It sure has been a while since we last spoke. I know my letters stopped coming in 1988, but I want you to know, you are still a very real part of my Christmas - I just always figured you had enough on your plate what with fulfilling my little brother's unusual requests (rope, plywood and nails…oh, and that Christmas of the bag of rocks…) and keeping up with ever changing technology. I mean, these days, your elves are busy assembling complicated tablets, smartphones and interactive virtual reality games. All I ever really wanted was a doll that didn't have scary eyes.
Anyway, I haven't been keeping my distance because I don't believe in you. Quite the contrary! As a matter of fact - if you would consider doing me the honor - I have a very important request for this Christmas. And…I, in no way, doubt your ability to deliver, but what I'm about to lay out here isn't exactly a friendly-eyed dolly. This request might prove a bit more elusive and might require a bit more time and cooperation from some outside parties.
You see, in just a few very short months, I'm going to become a mommy. (to a person this time - not cats) I'm sure you were already aware since you are in the business of knowing things. The point is…well, Santa…if you could…for my one gift this year, I would like to have the ability to be good at that. Being a mommy, I mean. I know that is a vague and ambiguous gift request, but it really is the one and only thing I want for myself this year.
Now, you may be hearkening back to that one Christmas when I asked for the ability to fly….I can see how that one might have been outside your gifting scope. But, the way I see it, you have a pretty good handle on the whole parenting thing. After all, a world full of children looks at you as the grandest and most generous of patriarchs, so from where I stand, this minimal gift list is totally doable for you. But, just to make things a bit easier, allow me to elaborate.
My little fella is going to come with his own unique batch of talents, character traits, strengths and challenges. The angels have already adorned him with his collection of bit and pieces - some that I can potentially predict but most of which will come as a total surprise to me and to his daddy. He may have my nose and his daddy's confidence. Conversely, he may have his daddy's mouth and my strength of focus. Whatever he brings to the table, I need to be ready to flex my adaptability muscles…more than I ever have before. He might like soccer. I know next to nothing about soccer. Heaven help me if he loves golf. He may cry on his first day of preschool…or worse…he may run into the fray with nary a backward glance at his mother who will be crumbling inside.
In any scenario…at any moment…whether small or critical…I need your help, Santa, to be both an oak and a river all at once. I need to learn to love all the harder the firmer I stand. I am desperate to understand how to let my tiny boy fight one or two of his own battles when my instinct is going to be to pounce like an angry tigress. What do I do when he comes home with a naughty note from his teacher…or asks me to stop giving him a hug goodbye in the drop-off line? I know there are far worse scenarios, but Santa, those frighten me too much to mention. But, know that I could certainly use an extra dose of fortitude (or 10!) should any of those situations present themselves.
Hopefully, I'm explaining this request clearly enough - I'm happy to itemize if you see fit, but something tells me you get it. Being the best possible mommy I can be is the only thing I want now…and will probably ever want again…so I'm really putting all my eggs in this one basket. I understand that this is a doozy and likely rather overwhelming, so let's not impart the old traditional time frame on it. Christmas is less than three weeks away: how about we spread this thing out over the next…oh….well...the next indefinite number of Christmases?
To put it simply: if you'll keep teaching, I'll keep listening and learning, year after year. That is my promise. And, while I'll be happy to write each year just to check in, you can just keep this letter on file. I can pretty well guarantee it will be forever applicable. Oh…and I'll do my darndest to stay on the "nice" list, although if that tigress does make an appearance….well….cut a momma some slack.
I suppose that will do it, Santa. Baby Teddy and I will put out your cookies and milk (or Irish coffee if you need a little somethin') on Christmas Eve then snuggle into our nest of pillows to listen for your jingle bells.
Merry Christmas, Santa Claus.
Holley (and baby Teddy)
PS - If you DID happen to have any of that magic reindeer feed that sets your velvet-footed fellas aloft lying around…I STILL wouldn't say no….
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Monday, October 14, 2013
Lessons for My Little Man: Let It Be
Happy nearly 19 weeks of existence, my little fella! You are now the size of a bell pepper, although, by the size of my tummy, one might guess you were closer to the size of a large gourd or small pumpkin! I must take a moment to thank you for your recent attempts at getting my attention - admittedly, I first thought I was simply having a case of misplaced soda bubbles, but it soon became obvious that either your little fists or your tiny feet were hard at work against the lining of your snug little home. I don't blame you! You must have inherited your momma's claustrophobia. I would be itching for a little more space too in your position.
You know, it's pretty incredible the way that carrying you around has opened my mind and heart to all of the stimuli coming at me from all directions right now. It's beautiful and poetic but also terrible because not all of it is lovely, and all I want to do is build a wall around little you and keep it all outside. I want to make you a fortress of iron! A castle of stone and steel! But, guess what! No amount of rock or metal will keep you safe and sound.
My challenge is not to protect you with force...but with peace.
Your favorite band, The Beatles, seemed to have a pretty decent grasp of the human condition - one might not think so should one only be familiar with their earliest work, but like your momma, they seemed to gain a lot of insight once those all too telling 30s rolled around. Perhaps the greatest advice they had to offer is both the title and defining lyric of their most popular ballad, "Let It Be" which speaks of peace through acceptance that sometimes...searching for an answer is like trying to find your keys. They inevitably will not show up until you've stopped looking and moved on to something else equally or even more important.
Then you find them in your sock drawer. Or in the pantry. Or in the box with the single-serve coffees.
And, sometimes, it's not your keys that have you desperately searching. More often then not, true understanding is the real precious lost item, and the search for it can be more than just frustrating. It can tear you to pieces. Your Aunt Liz tells your mommy all the time that trying to figure out why people and things are the way they are is only beneficial to a point. Then...you just have to let go, give up the search and let it be. I ache already anticipating the day that someone says an unkind word to you...or makes you the butt of a joke...because I know that your impulse will be to figure out what made them say it and why. I know this because your daddy and I both come wired that way. Your chances of being easy-going in the grand life lottery are slim. (although, I'm sending all of my positive energy into that corner!)
Knowing this, I want to share with you that, now and again, the answer...really isn't that important. What The Beatles were really preaching when they wrote "Let It Be" is the philosophy of Detachment. What that means, sweet boy, is that there are things in life we cannot control, comprehend or give context....all we can do is let them be. In our house, we live like this: give as often as you can; do good for others as much as possible; be kind even when it is hard; learn from every hardship or mistake. Daddy and I are not 100% good at following our own set of mantras, but we try very hard, and knowing you are coming makes us try even harder. Having little ideals like this helps us focus on what is important when things happen that we just can't understand or impact.
That's a lot to take in, Little Man - especially for a being no bigger than a Florida sized avocado, but if you can just remember that sometimes, all the answers don't have to be up to you, I'll feel much better sending you off to school one day where kids can be buddies one day and bullies the next. You needn't worry anyway because I'll be having one heckuva chat with THEIR mommas if I hear they were mean to you. Kindly....of course. ;)
Now...I've put off your dinner long enough. What's that you say? Ah! Pancakes it is. I like the way you think, Little Man. And, I love you bigger than all the stars in the sky and fish in the sea.
You know, it's pretty incredible the way that carrying you around has opened my mind and heart to all of the stimuli coming at me from all directions right now. It's beautiful and poetic but also terrible because not all of it is lovely, and all I want to do is build a wall around little you and keep it all outside. I want to make you a fortress of iron! A castle of stone and steel! But, guess what! No amount of rock or metal will keep you safe and sound.
My challenge is not to protect you with force...but with peace.
Your favorite band, The Beatles, seemed to have a pretty decent grasp of the human condition - one might not think so should one only be familiar with their earliest work, but like your momma, they seemed to gain a lot of insight once those all too telling 30s rolled around. Perhaps the greatest advice they had to offer is both the title and defining lyric of their most popular ballad, "Let It Be" which speaks of peace through acceptance that sometimes...searching for an answer is like trying to find your keys. They inevitably will not show up until you've stopped looking and moved on to something else equally or even more important.
Then you find them in your sock drawer. Or in the pantry. Or in the box with the single-serve coffees.
And, sometimes, it's not your keys that have you desperately searching. More often then not, true understanding is the real precious lost item, and the search for it can be more than just frustrating. It can tear you to pieces. Your Aunt Liz tells your mommy all the time that trying to figure out why people and things are the way they are is only beneficial to a point. Then...you just have to let go, give up the search and let it be. I ache already anticipating the day that someone says an unkind word to you...or makes you the butt of a joke...because I know that your impulse will be to figure out what made them say it and why. I know this because your daddy and I both come wired that way. Your chances of being easy-going in the grand life lottery are slim. (although, I'm sending all of my positive energy into that corner!)
Knowing this, I want to share with you that, now and again, the answer...really isn't that important. What The Beatles were really preaching when they wrote "Let It Be" is the philosophy of Detachment. What that means, sweet boy, is that there are things in life we cannot control, comprehend or give context....all we can do is let them be. In our house, we live like this: give as often as you can; do good for others as much as possible; be kind even when it is hard; learn from every hardship or mistake. Daddy and I are not 100% good at following our own set of mantras, but we try very hard, and knowing you are coming makes us try even harder. Having little ideals like this helps us focus on what is important when things happen that we just can't understand or impact.
That's a lot to take in, Little Man - especially for a being no bigger than a Florida sized avocado, but if you can just remember that sometimes, all the answers don't have to be up to you, I'll feel much better sending you off to school one day where kids can be buddies one day and bullies the next. You needn't worry anyway because I'll be having one heckuva chat with THEIR mommas if I hear they were mean to you. Kindly....of course. ;)
Now...I've put off your dinner long enough. What's that you say? Ah! Pancakes it is. I like the way you think, Little Man. And, I love you bigger than all the stars in the sky and fish in the sea.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Lessons for My Little Man: To Be Brave
Hello my sweet little boy!
Today, you are the size of a turnip, or so says the weekly email I get from one of the twenty million websites I visit to get information about your impending arrival. I have learned a lot about you in the past few days! You seem to like The Beatles which makes your daddy VERY happy! When I play "Across the Universe" for you, I can feel you settle....listening. I can't wait to see your sweet face when I play it for you after you arrive. You don't mind when I jog outside as long as you get something delicious afterward. I tell you stories about the things we will do as you grow up, and somehow, I know you can hear me.
One of the great benefits and curses of being human is that you come into this world an amalgam of the personality that belongs only to you along with the treasures and demons genetically bestowed upon you by your parents - in your case, Daddy and I. I hope that you get your daddy's ability to let unhappy things roll off his back. I hope you maybe like sports a tiny bit less than he does. I pray that you don't come with my overactive, racing thought patterns and my propensity for self judgment.
However, I do have one very special gift for you - one that I know deep in my heart will be embedded in your tiny little genome.
You will be brave.
Now, it's very, very important to note that to be brave is NOT be to fearless. In fact, it is quite the opposite! To be brave is to stand up against fear when it threatens to paralyze you. Your mommy is very scared of flying on airplanes. Right around the point of takeoff, she gets all flustered and sometimes has to breathe in and out into the little bag that they give you in case you get sick. (She has had to use that bag for its intended purpose a couple of times as well.) Daddy goes to sleep while mommy clutches the arms of her seat so tightly that her fingers turn white, then purple.
But - I fly. I fly a lot. Your "Elle", Papa Russ, Aunt Kiki and Uncle Adam all live in Texas (the place where the bluebonnets are!) so, the only way for mommy to see them is to get on an airplane and tough it out. Mommy and daddy also like to go to fun places like islands in the Caribbean, and we can't get there without getting on airplanes. So - we fly.
For mommy, airplanes are like dragons - each one another fire-breather to be slain. But, even worse than flying, mommy is afraid of judgment. She works very, very hard to avoid ever having to encounter this nemesis, but because of what she does for a living, she meets up with that dragon quite frequently. This dragon is especially terrifying - he is big, ugly and has terrible, beady eyes.
You will have your dragons to battle too, my little man. I wish it wasn't so, but no one gets a free pass when it comes to fear. The key is to find your legs. Find 'em, plant 'em and stay steady. Look that dragon straight in his eyes, and gather all the courage you have. You'll find it in your bones, in your blood and in your spirit. You will have a lot of it, my son - you are your mother's child.
What you may find as you stare into that dragon's eyes is that he doesn't need to be slain at all. In fact, what you might see mirrored in those beady eyes is a version of your own fear. That big ole monster may be just as afraid of someone or something else as you are of him. And, maybe - just maybe, you will feel sympathy for that scary dragon and instead of putting up your dukes, you will just walk away and leave him to take on his own foes while you go play a pick-up game of kickball with your buddies.
So, when you come crawling into my bed someday oh so soon, terrified of whatever is lurking in your closet, I will cuddle you up while we make up silly names for your dragon...and picture what he would look like in a dress or in his under-roos. And, when the bigger, scarier dragons of life show up at your door, you will not fight them alone. Daddy and I will be standing right next to you, waiting for your signal to attack or lay down our arms and go get Blizzards at Dairy Queen.
Let's go fall asleep now to the sounds of John, Paul, Ringo and George. I love you, my little man.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Little Lessons for my Little Man: Roles We Play
To my little son,
They tell me you are the size of a peach this week - and equally as fuzzy. I hear rumors I'll be getting little signals from you soon...flitters in my tummy that I will probably excuse as gas bubbles or nervousness. I'm so anxious to finally "hear" from you because I have so very much to tell you - so many things that I want you to know so that maybe you will just arrive in this world fully equipped for the cruelties and frustrations that will inevitably present themselves. If I could keep them all away, I would lay down my life to do that, but the fact is, we all have to experience them because they are the very moments that shape our character.
But...because there are things that I know, I will share them. You will listen to some and excuse others. Some will wedge themselves in your little psyche, and others will pass from one ear to the other without leaving a mark. Still, I'll offer them, and maybe one day, you will read these words and know that your momma loved you so much...even when you had yet to make yourself known...that she wrote these lessons down for you...just in case.
Carrying you around with me all the time, I've become very aware of my role as your protector. Sometimes we eat a blueberry muffin when we SHOULD be eating broccoli. Today, we enjoyed almost a half a bag of s'more flavored candy corn because your poor hormonal mother couldn't resist them when she went to Target to get shampoo. But, for the most part, we eat healthfully. I make sure you have all of your vitamins and have cut our caffeine intake down to almost nothing. We even eat pasta so that you will have the benefit of whole grains. (heaven forbid!) I go to bed earlier and take frequent mini-naps. We drinks water even though we would MUCH rather have Diet Coke.
And I try...oh how I try...to be peaceful for you. You'll soon learn, peaceful is not your mother's natural state.
In addition to being your protector, I've also taken on new roles at work. There's a lot of pressure on your mother right now to succeed, and it's very difficult for her to accept that there may be those who don't believe in her abilities. Doubt makes her angry, and that...tragically...gets passed down through her belly to little you who have nothing yet to anger you. It's the terrible injustice of pregnancy. But, hopefully, in so much as you now feel my pain and fear and frustration, one day I will intrinsically feel yours...even from miles away...and I'll be able to soften the world's blows by reminding you that YOU ARE MAGICAL.
Your mother's life has been marked by role play. With every new challenge comes a new role - athlete, dancer, princess, graduate, television personality, entrepreneur, activist. In short: achiever. What I've learned that I want you to understand is that those roles...those "titles"...they are not WHO I am, and they do not define me. Even when my number one title is "mom" (one that I am so thrilled to assume) - even that will not be equal to who I am as a person - as a human being on this earth. It has taken 33 years for me to understand this principle, and I still forget it 23 hours out of most days. My journey toward knowing myself has been wrought with frustration, and my efforts at excusing the judgments of others have been met with challenge upon challenge. (mostly self imposed) But, I'm starting to clue in that there is someone inside me who is better than the titles - better and brighter and stronger than the labels - someone who can light up her own little corner of this maze of a world we inhabit.
My prayer for you, my little man, is that you will not suffer so in understanding that your value has nothing to do with where you choose to devote your energies. What makes you so special is that you are the only you that there ever has been and ever will be. Whether you choose to be a baseball player, a zookeeper, a fashion designer, an earthquake predictor or a tap dancer, you will be YOU first and foremost. Any time you ever doubt your worth because someone has taken it upon his or herself to judge you (and there may even be people who get PAID to judge you!), you call me. It is my number one job as your mother (aside from making sure you get fed and live under a roof) to remind you that you are not the sum of your parts.
The thing that gives you value is that intangible, undefinable thing that we call a "soul". It's that force that makes you instinctively aware of right and wrong. It's like a soft wind inside you that leads you to be kind even when you know you have a choice not to be. It's where your ideas, your dreams, your aspirations and your memories live. It's how you know...without ever being taught...that love is the most important thing there is. Not approval - LOVE.
And I love YOU, tiny, peach-sized boy. I will try so hard to remember these words I have written down for you more regularly so that you don't have to taste the sour taste of anger. I'm sure you would much rather taste ice cream...which daddy just brought home for us....
Night, night, little man.
Friday, November 9, 2012
The Sweetness of Weakness
There's a natural flow to the way humans perceive the world and our general cosmic surroundings. One might say our emotions mirror the tides - sometimes high, sometimes low...more or less intense given the state of our fleeting experiences. This week, the tides were especially strong nationwide as an entire region fought to put the pieces back together after a major storm only to batten down the hatches for another one. We re-elected a president and made some radical and progressive choices about policies within our varying states - all decisions that pleased some and offended others.
Personally, the tide's pull became all the stronger as I was fortunate enough to launch a fashion line last Saturday with a dear friend - an experience that culminated in the glitter party to end all glitter parties in our beloved downtown St. Petersburg. What was meant to be a fundraiser for a charity that is near and dear to our hearts (Feeding Children Everywhere) and a showcase of our hard work and intended efforts for the future of the fashion line became something so much larger and more beautiful.
Our Glitterama became a celebration of friendship and a testament to the fact that we are in no way complete without those that surround us and support us.
My parents instilled in me a few important lessons that I have carried with me since childhood - 1) Always under promise and over deliver 2) Try your best and don't worry about the outcome 3) Believe in yourself no matter what anyone else says... and... 4) Look out for yourself because it's possible that no one else will.
While I still carry these lessons around in my proverbial basket of perspectives, I find that the older I get, and the more my friendships evolve, number four is quickly diminishing in weight. Of course, I still guard myself fiercely against the potential sneaks and leeches of the world, but when I do encounter a spirit that I know I can benefit or that I know will benefit me and my journey, I am far more likely to reach out than to pull back. Without the spirits I have collected to this juncture, the vision I had for what this past weekend would yield would never have even manifested let alone shattered my wildest dreams into pounds and pounds of fairydust.
They say we are born into our families and we choose our friends, but I'm not sure that black and white description of life's parameters is accurate. Maybe the way I have come to look at things is a little on the "woo-woo" side, but I genuinely believe that we are all here, stumbling around, bumping into one another, covered in cosmic Velcro, waiting to see who sticks. The family we create is the collection we derive from all that stumbling and bumping, and while we may not always get along or understand one another, we are far more likely to become our best selves by knowing and experiencing each other than by wrapping ourselves in fear and paranoia so that our Velcro is rendered useless.
This morning, as the glitter is finally really settling, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the sweet souls who make me better in some little way everyday and in very big ways when there is a sparkle party to be thrown. From my parents who have supported me and my often insane ideas from birth and my husband who somehow doesn't think I am completely nuts to my cosmic sisters who I "collected" along the way and who make me a better me with every spray of glitter paint or swag bag stuffed, I am honored to be just a small portion on the universal buffet we have come together to create.
Because of all of you, I can now celebrate my weaknesses because I know that where I leave off, there you are. I may not be whole on my own, but I am whole, all the same. You make me so. And, if I can offer even a tablespoon of my own strengths to your spiritual recipe, then I am blessed.
So, by proxy, like a little bit of sugar, it seems, our weaknesses actually make life a bit sweeter.
Personally, the tide's pull became all the stronger as I was fortunate enough to launch a fashion line last Saturday with a dear friend - an experience that culminated in the glitter party to end all glitter parties in our beloved downtown St. Petersburg. What was meant to be a fundraiser for a charity that is near and dear to our hearts (Feeding Children Everywhere) and a showcase of our hard work and intended efforts for the future of the fashion line became something so much larger and more beautiful.
Our Glitterama became a celebration of friendship and a testament to the fact that we are in no way complete without those that surround us and support us.
My parents instilled in me a few important lessons that I have carried with me since childhood - 1) Always under promise and over deliver 2) Try your best and don't worry about the outcome 3) Believe in yourself no matter what anyone else says... and... 4) Look out for yourself because it's possible that no one else will.
While I still carry these lessons around in my proverbial basket of perspectives, I find that the older I get, and the more my friendships evolve, number four is quickly diminishing in weight. Of course, I still guard myself fiercely against the potential sneaks and leeches of the world, but when I do encounter a spirit that I know I can benefit or that I know will benefit me and my journey, I am far more likely to reach out than to pull back. Without the spirits I have collected to this juncture, the vision I had for what this past weekend would yield would never have even manifested let alone shattered my wildest dreams into pounds and pounds of fairydust.
They say we are born into our families and we choose our friends, but I'm not sure that black and white description of life's parameters is accurate. Maybe the way I have come to look at things is a little on the "woo-woo" side, but I genuinely believe that we are all here, stumbling around, bumping into one another, covered in cosmic Velcro, waiting to see who sticks. The family we create is the collection we derive from all that stumbling and bumping, and while we may not always get along or understand one another, we are far more likely to become our best selves by knowing and experiencing each other than by wrapping ourselves in fear and paranoia so that our Velcro is rendered useless.
This morning, as the glitter is finally really settling, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the sweet souls who make me better in some little way everyday and in very big ways when there is a sparkle party to be thrown. From my parents who have supported me and my often insane ideas from birth and my husband who somehow doesn't think I am completely nuts to my cosmic sisters who I "collected" along the way and who make me a better me with every spray of glitter paint or swag bag stuffed, I am honored to be just a small portion on the universal buffet we have come together to create.
Because of all of you, I can now celebrate my weaknesses because I know that where I leave off, there you are. I may not be whole on my own, but I am whole, all the same. You make me so. And, if I can offer even a tablespoon of my own strengths to your spiritual recipe, then I am blessed.
So, by proxy, like a little bit of sugar, it seems, our weaknesses actually make life a bit sweeter.
Friday, August 3, 2012
I am the warrior.
I am writing this blog because I believe that it is possible someone might be able to extract some kernel of help from it. I have protected it for so many years because I could not see the good that could come from sharing it, but now I offer it up because my spirit realizes that keeping it tucked away is an act of self preservation. I hope it yields a benefit somewhere out there in the universe. It is certainly beneficial to me to release it.
Growing up, I was a dancer. I took lessons from 4 years-old until I was out of high school. (I even took a tap class just for fun in college!) I was on the high school pom squad (we called it "drill team" in Texas) and I performed at a variety of high profile festivals and competitions. I was an all-star, of sorts. I participated in every genre available...tap, jazz, ballet, modern, that Olympic inspired style with the balls, hoops and ribbons...you name it, I did it. Imagine my surprise when, at 16 years old, my dance teacher pulled me aside after a particularily difficult class and said, "Holley, you may want to think about giving up ballet. I know you try, but you just don't have the body type for it."
I responded the same way I always do when an authority figure is delivering bad news. I nodded and agreed. Of course, I was in no way equipped for a future in ballet. She was most certainly right - yes ma'am. Thank you, ma'am.
But, then I sat with it a while...again, like I always do...and the wound she had inflicted, that I had welcomed, began to fester. I stood in front of my full length mirror that night and examined myself. What was wrong with me that I wouldn't make a good ballet dancer? I was strong. I wasn't very flexible, but my dad was working with me on that - monitoring my nightly stretch routines. I wasn't overly tall - I was only about 5'5 at the time. (I have since grown a couple of inches) I couldn't figure out what she meant unless she was saying that I was overweight. Needless to say, I was crushed, but I tried to collect myself and move past it.
I never took another ballet class.
Shortly thereafter, my boyfriend of just over a year broke up with me. I saw it coming. Honestly, I was kind of relieved, but I quickly realized that the identity I had built in high school was lost when I lost him. I wasn't "Holley" in my own right - I was his girlfriend. That's how people knew me. That's the monicker I had embraced. And, suddenly, at 16 years old, I had no idea who I was.
I dipped into depression and the loss of appetite that accompanied it bore substantial weight loss. 14 pounds in just over two weeks. I had no energy. I was irritable. I hated myself and everyone around me. One day at lunch, one of my high school's "mean girls" chose my lunch table for some unknown reason. Upon placing her tray on the table, she covered her mouth with a shocked expression on her face and stared at me.
"Holley! You've lost so much weight! You look fantastic!"
At first, I took her comment as a compliment. I looked at the way the waistline of my jeans gaped and put my tupperware of carrots that I had been considering back in my lunchbox. (Yes. At 16, I still carried a lunch box. My mom made me healthy lunches every day. I had made a habit of returning them home, uneaten, and placing the contents back in their places in the refrigerator or pantry. I thought she didn't notice. She did.)
That unkind girl's comment took my loss of appetite and turned it into a weight loss obsession. I was trying desperately not to eat, but my family meals caused a problem. I was horrified at the thought of putting anything more substantial than jelly beans in my mouth, and I was being forced to consume pizza and stew. (two of my favorites) But, I didn't want to upset my family, so I would eat.
After about two weeks of grinning and bearing enchiladas, chili and my mom's famous "invention cookies", I came up with a solution. The first time I made myself throw up was terrifying. I sat on my knees in front of the toilet for an hour or so before I mustered the gumption to shove my finger down my throat. It was terrible and exhilerating at the same time. My eyes got all squinty, my nose ran profusely, and my skin turned all splotchy. I looked a mess, but I was quite sure it would all be worth it. No pain, no gain, right? I threw up nearly everyday from then on out until I went to college.
When I got to college, it was two or three times a day.
My dad had caught me in the act once just before I left for college, and with tears in his eyes, begged me to stop and forbid me to leave for OU if I continued the behavior. I promised him I would stop. When my suite mate and now best friend caught me in the act our freshman year in our shared dorm bathroom, she drug my to counseling at our campus clinic. I sat through one session because it was free and no charge would show up on the tuition bill that went to my parents, but I never went back.
I had a longterm boyfriend in college who broke up with me once because he didn't know how to deal with my "problem". My aunt recently revealed that she had become aware of my issue the summer I lived with her and my uncle during an internship. She thought I was doing it to look good for the same boyfriend who couldn't deal with my post-meal trips to the bathroom. It was impossible for me to explain to her the actual reason. So, I just said, "well, everyone in my sorority house was doing it."
The sorority, by the way, did not help matters one bit. Eighty-six desperately body conscious women all living in one house was a nightmare scenario for a girl in my position. Their insecurities became my insecurities, and all my neuroses escalated to dangerous heights. In an effort to keep my habit a secret, I would throw up in the downstairs bathroom behind the snack bar that was supposed to be for male visitors. When it was discovered that someone was throwing up in that bathroom, the door was locked during non-function hours, so I started throwing up in the shower. When I became too scared that someone was going to notice, I started taking laxatives.
The problem became slightly less pervasive when I moved into a three bedroom apartment with the aforementioned suitemate and one of her high school friends, but it didn't stop all together. I also had my own bathroom, so I could do what I needed to do whenever I felt the urge without anyone finding out. I found that when I was away from the constant influx of free food that seemed to make its way into the sorority house, a little of the pressure released, and I could go back to simply not eating. It is worth mentioning that my habit had caused my hair to become brittle, my fingernails to peel and my hands to smell a little weird. It is also worth mentioning that it was not acheiving the desired weight-loss I thought it would. Bulemia doesn't do that in most cases. Because lifestyle bulemics are at the mercy of their schedules as to when they can purge, most of the calories associated with food have time to make their way into the system. Digestion is a process, but when one is very young and has a high metabolism, it doesn't really take all that long.
After college, I continued to struggle. I had my own apartment and a rigirous schedule at my first television station which yielded virtually no time for eating. After moving to Florida, I began attempting to eat healthfully as often as possible, but I found that I was actually drinking most of my calories. (Even good girls have to rebel at some point!) I even mustered up the courage to tell my then boyfriend, now husband, about my habit because I had finally arrived at the realization that it wasn't a very healthy thing to be doing. He wasn't happy with the information, but he didn't run away like the last boyfriend had, so I at least felt like I had an ally.
After we got married, vomiting gave way to yo-yo dieting and frequent bouts of starvation. My husband was diligent about making sure I wasn't throwing up after meals, but he was less inclined to pay attention when I declared myself "far too busy to eat!" We moved from a small Florida town to a more metropolitan area, and I started a new job where people frequently took lunches together. They called them "lunch buses", and I always participated, though lunch for me was usually two bites of whatever I ordered and a whole lot of coffee or diet coke. I even got a gym membership despite the fact that we had one at our apartment complex, just so I could go there at lunch and avoid eating out where people might be watching.
It was a doctor's appointment for a sinus infection that set in motion the catharsis that would come some seven years later. The doctor listened to my chest a few times before asking, "has anyone ever diagnosed you with a heart murmur?" I responded that they hadn't, and she ordered a cardiac ultrasound. The technician couldn't pinpoint any particular problems, so I believed the diagnosis to be a fluke. However, when my OBGYN asked the same question during my annual visit, I became a little concerned. I told her about the ultrasound and my family doctor's diagnosis, and she told me that heart damage can some times go totally undetected unless one were to be opened up for surgery of some kind. She also mentioned that one of the primary causes of heart damage is malnutrition. She also wrote me a prescription that day for my unusually intense acid reflux.
Fast forward seven years. Seven years of some times eating, some times starving. Seven years of working out obsessively. Of training for long distance races on less than substantial nourishment. Seven years of living off of caffeine, popping insane doses of fiber and occassionally revisiting my old enemy in the bathroom. (I popped a blood vessel in my eye during one of my more recent visits. I told everyone I had done so via a violent sneeze.)
If you have read my limited posts on this blog, then you know that I visited a psychic at the beginning of the year. After spending only twenty minutes with her, I knew I had a resolution to make. It was time to become my best self....but within the parameters that genetics and the universe had set out for me. I wasn't totally sure what that meant at the time, but I was confident that a solution would reveal itself. I had also just attempted to engage in a "cleanse" that was more about weight loss than it was about spiritual awakening, which is what I told my friends. (In fact, I chronicled it in a blog here - if you read it, you'll see how very clearly I was still in the dark.)
A couple of months ago, I enrolled in a "Boot Camp" for charity. I began rising at 5 a.m. to engage in intense cardio and weight-lifting, once again, endeavoring to drop a few pounds and see myself looking tiny and svelt like my mind always believed I could. About two weeks in, I had an appointment with my doctor which necessitated a visit with a scale - an unpleasant one. I had gained weight. Two or three pounds. I was mortified. I almost didn't get up to go to boot camp the next morning, but something told me I should do it anyway. I was lifting weights. I was bulking up. I was becoming a hulk-woman. I was sure people probably looked at me and saw Popeye. But, I got up with my alarm anyway.
I told my trainer about my experience, and he told me not to lose heart - that women who don't lift weights often see a little bump in weight as their muscles are building. After all, muscle weighs more than fat. He took my body fat calculation, and it was actually pretty good. However, we made a plan to lower it which included eating more protein and fewer carbs. But, his main piece of advice was to make sure I was eating enough. This was a foreign concept for me. I even tracked my meals and snacks on a website, and we went over the results together. I cut back in certain areas and amped up others. I was diligent, and I ate. I ate plenty.
This morning, we took my weight and body fat percentage again. I am down about four pounds and 1.5 body fat percentage points. I had to take my shirt off and do the body fat test in my sports bra and work out shorts in order for my trainer to properly use the little measurement pinchers (there is a technical name for these...) and I got a look at my full physique in the giant mirrors that surround the gym where we work out. The woman I saw was chiseled. She wasn't overly bulky or hulky. She had definition in places she didn't realize she could have it. She was something of a specimen.
But, she wasn't a waif. She was slim but not slight. She had substantial triceps and the beginnings of a six pack. Her quadriceps were full and cut inward vertically down her upper thigh, and her calves were large but smooth. She did not look like a fashion model. She did not look like a Hollywood actress.
She did not look like a ballerina.
The woman standing in that gym looked like a warrior. It was in that moment, with me staring at her and her staring at me, that I realized how backward my concept of beauty had always been. For so many years, I had been trying to alter the woman on the outside to make the woman on the inside feel better about herself. To yield something that fit into my vision of loveliness. I was trying to bolster my insides with the help of my outer appearance.
But, in that gym, nearly naked, standing in front of those giant mirrors, it all clicked. In my life pursuits, I have always been strong, aggressive and poised. I fight the good fight. I stand up for the underdog. I am professional and proud. I am disciplined. When I offer a kindness, it is backed by everything I have. I am extreme, some times stubborn and a good leader.
I was never meant to be slight. My outside would not have been consistent with my inside. That mirror revealed a woman who was more herself than she had ever been - an outward expression of an inner power. I am becoming the best Me possible. And, now I can't imagine why I ever tried to do any different. My true self had to reveal itself to me before I could finally see that my body is its perfect counterpart.
I don't just look like the warrior. I am the warrior.
Growing up, I was a dancer. I took lessons from 4 years-old until I was out of high school. (I even took a tap class just for fun in college!) I was on the high school pom squad (we called it "drill team" in Texas) and I performed at a variety of high profile festivals and competitions. I was an all-star, of sorts. I participated in every genre available...tap, jazz, ballet, modern, that Olympic inspired style with the balls, hoops and ribbons...you name it, I did it. Imagine my surprise when, at 16 years old, my dance teacher pulled me aside after a particularily difficult class and said, "Holley, you may want to think about giving up ballet. I know you try, but you just don't have the body type for it."
I responded the same way I always do when an authority figure is delivering bad news. I nodded and agreed. Of course, I was in no way equipped for a future in ballet. She was most certainly right - yes ma'am. Thank you, ma'am.
But, then I sat with it a while...again, like I always do...and the wound she had inflicted, that I had welcomed, began to fester. I stood in front of my full length mirror that night and examined myself. What was wrong with me that I wouldn't make a good ballet dancer? I was strong. I wasn't very flexible, but my dad was working with me on that - monitoring my nightly stretch routines. I wasn't overly tall - I was only about 5'5 at the time. (I have since grown a couple of inches) I couldn't figure out what she meant unless she was saying that I was overweight. Needless to say, I was crushed, but I tried to collect myself and move past it.
I never took another ballet class.
Shortly thereafter, my boyfriend of just over a year broke up with me. I saw it coming. Honestly, I was kind of relieved, but I quickly realized that the identity I had built in high school was lost when I lost him. I wasn't "Holley" in my own right - I was his girlfriend. That's how people knew me. That's the monicker I had embraced. And, suddenly, at 16 years old, I had no idea who I was.
I dipped into depression and the loss of appetite that accompanied it bore substantial weight loss. 14 pounds in just over two weeks. I had no energy. I was irritable. I hated myself and everyone around me. One day at lunch, one of my high school's "mean girls" chose my lunch table for some unknown reason. Upon placing her tray on the table, she covered her mouth with a shocked expression on her face and stared at me.
"Holley! You've lost so much weight! You look fantastic!"
At first, I took her comment as a compliment. I looked at the way the waistline of my jeans gaped and put my tupperware of carrots that I had been considering back in my lunchbox. (Yes. At 16, I still carried a lunch box. My mom made me healthy lunches every day. I had made a habit of returning them home, uneaten, and placing the contents back in their places in the refrigerator or pantry. I thought she didn't notice. She did.)
That unkind girl's comment took my loss of appetite and turned it into a weight loss obsession. I was trying desperately not to eat, but my family meals caused a problem. I was horrified at the thought of putting anything more substantial than jelly beans in my mouth, and I was being forced to consume pizza and stew. (two of my favorites) But, I didn't want to upset my family, so I would eat.
After about two weeks of grinning and bearing enchiladas, chili and my mom's famous "invention cookies", I came up with a solution. The first time I made myself throw up was terrifying. I sat on my knees in front of the toilet for an hour or so before I mustered the gumption to shove my finger down my throat. It was terrible and exhilerating at the same time. My eyes got all squinty, my nose ran profusely, and my skin turned all splotchy. I looked a mess, but I was quite sure it would all be worth it. No pain, no gain, right? I threw up nearly everyday from then on out until I went to college.
When I got to college, it was two or three times a day.
My dad had caught me in the act once just before I left for college, and with tears in his eyes, begged me to stop and forbid me to leave for OU if I continued the behavior. I promised him I would stop. When my suite mate and now best friend caught me in the act our freshman year in our shared dorm bathroom, she drug my to counseling at our campus clinic. I sat through one session because it was free and no charge would show up on the tuition bill that went to my parents, but I never went back.
I had a longterm boyfriend in college who broke up with me once because he didn't know how to deal with my "problem". My aunt recently revealed that she had become aware of my issue the summer I lived with her and my uncle during an internship. She thought I was doing it to look good for the same boyfriend who couldn't deal with my post-meal trips to the bathroom. It was impossible for me to explain to her the actual reason. So, I just said, "well, everyone in my sorority house was doing it."
The sorority, by the way, did not help matters one bit. Eighty-six desperately body conscious women all living in one house was a nightmare scenario for a girl in my position. Their insecurities became my insecurities, and all my neuroses escalated to dangerous heights. In an effort to keep my habit a secret, I would throw up in the downstairs bathroom behind the snack bar that was supposed to be for male visitors. When it was discovered that someone was throwing up in that bathroom, the door was locked during non-function hours, so I started throwing up in the shower. When I became too scared that someone was going to notice, I started taking laxatives.
The problem became slightly less pervasive when I moved into a three bedroom apartment with the aforementioned suitemate and one of her high school friends, but it didn't stop all together. I also had my own bathroom, so I could do what I needed to do whenever I felt the urge without anyone finding out. I found that when I was away from the constant influx of free food that seemed to make its way into the sorority house, a little of the pressure released, and I could go back to simply not eating. It is worth mentioning that my habit had caused my hair to become brittle, my fingernails to peel and my hands to smell a little weird. It is also worth mentioning that it was not acheiving the desired weight-loss I thought it would. Bulemia doesn't do that in most cases. Because lifestyle bulemics are at the mercy of their schedules as to when they can purge, most of the calories associated with food have time to make their way into the system. Digestion is a process, but when one is very young and has a high metabolism, it doesn't really take all that long.
After college, I continued to struggle. I had my own apartment and a rigirous schedule at my first television station which yielded virtually no time for eating. After moving to Florida, I began attempting to eat healthfully as often as possible, but I found that I was actually drinking most of my calories. (Even good girls have to rebel at some point!) I even mustered up the courage to tell my then boyfriend, now husband, about my habit because I had finally arrived at the realization that it wasn't a very healthy thing to be doing. He wasn't happy with the information, but he didn't run away like the last boyfriend had, so I at least felt like I had an ally.
After we got married, vomiting gave way to yo-yo dieting and frequent bouts of starvation. My husband was diligent about making sure I wasn't throwing up after meals, but he was less inclined to pay attention when I declared myself "far too busy to eat!" We moved from a small Florida town to a more metropolitan area, and I started a new job where people frequently took lunches together. They called them "lunch buses", and I always participated, though lunch for me was usually two bites of whatever I ordered and a whole lot of coffee or diet coke. I even got a gym membership despite the fact that we had one at our apartment complex, just so I could go there at lunch and avoid eating out where people might be watching.
It was a doctor's appointment for a sinus infection that set in motion the catharsis that would come some seven years later. The doctor listened to my chest a few times before asking, "has anyone ever diagnosed you with a heart murmur?" I responded that they hadn't, and she ordered a cardiac ultrasound. The technician couldn't pinpoint any particular problems, so I believed the diagnosis to be a fluke. However, when my OBGYN asked the same question during my annual visit, I became a little concerned. I told her about the ultrasound and my family doctor's diagnosis, and she told me that heart damage can some times go totally undetected unless one were to be opened up for surgery of some kind. She also mentioned that one of the primary causes of heart damage is malnutrition. She also wrote me a prescription that day for my unusually intense acid reflux.
Fast forward seven years. Seven years of some times eating, some times starving. Seven years of working out obsessively. Of training for long distance races on less than substantial nourishment. Seven years of living off of caffeine, popping insane doses of fiber and occassionally revisiting my old enemy in the bathroom. (I popped a blood vessel in my eye during one of my more recent visits. I told everyone I had done so via a violent sneeze.)
If you have read my limited posts on this blog, then you know that I visited a psychic at the beginning of the year. After spending only twenty minutes with her, I knew I had a resolution to make. It was time to become my best self....but within the parameters that genetics and the universe had set out for me. I wasn't totally sure what that meant at the time, but I was confident that a solution would reveal itself. I had also just attempted to engage in a "cleanse" that was more about weight loss than it was about spiritual awakening, which is what I told my friends. (In fact, I chronicled it in a blog here - if you read it, you'll see how very clearly I was still in the dark.)
A couple of months ago, I enrolled in a "Boot Camp" for charity. I began rising at 5 a.m. to engage in intense cardio and weight-lifting, once again, endeavoring to drop a few pounds and see myself looking tiny and svelt like my mind always believed I could. About two weeks in, I had an appointment with my doctor which necessitated a visit with a scale - an unpleasant one. I had gained weight. Two or three pounds. I was mortified. I almost didn't get up to go to boot camp the next morning, but something told me I should do it anyway. I was lifting weights. I was bulking up. I was becoming a hulk-woman. I was sure people probably looked at me and saw Popeye. But, I got up with my alarm anyway.
I told my trainer about my experience, and he told me not to lose heart - that women who don't lift weights often see a little bump in weight as their muscles are building. After all, muscle weighs more than fat. He took my body fat calculation, and it was actually pretty good. However, we made a plan to lower it which included eating more protein and fewer carbs. But, his main piece of advice was to make sure I was eating enough. This was a foreign concept for me. I even tracked my meals and snacks on a website, and we went over the results together. I cut back in certain areas and amped up others. I was diligent, and I ate. I ate plenty.
This morning, we took my weight and body fat percentage again. I am down about four pounds and 1.5 body fat percentage points. I had to take my shirt off and do the body fat test in my sports bra and work out shorts in order for my trainer to properly use the little measurement pinchers (there is a technical name for these...) and I got a look at my full physique in the giant mirrors that surround the gym where we work out. The woman I saw was chiseled. She wasn't overly bulky or hulky. She had definition in places she didn't realize she could have it. She was something of a specimen.
But, she wasn't a waif. She was slim but not slight. She had substantial triceps and the beginnings of a six pack. Her quadriceps were full and cut inward vertically down her upper thigh, and her calves were large but smooth. She did not look like a fashion model. She did not look like a Hollywood actress.
She did not look like a ballerina.
The woman standing in that gym looked like a warrior. It was in that moment, with me staring at her and her staring at me, that I realized how backward my concept of beauty had always been. For so many years, I had been trying to alter the woman on the outside to make the woman on the inside feel better about herself. To yield something that fit into my vision of loveliness. I was trying to bolster my insides with the help of my outer appearance.
But, in that gym, nearly naked, standing in front of those giant mirrors, it all clicked. In my life pursuits, I have always been strong, aggressive and poised. I fight the good fight. I stand up for the underdog. I am professional and proud. I am disciplined. When I offer a kindness, it is backed by everything I have. I am extreme, some times stubborn and a good leader.
I was never meant to be slight. My outside would not have been consistent with my inside. That mirror revealed a woman who was more herself than she had ever been - an outward expression of an inner power. I am becoming the best Me possible. And, now I can't imagine why I ever tried to do any different. My true self had to reveal itself to me before I could finally see that my body is its perfect counterpart.
I don't just look like the warrior. I am the warrior.
Monday, January 23, 2012
The Cleanse
It's been quite some time since I ventured into the Hollisphere. I have asked myself on many occassions what is compelling me to keep my distance. On the one hand, I think I often doubt the relevance of my offerings - whether purging them from my mind and releasing them into cyberspace is in any way impactful or even appreciated. I've also considered whether laying bare my soul is actually worthwhile and/or beneficial in the grand scheme of things. I often find myself making silent apologies in my head - wishing I had held more tightly to the thoughts that escaped onto the page when I was at my most introspective or reckless.
But...despite all that, I find myself here again. And, from what I can deduce at the present moment, there is no more appropriate place for me to be. Thus, I bring you my account of my January cleanse which I intended to use as a jumpstart to a year of healthy living - a revival of my dedication to mastering my personal ultimate lifestyle. I welcome your judgments as to whether it was successful.
I considered inacting a cleanse for some time before actually diving in. 2011 was a difficult year for many reasons, and I thought that perhaps a cleanse would act as a fitting symbol for the sort of purge I was trying to accomplish - emotional...spiritual...physical. And, as I so very often do, I turned to the easily accessible, often unproven resources of the internet for guidance. As the great Billy Joel once crooned, "I don't know why I go to extremes"...but I do. I almost always do, so for me there was absolutely no other option but "The Master Cleanse".
Now, for those of you who are unfamiliar with "The Master" as we'll call it, this particular cleanse involves an intense saltwater flush combined with a regiment of ingesting only liquid calories by way of a "lemonade" concocted of fresh lemon juice, real maple syrup and cayenne pepper. It sounds disgusting, but it is actually delicious albeit very high in sugar which I really didn't understand seeing as how I thought I was trying to avoid sugar..... Anyway, adhering to "The Master" meant performing the saltwater flush and drinking nigh unto 6-8 cups of the lemonade daily. There is also an "easing-in" period of consuming only living foods followed by only juices for about three days. Because I tend to believe myself to be invincible, I skipped that. The phrase "ease-in" does not exist in my vocabulary. The Piano Man and I have more than a few things in common....
Frightened of the explosive nature of the saltwater flush and keenly aware of my public persona, I chose to exercise a less aggressive elimination stimulant. They make a tea which can be used for this purpose which is actually quite pleasant. You can find it at any drugstore. The name makes my giggle, so I won't share it here, but you'll know it when you see it. (Not that I am recommending this cleanse....keep reading) Day 1 passed without incident, and because I am sometimes overly self-motivated, I was actually excited about the fact that I was not eating. Day 2 was pretty much the same. And, because I am every bit as competitive as I am dedicated, I decided to decrease my daily servings of "lemonade" to roughly 3 or 4 - about half of the recommended "dose". Every hunger pain or stomach growl issued a pat on the back from my conscious mind, but somewhere way back in the recesses of my being, there was a disturbance.
By Day 3, I was starting to falter. I went for a massage at my favorite spa, and upon revealing my intentions to my masseuse, found my massage being down-graded to a less toxin expelling version. Basically, she was forced to simply pet me for an hour. And, I was freezing! I was cold all the time - not just during my massage. I was having flu-like chills on the regular...I have never worn so many layers of clothing at one time in my life - not even on ski trips. I was beginning to think perhaps my plan was not such a good one, so I decided that on Day 4, I would allow myself a fist-sized portion of vegetables to try and defend myself against the effects of my choice.
When I awoke on Day 4, I was still freezing and felt strangely agitated. It was a Friday, so I was thankful that I would be able to spend a little time resting after the work day. I also began to notice a strange smell emanating from my skin. It was reminiscent of freshly cut grass mixed with some kind of citrus fruit, enhanced by a hint of copper. It was unnerving. Despite my extra long shower and brushing my teeth a record four times that day, I could not shake the smell. It was the new smell of "me", and I was going to have to either live with it or call it quits on the cleanse. I chose the former, but I did do a little research on the oh-so-reliable internet and found that my body had gone into ketosis, and while the smell was all-encompassing for me, other folks were probably not noticing it. I decided to stick to my plan for minimal vegetable consumption hoping that perhaps that would help to eliminate if not at least minimalize the odor, as it was not particularily pleasant.
That Friday evening, I ventured out to one of my favorite dining establishments called "Taco Bus" where I knew I would be able to order a simple dish of roasted butternut squash with avocado on top. I spent a good half hour savoring my tiny portion, conversing with friends and shivering. About 45 minutes into our visit, one of my friends began talking about a stone she had purchased at a New Age store across the street. She said that the shopkeeper had delivered a blessing onto the stone, and while we could all look at it, we were not allowed to touch it. She spoke about asking the stone to deliver its powers into her life. I found the idea intriguing. Another of my friends glanced across at the little shop and noted that there were psychic readings offered inside. She made mention of this fact, to which I responded that psychic readings were often rather expensive and typically vague. (I would have no real knowledge of this considering that I had never had one, but I read it on the internet, so it must be true.) There was a phone number on the window, so my friend pulled out her phone and called to see how much a reading would cost. It was surprisingly inexpensive. She made mention of this to the group, and everyone nodded.
Quite suddenly, I did something extremely out of character which surprised me AND my cohorts. I stood up and walked across the street. I'm not sure why I did it - I just did. It seemed to be the right thing to do, and I had an immediate inclination that constantly second-guessing my intuition was one of the many characteristics I needed to release. I carried myself across the street with gusto, then found myself entering the shop rather tentatively...suddenly afraid of the choice I had made.
I was greeted cheerfully by a kind gentlmen only a few years my senior named Chris. He asked if he could help me, and I told him that I wanted to inquire about a psychic reading.
"Nita is incredible," he told me. "She's with another guest just now, but she'll be done in just a few minutes if you'd like to wait."
I decided to do so. In an effort to make small talk, I asked Chris if he had been the one to bless my friend's stone. He smiled warmly and chuckled.
"That was me. There are good things coming your friend's way," he said. And, quite unexpectedly, I unquestioningly believed him.
Chris and I continued to chat, and he asked me what I do to help curb stress. I told him that I do yoga, but that I somehow find myself in a much more meditative space when I am running. He nodded, and asked me to look over my shoulder.
"Does the sculpture to your left resonate with you?" he asked.
I looked to my left, and there was an ornate statue of an indian chief with one arm extended up to the heavens and the other held down to his side - almost ironically positioned in a yogic "warrior" pose. I was suddenly choked up. My cultural heritage is heavily centered among the Cherokee, but by looking at me, you might not know it. I have a year-round tan but no other real specific native American physical traits. A million thoughts passed through my mind in response to Chris' inquiry, but my reply was simply, "yes".
He nodded, knowingly, but not condescendingly.
"I'd like to play something for you," he said, and bent over his computer. He summoned a YouTube channel where a young man sat stocially pounding out a simple but powerful rhythm on a single drum. I felt my breath catch in my chest as I listened. Standing there in the middle of that shop, my mind began to narrow to a singular focus. There was nothing but the sound of the drum. The rest of the world was silent. The other customer who was still behind me perusing a wall of books had ceased to exist. In an effort not to sound too dramatic, the moment was somewhat existential.
Chris pushed pause on the computer, and I shook my head some to relocate my connection with my body. I was standing in a New Age shop in downtown St. Pete waiting to receive a psychic reading. Even my reality seemed too surreal, so I decided to give in to it. Perhaps Chris sensed this. Chris seemed to sense quite a lot.
He proceeded to tell me a story about an encounter he had had with a deeply spiritual woman a year or so earlier. In an effort to convey a story to her on the sidewalk outside his shop, he recounted diminishing and even "dumbing down" his rhetoric to protect himself from judgement by the woman. As he was speaking, the woman stopped him mid-sentence and said, "Chris. Stopping taking the Eagle out of your words." Trying to simplify the story for the woman had removed Chris' full honesty and passion for the words he was expressing, and the woman recognized it.
"And, you don't have to be a spiritualist to notice that," he told me. I nodded. I knew exactly what he was saying. If we all think back on conversations we've had with friends, colleagues, family members and even strangers...there is an innate human ability to know when the full spirit of a story or piece of dialogue is missing.
Chris looked at me warmly but with genuine concern.
"You're a healer, Holley. It's your gift. But, you won't be able to do your job if you take away the Eagle."
I was speechless, but the moment allowed for my retreat into dumb silence because Nita walked out from her office with her previous client, and Chris' attention shifted. I waited, still mute, while Nita grounded herself and purged her space of the last visitor's energy. Even after my strange but enlightening encounter with Chris, I was still a little nervous about spending time with Nita. She seemed normal enough - diminutive and brunette, she wasn't wearing a turban or carrying a crystal ball. She wasn't draped in scarves or painted with henna. She looked like any other St. Pete gal who might work at a coffee shop or as a graphic designer at an artsy ad agency. She seemed...cool.
I entered Nita's little office and sat opposite her in a wooden chair with a small table between us. The table was adorned with a series of decks of cards all stacked off to the side. The middle of the table was empty and covered with a velvet cloth. Nita instructed me to place my palms on hers, and she closed her eyes and breathed. She told me that I was getting a new car with a circular emblem like a BMW, but not...she didn't reconize it because she was not familiar with the logo. I received my long awaited Fiat that week. There was no way she could have known that. She proceeded to tell me other small details about my life...and then greater ones...all information I choose still to protect because it belongs to me and me only. She never instructed - she only provided insight. She new I had come to her in confusion with need of guidance, and in a weakened physical state, but she refused to offer counsel...only insight.
About ten minutes into our encounter, she asked me, "Why am I being so drawn to the area of your stomach? There is so much confusion there."
I told her I was in the midst of a cleanse. She nodded. Then...
"But, that's not the type of cleanse you need...."
Pause.
"But, you already know that."
My eyes misted over and I nodded. She told me that I spend too much time churning over information, perceptions, ideas, experiences...creating a horrible blockage in my mind and spirit. What I needed to purge was not in my digestive system. It was in my heart.
All I could do was nod.
We chatted some after that about more specific areas where I had questions, and then our time was up. I left the little office with Nita following behind me, and my friends told me I was as white as a sheet. Before the reading, I had promised myself that I would not take it at face value - that I would mull it over some before I made any conclusions about what I had experienced. But, then I realized that mulling things over was exactly what I had just been warned against. And, so I let that inclination pass and thanked my angels for allowing me a moment of clarity with a kind woman who could have just as easily been a very perceptive barista.
The next day, I gave up "The Master" which I admitted to myself had basically been a fast. I allowed myself to recognize my true motivations for the physical torture I had undertaken then promptly forgave myself and resolved to stop judging my actions and decisions at every turn. Besides, while my destructive cleanse might have been just that...in the end, it yielded a series of events and encounters that brought me to the true cleanse I needed...and still need...to pursue. Life is so often that way. What looks like a mistake one day, often brings about transformation days or weeks or months later. There is an ebb and flow to this existence, and we are very simple beings trying to navigate a very expansive experience.
Such was my run-in with "The Master" - much different that Beyonce's was, I am quite sure. Now that you've ingested my story, without the removal of the Eagle - I can assure you-...touch it...breathe with it....and let it pass along, as Nita would say. I refuse to be a contributor to YOUR personal spiritual blockage.
And, because you may have been wondering....I no longer smell weird. So, that's good.
But...despite all that, I find myself here again. And, from what I can deduce at the present moment, there is no more appropriate place for me to be. Thus, I bring you my account of my January cleanse which I intended to use as a jumpstart to a year of healthy living - a revival of my dedication to mastering my personal ultimate lifestyle. I welcome your judgments as to whether it was successful.
I considered inacting a cleanse for some time before actually diving in. 2011 was a difficult year for many reasons, and I thought that perhaps a cleanse would act as a fitting symbol for the sort of purge I was trying to accomplish - emotional...spiritual...physical. And, as I so very often do, I turned to the easily accessible, often unproven resources of the internet for guidance. As the great Billy Joel once crooned, "I don't know why I go to extremes"...but I do. I almost always do, so for me there was absolutely no other option but "The Master Cleanse".
Now, for those of you who are unfamiliar with "The Master" as we'll call it, this particular cleanse involves an intense saltwater flush combined with a regiment of ingesting only liquid calories by way of a "lemonade" concocted of fresh lemon juice, real maple syrup and cayenne pepper. It sounds disgusting, but it is actually delicious albeit very high in sugar which I really didn't understand seeing as how I thought I was trying to avoid sugar..... Anyway, adhering to "The Master" meant performing the saltwater flush and drinking nigh unto 6-8 cups of the lemonade daily. There is also an "easing-in" period of consuming only living foods followed by only juices for about three days. Because I tend to believe myself to be invincible, I skipped that. The phrase "ease-in" does not exist in my vocabulary. The Piano Man and I have more than a few things in common....
Frightened of the explosive nature of the saltwater flush and keenly aware of my public persona, I chose to exercise a less aggressive elimination stimulant. They make a tea which can be used for this purpose which is actually quite pleasant. You can find it at any drugstore. The name makes my giggle, so I won't share it here, but you'll know it when you see it. (Not that I am recommending this cleanse....keep reading) Day 1 passed without incident, and because I am sometimes overly self-motivated, I was actually excited about the fact that I was not eating. Day 2 was pretty much the same. And, because I am every bit as competitive as I am dedicated, I decided to decrease my daily servings of "lemonade" to roughly 3 or 4 - about half of the recommended "dose". Every hunger pain or stomach growl issued a pat on the back from my conscious mind, but somewhere way back in the recesses of my being, there was a disturbance.
By Day 3, I was starting to falter. I went for a massage at my favorite spa, and upon revealing my intentions to my masseuse, found my massage being down-graded to a less toxin expelling version. Basically, she was forced to simply pet me for an hour. And, I was freezing! I was cold all the time - not just during my massage. I was having flu-like chills on the regular...I have never worn so many layers of clothing at one time in my life - not even on ski trips. I was beginning to think perhaps my plan was not such a good one, so I decided that on Day 4, I would allow myself a fist-sized portion of vegetables to try and defend myself against the effects of my choice.
When I awoke on Day 4, I was still freezing and felt strangely agitated. It was a Friday, so I was thankful that I would be able to spend a little time resting after the work day. I also began to notice a strange smell emanating from my skin. It was reminiscent of freshly cut grass mixed with some kind of citrus fruit, enhanced by a hint of copper. It was unnerving. Despite my extra long shower and brushing my teeth a record four times that day, I could not shake the smell. It was the new smell of "me", and I was going to have to either live with it or call it quits on the cleanse. I chose the former, but I did do a little research on the oh-so-reliable internet and found that my body had gone into ketosis, and while the smell was all-encompassing for me, other folks were probably not noticing it. I decided to stick to my plan for minimal vegetable consumption hoping that perhaps that would help to eliminate if not at least minimalize the odor, as it was not particularily pleasant.
That Friday evening, I ventured out to one of my favorite dining establishments called "Taco Bus" where I knew I would be able to order a simple dish of roasted butternut squash with avocado on top. I spent a good half hour savoring my tiny portion, conversing with friends and shivering. About 45 minutes into our visit, one of my friends began talking about a stone she had purchased at a New Age store across the street. She said that the shopkeeper had delivered a blessing onto the stone, and while we could all look at it, we were not allowed to touch it. She spoke about asking the stone to deliver its powers into her life. I found the idea intriguing. Another of my friends glanced across at the little shop and noted that there were psychic readings offered inside. She made mention of this fact, to which I responded that psychic readings were often rather expensive and typically vague. (I would have no real knowledge of this considering that I had never had one, but I read it on the internet, so it must be true.) There was a phone number on the window, so my friend pulled out her phone and called to see how much a reading would cost. It was surprisingly inexpensive. She made mention of this to the group, and everyone nodded.
Quite suddenly, I did something extremely out of character which surprised me AND my cohorts. I stood up and walked across the street. I'm not sure why I did it - I just did. It seemed to be the right thing to do, and I had an immediate inclination that constantly second-guessing my intuition was one of the many characteristics I needed to release. I carried myself across the street with gusto, then found myself entering the shop rather tentatively...suddenly afraid of the choice I had made.
I was greeted cheerfully by a kind gentlmen only a few years my senior named Chris. He asked if he could help me, and I told him that I wanted to inquire about a psychic reading.
"Nita is incredible," he told me. "She's with another guest just now, but she'll be done in just a few minutes if you'd like to wait."
I decided to do so. In an effort to make small talk, I asked Chris if he had been the one to bless my friend's stone. He smiled warmly and chuckled.
"That was me. There are good things coming your friend's way," he said. And, quite unexpectedly, I unquestioningly believed him.
Chris and I continued to chat, and he asked me what I do to help curb stress. I told him that I do yoga, but that I somehow find myself in a much more meditative space when I am running. He nodded, and asked me to look over my shoulder.
"Does the sculpture to your left resonate with you?" he asked.
I looked to my left, and there was an ornate statue of an indian chief with one arm extended up to the heavens and the other held down to his side - almost ironically positioned in a yogic "warrior" pose. I was suddenly choked up. My cultural heritage is heavily centered among the Cherokee, but by looking at me, you might not know it. I have a year-round tan but no other real specific native American physical traits. A million thoughts passed through my mind in response to Chris' inquiry, but my reply was simply, "yes".
He nodded, knowingly, but not condescendingly.
"I'd like to play something for you," he said, and bent over his computer. He summoned a YouTube channel where a young man sat stocially pounding out a simple but powerful rhythm on a single drum. I felt my breath catch in my chest as I listened. Standing there in the middle of that shop, my mind began to narrow to a singular focus. There was nothing but the sound of the drum. The rest of the world was silent. The other customer who was still behind me perusing a wall of books had ceased to exist. In an effort not to sound too dramatic, the moment was somewhat existential.
Chris pushed pause on the computer, and I shook my head some to relocate my connection with my body. I was standing in a New Age shop in downtown St. Pete waiting to receive a psychic reading. Even my reality seemed too surreal, so I decided to give in to it. Perhaps Chris sensed this. Chris seemed to sense quite a lot.
He proceeded to tell me a story about an encounter he had had with a deeply spiritual woman a year or so earlier. In an effort to convey a story to her on the sidewalk outside his shop, he recounted diminishing and even "dumbing down" his rhetoric to protect himself from judgement by the woman. As he was speaking, the woman stopped him mid-sentence and said, "Chris. Stopping taking the Eagle out of your words." Trying to simplify the story for the woman had removed Chris' full honesty and passion for the words he was expressing, and the woman recognized it.
"And, you don't have to be a spiritualist to notice that," he told me. I nodded. I knew exactly what he was saying. If we all think back on conversations we've had with friends, colleagues, family members and even strangers...there is an innate human ability to know when the full spirit of a story or piece of dialogue is missing.
Chris looked at me warmly but with genuine concern.
"You're a healer, Holley. It's your gift. But, you won't be able to do your job if you take away the Eagle."
I was speechless, but the moment allowed for my retreat into dumb silence because Nita walked out from her office with her previous client, and Chris' attention shifted. I waited, still mute, while Nita grounded herself and purged her space of the last visitor's energy. Even after my strange but enlightening encounter with Chris, I was still a little nervous about spending time with Nita. She seemed normal enough - diminutive and brunette, she wasn't wearing a turban or carrying a crystal ball. She wasn't draped in scarves or painted with henna. She looked like any other St. Pete gal who might work at a coffee shop or as a graphic designer at an artsy ad agency. She seemed...cool.
I entered Nita's little office and sat opposite her in a wooden chair with a small table between us. The table was adorned with a series of decks of cards all stacked off to the side. The middle of the table was empty and covered with a velvet cloth. Nita instructed me to place my palms on hers, and she closed her eyes and breathed. She told me that I was getting a new car with a circular emblem like a BMW, but not...she didn't reconize it because she was not familiar with the logo. I received my long awaited Fiat that week. There was no way she could have known that. She proceeded to tell me other small details about my life...and then greater ones...all information I choose still to protect because it belongs to me and me only. She never instructed - she only provided insight. She new I had come to her in confusion with need of guidance, and in a weakened physical state, but she refused to offer counsel...only insight.
About ten minutes into our encounter, she asked me, "Why am I being so drawn to the area of your stomach? There is so much confusion there."
I told her I was in the midst of a cleanse. She nodded. Then...
"But, that's not the type of cleanse you need...."
Pause.
"But, you already know that."
My eyes misted over and I nodded. She told me that I spend too much time churning over information, perceptions, ideas, experiences...creating a horrible blockage in my mind and spirit. What I needed to purge was not in my digestive system. It was in my heart.
All I could do was nod.
We chatted some after that about more specific areas where I had questions, and then our time was up. I left the little office with Nita following behind me, and my friends told me I was as white as a sheet. Before the reading, I had promised myself that I would not take it at face value - that I would mull it over some before I made any conclusions about what I had experienced. But, then I realized that mulling things over was exactly what I had just been warned against. And, so I let that inclination pass and thanked my angels for allowing me a moment of clarity with a kind woman who could have just as easily been a very perceptive barista.
The next day, I gave up "The Master" which I admitted to myself had basically been a fast. I allowed myself to recognize my true motivations for the physical torture I had undertaken then promptly forgave myself and resolved to stop judging my actions and decisions at every turn. Besides, while my destructive cleanse might have been just that...in the end, it yielded a series of events and encounters that brought me to the true cleanse I needed...and still need...to pursue. Life is so often that way. What looks like a mistake one day, often brings about transformation days or weeks or months later. There is an ebb and flow to this existence, and we are very simple beings trying to navigate a very expansive experience.
Such was my run-in with "The Master" - much different that Beyonce's was, I am quite sure. Now that you've ingested my story, without the removal of the Eagle - I can assure you-...touch it...breathe with it....and let it pass along, as Nita would say. I refuse to be a contributor to YOUR personal spiritual blockage.
And, because you may have been wondering....I no longer smell weird. So, that's good.
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