmgOzkwfICELcpEHCt1Wd6zPgWfn9vyaGOdTofki9quvNUl0NCzTK7rJVws/s1600/IMG_5643.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvSF9RXO5Dx3k-87IDCkR9lx7JZ7PRPcgHQQbIRSGr2-vCcQ7UmqTyaEEWj88czdVFkGXN1K1iVevsoAW2gmgOzkwfICELcpEHCt1Wd6zPgWfn9vyaGOdTofki9quvNUl0NCzTK7rJVws/s400/IMG_5643.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Alone with my ridiculous footwear, swatting mosquitoes intent on breakfast, I tingled with purpose.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My mother says that at my core, I will always have everything that I need. To love, to cope, to mend. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">At the top of the hill, I believe her.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiFEnnygqlfBLEw7W2iQu-dEcGRUkt8toewR_vYTWdGFKAhxY4OJ8z7VB6-tQchP8hexuYKPRfYd522-bMgxtal0UJNLrYJPo9_baTNnkxhH0Qhef_ALPKhmh9-v81itfHdg7wGojQulI/s1600/IMG_5642.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiFEnnygqlfBLEw7W2iQu-dEcGRUkt8toewR_vYTWdGFKAhxY4OJ8z7VB6-tQchP8hexuYKPRfYd522-bMgxtal0UJNLrYJPo9_baTNnkxhH0Qhef_ALPKhmh9-v81itfHdg7wGojQulI/s400/IMG_5642.JPG" width="267" /></a></div><br />
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</div></div></div></div></div>fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-34661576292192912512010-07-31T13:25:00.000-04:002010-07-31T13:25:44.029-04:00start. stop.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVNVwmjphaQd-Anx7PJsoEvNyRgKYmEl7DHVM-sfScN0KxiGgC4QCAW9SrAOj4XJ26k9XSgAMFph3gzHzzJOhyMxXeCUDZYWPCMpctXH9jOJRIogE56zvZpmjxby90HsDKFcR7BBiX1qE/s1600/IMG_5577.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVNVwmjphaQd-Anx7PJsoEvNyRgKYmEl7DHVM-sfScN0KxiGgC4QCAW9SrAOj4XJ26k9XSgAMFph3gzHzzJOhyMxXeCUDZYWPCMpctXH9jOJRIogE56zvZpmjxby90HsDKFcR7BBiX1qE/s400/IMG_5577.JPG" width="267" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I've started a new post several times these past few days. But then I just delete whatever I've written because it doesn't feel authentic or relevant. Or something.<br />
<br />
I've been working steadily on my dissertation for a few weeks now; this makes me feel relieved. I've been swimming consistently for two weeks; this makes me feel empowered. I've started a 9-5 temp. job, which has ignited my anxiety to a fury pace; this makes me feel trembly and disheartened.<br />
<br />
Sometimes it's hard to balance everything, and more often than not I just don't have the energy to write. But I'll be back soon.<br />
<br />
xoxofancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-43718594620803484022010-07-21T16:32:00.000-04:002010-07-21T16:32:05.544-04:00miracle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ILebquHAU9Iv5LM9GD60Fr48amtH39G9t60doUP8TzZbELuDju2HmKzT9s_PDmR0wBr4GUBUA3MgijKPjJjRTHkJTTOtGSnaaoFx8UA9dyWoX5NyuKB_0Mw9TWK_iJT3bwnHvNWBOCw/s1600/IMG_5412.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ILebquHAU9Iv5LM9GD60Fr48amtH39G9t60doUP8TzZbELuDju2HmKzT9s_PDmR0wBr4GUBUA3MgijKPjJjRTHkJTTOtGSnaaoFx8UA9dyWoX5NyuKB_0Mw9TWK_iJT3bwnHvNWBOCw/s400/IMG_5412.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My body is 60-70% water. When I see a lake or a pool or, gosh, even a bathtub, I yearn for it. When I dip my toes into a sun-warmed pool, I become 100% water. Sometimes I wonder if I'm not a mermaid who has forgotten her source. (My parents almost named me Ariel, dontcha know.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I've started swimming at the Y with my dad, who has been asking me to go with him since February. Annoying bouts of anxiety managed to convince me that I shouldn't swim -- too many opportunities for a panic attack. Last week, though, when he asked again -- up for a swim? -- I didn't think. I just said yes, I'll go. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's difficult for me to explain how the swimming has affected me without relying on baptism metaphors. Those feelings don't surprise me, though; I'm at home in the water, always have been, and I hope -- I pray, really -- that I won't forget how it connects my body back to my mind. Swimming for me facilitates being present in the moment; it collects the fragments and reminds me that I'm complete.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What really surprised me was what awaited my brief glance at the mirror in the women's locker room after my swim. Arms trembly, quads tightened, I showered quickly and headed toward the lockers. I usually avoid looking at the mirror when I'm in various states of undress -- particularly when said apparel is a wet and clingy swimsuit. More a habit than a conscious choice, really. But I looked, and my first thought -- I swear to you -- was this:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"I look great!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Emphatic, unconditional, exuberant, unashamed. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That gut response floored me. Was it possible that I was looking at <i>my</i> body, the one that I've allowed to remain sedentary for many years, the one that I've picked apart, inch by inch, to further my goal of feeling not good enough? Yes. I looked at my body, and I saw nothing with which to find fault. Moments later I still stood there, gazing at my reflection in disbelief.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Only later did I figure it out. It has nothing to do with self-esteem or an actual change in my physical appearance. I looked so good because I felt so whole.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-90229798428514333942010-07-19T21:39:00.000-04:002010-07-19T21:39:41.792-04:00july nineteenth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqMB59YdbUXUPcVfEnoPNT1km1PHloA96MrLz48zN-KV2YUy03WTjsCtqQGZ7RvRg5Oi_UI5XuZ0ChX3H-Aqu2DC2yVxrAlKbtqJY2tMr69EmmoSZHAW0LG35UGXwkC7ezByPO2fnS5As/s1600/IMG_5360.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqMB59YdbUXUPcVfEnoPNT1km1PHloA96MrLz48zN-KV2YUy03WTjsCtqQGZ7RvRg5Oi_UI5XuZ0ChX3H-Aqu2DC2yVxrAlKbtqJY2tMr69EmmoSZHAW0LG35UGXwkC7ezByPO2fnS5As/s400/IMG_5360.JPG" width="267" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Gallows Hill, Salem, MA</span></div><br />
<blockquote>On July 12, William Stoughton signed a death warrant for the five women convicted by the court at its second session. Exactly a week later, on Tuesday the 19th, they were all hanged on Salem's Gallows Hill. </blockquote><blockquote>from Mary Beth Norton's <i>In the Devil's Snare: The Salem Witchcraft Crisis of 1692</i> </blockquote><br />
I've been weaning myself off nighttime TV watching and internet meandering, which has left me with some free time before bed. So, I've been reading before bed, just like I used to during those pre-1998 glory days before AOL brought Instant Messaging into my life. And since most of the books beside my bed are of the dissertation-research variety, I've been delving into some much needed diss. work.<br />
<br />
<div>I've nearly finished Mary Beth Norton's book, and oh, it's gripping. It's difficult not to view those Massachusetts Puritans as foolish and dangerously naive, believing as they did that a covenant with the Devil had allowed their neighbors to afflict their livestock, their children, and themselves. It's impossible for a modern reader like myself to reconstruct perfectly the ideology by which these people interpreted the events in their lives. I can try -- and heaven knows other have -- but the truth remains that we will never know exactly what it was like to live at that time. The past feels foreign and strange; it is always already elusive.<br />
<br />
Yet I can't help myself. Despite the dangers inherent in speculating about the past, I try to piece together the emotional story threaded through the larger narrative of the trials. I want to reclaim some of the agency that is stripped away from a person when she is subjected to a trial in which spectral evidence is considered sufficient to convict her and sentence her to death. I look beyond the trials, too, to see what was lost and what remained. How did families put themselves back together, financially and emotionally? How did this community rebound from a crisis that pitted neighbor against neighbor? Suddenly, the past seems all too familiar.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And so today, as I read that five women -- Rebecca Nurse, Sarah Good, Susannah Martin, Elizabeth Howe, and Sarah Wildes -- were hanged on July 19th, I pause. Three-hundred eighteen years to the day have passed, and my eyes are wet nonetheless. I feel pity and anger and disbelief that a community would allow such a thing to come to pass. I write about these events and I analyze them with the tools of analysis that I've been taught. But what I really want to write about is the heart of the matter, the humanity of these seemingly two-dimensional figures who emerge from the archives. I want to write about how I felt when I saw Gallows Hill with my own eyes, how I wasn't at all surprised to find it bleak and dreary and quiet, how I couldn't shake the chill in my bones for hours after we'd left.</div><div><br />
</div><div>When the minister offered Sarah Good a final chance to confess, she said to him: "I am no more a Witch than you are a Wizard, and if you take away my Life, God will give you Blood to drink." Her words seethe through the page, cutting through three-hundred eighteen years like <i>that</i>.</div>fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-842222536013609622010-07-17T15:01:00.000-04:002010-07-17T15:01:07.417-04:00trop chaud<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's too hot to type, much less think.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I don't much feel like moving, but my surroundings are thriving just fine.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Wild beach plums at Conimicut Point Beach.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibBKBd7QvPR65i__jNEvUgECizP7nADYVXQlcE1ia2w7QmB-JkoTWzPQTQqJ3GBYJeG9fZyY6g2zHBzwEUstXcy6t-n6n53mknukaQd5YHMQKk_v4eMRmQyv6g-_7-iDeEQIbIME2W3Mo/s1600/IMG_5448.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibBKBd7QvPR65i__jNEvUgECizP7nADYVXQlcE1ia2w7QmB-JkoTWzPQTQqJ3GBYJeG9fZyY6g2zHBzwEUstXcy6t-n6n53mknukaQd5YHMQKk_v4eMRmQyv6g-_7-iDeEQIbIME2W3Mo/s400/IMG_5448.JPG" width="267" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Paper-thin poppy on a sun-scorched front lawn.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQ-skCiwbEYhAtGsUUUz58O2LF3OxuXE51eXsm8M320GmenS-KkkcGOahCTwPE-2aOM5rWICk0Ozohz6yD9_LF9pOC6KYvv7f0n7s1vygaeRag7leTXwa7EUOMf9D-WaziVSw7qXTC7g/s1600/IMG_5453.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQ-skCiwbEYhAtGsUUUz58O2LF3OxuXE51eXsm8M320GmenS-KkkcGOahCTwPE-2aOM5rWICk0Ozohz6yD9_LF9pOC6KYvv7f0n7s1vygaeRag7leTXwa7EUOMf9D-WaziVSw7qXTC7g/s400/IMG_5453.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">Powdery-blue thistle heads.</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0EtfFnqKtBvuX4TxodcI-jX7pv6XNRIgfn9b_Wu7g8BcWfaAW3BZlnQ2qV1WTNNKiIZ5yNTDBtIks0P-SOmKcYwpUyOZPUG9FvFZ5U_WjiIMSy0Osj8i5cQxsoQ4cs46ejsKDFJBAEVY/s1600/IMG_5459.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0EtfFnqKtBvuX4TxodcI-jX7pv6XNRIgfn9b_Wu7g8BcWfaAW3BZlnQ2qV1WTNNKiIZ5yNTDBtIks0P-SOmKcYwpUyOZPUG9FvFZ5U_WjiIMSy0Osj8i5cQxsoQ4cs46ejsKDFJBAEVY/s400/IMG_5459.JPG" width="267" /></a><br />
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It's a beautiful thing, not thinking.fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-56838190691064927532010-07-10T23:17:00.000-04:002010-07-10T23:17:53.900-04:00summer in rhode island<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGgIXYNGJBG65hX4Q6WeJMltgh0MeCQbEzSjD_MLcRp55aEPRSeShgpkozfxnGZY9DJ6bkkmiBSao0RPHJ8c-X1tK8uTfRj8q1sRSUTRBUKor_H5TmzX3UXEN2gZUsYGXyWJa_ua0UGRQ/s1600/IMG_5400.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGgIXYNGJBG65hX4Q6WeJMltgh0MeCQbEzSjD_MLcRp55aEPRSeShgpkozfxnGZY9DJ6bkkmiBSao0RPHJ8c-X1tK8uTfRj8q1sRSUTRBUKor_H5TmzX3UXEN2gZUsYGXyWJa_ua0UGRQ/s400/IMG_5400.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">muggy air, bright sky</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQM_vGZRHNca3shUcdjjdj6enSgDw1yueW98Ug7vRiXZaH954nThuZ74raM81j3zmXdiDF59lJr2bxkPzAnMQPUlbd7YYfMDeScs50Bt8sobukyJ0R_soWOoMyQIOYCND1EfutJT5PgGc/s1600/IMG_5403.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQM_vGZRHNca3shUcdjjdj6enSgDw1yueW98Ug7vRiXZaH954nThuZ74raM81j3zmXdiDF59lJr2bxkPzAnMQPUlbd7YYfMDeScs50Bt8sobukyJ0R_soWOoMyQIOYCND1EfutJT5PgGc/s400/IMG_5403.JPG" width="267" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">clam cakes, doughy and sweet</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmxt74c6AtI7Aw5j0GbGlUeKbkkgrjZH3gLBTSY7gPDbTLTxEgagoRQpb5q4hxZDFMxfSKcQABr3YgBlAGKleYPlF3wa3IazXBICzO1kLPoMKmv1usd3FXMzl3D8T6q169iseiNNLdsx8/s1600/IMG_5405.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmxt74c6AtI7Aw5j0GbGlUeKbkkgrjZH3gLBTSY7gPDbTLTxEgagoRQpb5q4hxZDFMxfSKcQABr3YgBlAGKleYPlF3wa3IazXBICzO1kLPoMKmv1usd3FXMzl3D8T6q169iseiNNLdsx8/s400/IMG_5405.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">cotton clouds, scuttling by</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzqmPVYPGMLAfSHzAZwJYOwYr2NDTxUpB0O_yHPloAC40IxSU4GPXhoIarD5TSTn-CEJMXCQChxIuDTgqHuBOIFm-VPCvdL6G3-69pUmGhov_x1yo-Ij6sYPbxLLIzyj1NvT7LFxGEsZI/s1600/IMG_5414.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzqmPVYPGMLAfSHzAZwJYOwYr2NDTxUpB0O_yHPloAC40IxSU4GPXhoIarD5TSTn-CEJMXCQChxIuDTgqHuBOIFm-VPCvdL6G3-69pUmGhov_x1yo-Ij6sYPbxLLIzyj1NvT7LFxGEsZI/s400/IMG_5414.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">picnic in a park</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuDeo5sgmilEbG8uCL_cwTZD9D6f4QM3y_n4tchH9yOYeTu88vmv1v-BSzFbP6ehcU8qexbKt5Pvfa8dqHn5IxGTJe8QrZaXtSvzhJxjPxGYmKijzCUZ67Ycm542-0hCN1EgWXkIEQs9I/s1600/IMG_5434.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuDeo5sgmilEbG8uCL_cwTZD9D6f4QM3y_n4tchH9yOYeTu88vmv1v-BSzFbP6ehcU8qexbKt5Pvfa8dqHn5IxGTJe8QrZaXtSvzhJxjPxGYmKijzCUZ67Ycm542-0hCN1EgWXkIEQs9I/s400/IMG_5434.JPG" width="267" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">ice cream eaten by a blue-tinged harbor</div>fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-81066611526141906022010-07-09T13:28:00.000-04:002010-07-09T13:28:12.070-04:00aha?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_v8Wi9evpcpqR7uS9p3VBBg1hiXHXmgRQlW0j_I7E2asOOnBm7zrmqo6GzmmY6yeT9LD_eqnRCbhbXNQ7_AlAAUoI5sHdUe7kF0PGgxyLwJh-mEABMuPvzBCldRcnH8RN7INyn14GYBo/s1600/IMG_4746.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_v8Wi9evpcpqR7uS9p3VBBg1hiXHXmgRQlW0j_I7E2asOOnBm7zrmqo6GzmmY6yeT9LD_eqnRCbhbXNQ7_AlAAUoI5sHdUe7kF0PGgxyLwJh-mEABMuPvzBCldRcnH8RN7INyn14GYBo/s400/IMG_4746.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV2xHoEajoTFRJBITvAyQ9RDLGI8_c4WR8WjjnfTXFC1vpqoHN_roLJwR_U5XZb1px5Af2v41EPBZHufQcwyiN2zQ88eXp5wdc7-BJ5YgUfdrXElcYA84sY3AxHBhhMw_917mkYNMZnAQ/s1600/IMG_4748.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV2xHoEajoTFRJBITvAyQ9RDLGI8_c4WR8WjjnfTXFC1vpqoHN_roLJwR_U5XZb1px5Af2v41EPBZHufQcwyiN2zQ88eXp5wdc7-BJ5YgUfdrXElcYA84sY3AxHBhhMw_917mkYNMZnAQ/s400/IMG_4748.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><blockquote>I've had it with epiphanies! As revelatory as these life-changing aha! moments can feel, they're often hard to sustain. A burning bush is miraculous, but I wouldn't wait around for one or have your growth depend on it. I encourage you instead to make small changes with great love -- then they'll accumulate and last. Stitch by golden stitch, you'll be sewn together, more whole.</blockquote><blockquote>-- from <i>Emotional Freedom: Liberate Yourself from Negative Emotions and Transform Your Life</i> by Judith Orloff, M.D. </blockquote><div style="text-align: center;">+++</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Waiting for a friend in the dressing room at White House/Black Market. Thinner women abound. Hands in my pockets, I lean back, trying too hard to look effortlessly casual. Directly across from me, awesomely, is a massive, wall-length mirror. I meet the gaze of mirror-me and groan. "I look huge," I think. And then, because I've been doing all sorts of reading and thinking about being kinder to myself, I reject the body snarking and reprimand myself for the thought, "I hate when I'm so negative toward my body. God, what is wrong with me." No question mark there, just a period, for it is a statement, not a query. If it's not a question, it can't be solved or put to rest. Sometimes negative self-talk in its familiarity is less scary than change. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">But it didn't end there. I studied myself in the mirror, top to bottom and back again. I decided not to wallow in the cycle of berating and critiquing. It's become too exhausting, honestly. I said simply, "It's okay. Just breathe." I purposefully sent love zings to myself, just as I'd done when, looking toward the wedding photographer's lens, I imagined Stefan there. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">It wasn't an aha! moment. I didn't feel momentous at all, in fact; I noticed the change in my thought pattern only later when reflecting on the day. It was a small change enacted with great love. A brief but crucial step toward abiding kindness. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509965338554299908.post-77703325131052276932010-07-04T02:43:00.000-04:002010-07-04T02:43:09.146-04:00wild and precious<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>I don't know exactly what a prayer is.<br />
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down<br />
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,<br />
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields.<br />
which is what I have been doing all day.<br />
Tell me, what else should I have done?<br />
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?<br />
Tell me, what is it you plan to do<br />
with your one wild and precious life?<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">from Mary Oliver's "The Summer Day"</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">+++</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I saw this poem today, the text painstakingly hammered into a <a href="http://www.designspongeonline.com/2010/07/before-after-lizs-table-solanahs-shelf.html">refurbished coffee table</a>. I'm not sure what I wish for more: that I'd thought of it myself or that I had the motivation to spend three hours stamping wood. DIY ineptitude aside, the poem resonates with me. It's a <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">cliché </span>really, finding God in Nature. But I find truth in it, ever more so recently. Sitting out on our screened in porch at dusk, looking out toward the woods as the last bit of sun ekes through the trees. The sight thrills, like plugging myself into a socket. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Happiness is not thinking. Meditation gets you there, but I don't quite have the patience for that, at least right now. But Nature -- the might of the ocean, the quiet of the woods behind our house -- offers a respite from all that noisy, distracting thinking. I often forget this trick, this quick-fix source of rejuvenation, so I'm writing it down here. To remember.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">+++</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Last week, we picnicked at Fort Phoenix in Fairhaven, MA, a Revolutionary War fort that nowadays -- if, you know, you disregard the cannons -- is peaceful and welcoming with rocky ledges and grassy knolls.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdvO1Oz-m0xOSyvwHKlwu4exOReZ7MsYi1vpDrKSSFZzmfhoD2FpFivPzHq2xYMivZtOoJlqsb4vnkNywGGRlyMFAbmSORwtLI7gDSvEPPb-o6ikLnNrijeU5NQ6sEr_018xyUvvZiNTw/s1600/2010-06-27+16.31.50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdvO1Oz-m0xOSyvwHKlwu4exOReZ7MsYi1vpDrKSSFZzmfhoD2FpFivPzHq2xYMivZtOoJlqsb4vnkNywGGRlyMFAbmSORwtLI7gDSvEPPb-o6ikLnNrijeU5NQ6sEr_018xyUvvZiNTw/s400/2010-06-27+16.31.50.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The mist rolled in and out, and we watched the fishing boats looming larger and larger, bound for Fairhaven's harbor. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Check out the view. And so this, apparently, is how I lead this "wild and precious" life of mine. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguXfovxxy5T8p1TYWP1A1f0X9DgfMvhwocXrxIkCkKjsd7JcBAa1cHKPAyy4z2gyh8inHOD6M0wIabQFpKo0UCSJysWu48P8S3AgPSvL-x8SxToRap8j7x_D_axASXCbsHnnxxY_A0ifs/s1600/2010-06-27+16.48.48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguXfovxxy5T8p1TYWP1A1f0X9DgfMvhwocXrxIkCkKjsd7JcBAa1cHKPAyy4z2gyh8inHOD6M0wIabQFpKo0UCSJysWu48P8S3AgPSvL-x8SxToRap8j7x_D_axASXCbsHnnxxY_A0ifs/s400/2010-06-27+16.48.48.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>fancy pantalonshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639780477135419036noreply@blogger.com2