Leaner

A few years ago in a moment of suffocation I asked God to help me have a leaner life. Just writing the word "lean" makes me think of those frozen dinners in the grocery store, the ones that promise weight loss. And that's not what I was going after.


I think I meant a life observed and gratefully accepted.


And then my prayer was answered and I was miserable. But happy. You'll see:


Earlier this year after a series of stressful circumstances which I was pretending weren't stressful, my body and soul formed a pact and refused to digest anything. One hundred percent of everything I ate went right through me. I spent two months just eating and eating, not gaining weight, not losing weight. Always ravenous. Desperate. Searching online for answers (well, duh) and having multiple doctor visits which offered mostly prescription medications, but nothing which reached the root of things.


I went on a weekend spiritual retreat to cry and pray and watch movies and eat and I became sicker than ever. I left early and managed to tell my husband that I very much needed help. I was willing to try a very, very strict diet which offered roughly fifteen pages of food I could and could not eat. There was more weeping, I assure you.


But desperation will make any coward find courage. I made the food with Dan. I bought the weird ingredients. And then I waited.


To my surprise, the diet was extremely effective. Probably because of science. And I began to heal. Which made me want to test the strictness of the diet and rendered me ill once again. So back to the beginning.


What I don't want to admit is that food is, first and foremost, fuel. Sometimes it is delightful and sometimes it's just not. But fuel is necessary to run cars and so also with humans.


And not to paint too cheery a tone on this whole adventure, but I am donning my apron a lot more these days and looking a little more like Betty Crocker. Except I don't make those weird savory gelatin salads or put mayonnaise in things like cocoa.


I guess what I'm saying is that I'm getting back to basics. I'm chopping vegetables and cutting out tons of sugar and making vats of food. I'm buying ingredients for which I used to snub my nose thinking that people were going "overboard" in their health choices, but now it's one of the only things I can eat.


I'm humbled, I'll tell you that. It's a little tricky when people invite me out for dinner because I question how much of my gastrointestinal tale they need to know. Or to put it more bluntly, "How much do I like this person?"


On the plus side, all the keto and paleo and organic people are probably right. Yes, you heard me. You're right. With your microscopic appreciation of food sources and fanny pack filled with homemade tree bark protein bars. Forgive the sarcasm font. I'm probably hungry again.


But on the plus side, I have lost weight which most women love to do. It was hard won, not intentional and not pretty. And honestly if I ever get to eat even coconut milk ice cream ever again, I will eat a pint at a time out of spite (and happiness) and probably gain it all back.


But for now, I am a leaner person (and hopefully by now you see that I'm not referring to physical appearance.) I'm more intentional with food, which makes me more grateful. I interact with making my food more because I don't have the luxury of just pouring a bowl of cereal. I eat even when I'm not hungry because I know that 37 minutes later when I'm driving the kids to some far away field trip, I will want to saw my arm off as a food source. That just won't do because I need my arms to drive.


I won't slam either side of the health fence, however, because in all honesty as I health nut I feel like a poser. When I watch my children scoop their vanilla bean ice cream, I can assure you that the sugar lust is real.

A Leaner Tale

A few years ago in a moment of suffocation I asked God to help me have a leaner life. Just writing the word "lean" makes me think of those frozen dinners in the grocery store, the ones that promise weight loss. And that's not what I was going after.

I think I meant a life observed and gratefully accepted.

But in a bizarre turn of events, my life became much leaner and more focused.

Earlier this year after a series of stressful circumstances which I was pretending weren't stressful, my body and soul formed a pact and refused to digest anything. One hundred percent of everything I ate went right through me. I spent two months just eating and eating, not gaining weight, not losing weight. Always ravenous. Desperate. Searching online for answers (well, duh) and having multiple doctor visits which offered mostly prescription medications, but nothing which reached the root of things.

I went on a weekend spiritual retreat to cry and pray and watch movies and eat and I became sicker than ever. I left early and managed to tell my husband that I very much needed help. I was willing to try a very, very strict diet which offered roughly fifteen pages of food I could and could not eat. There was more weeping, I assure you.

But desperation will make any coward find courage. I made the food with Dan. I bought the weird ingredients. And then I waited.

To my surprise, the diet was extremely effective. Probably because of science. And I began to heal. Which made me want to test the strictness of the diet and rendered me ill once again. So back to the beginning.

What I don't want to admit is that food is, first and foremost, fuel. Sometimes it is delightful and sometimes it's just not. But fuel is necessary to run cars and so also with humans.

And not to paint too cheery a tone on this whole adventure, but I am donning my apron a lot more these days and looking a little more like Betty Crocker. Except I don't make those weird savory gelatin salads or put mayonnaise in things like cocoa.

I guess what I'm saying is that I'm getting back to basics. I'm chopping vegetables and cutting out tons of sugar and making vats of food. I'm buying ingredients for which I used to snub my nose thinking that people were going "overboard" in their health choices, but now it's one of the only things I can eat.

I'm humbled, I'll tell you that. It's a little tricky when people invite me out for dinner because I question how much of my gastrointestinal tale they need to know. Or to put it more bluntly, "How much do I like this person?"

On the plus side, all the keto and paleo and organic people are probably right. Yes, you heard me. You're right. With your microscopic appreciation of food sources and fanny pack filled with homemade tree bark protein bars. Forgive the sarcasm font. I'm probably hungry again.

But on the plus side, I have lost weight which most women love to do. It was hard won, not intentional and not pretty. And honestly if I ever get to eat even coconut milk ice cream ever again, I will eat a pint at a time out of spite (and happiness) and probably gain it all back.

But for now, I am a leaner person (and hopefully by now you see that I'm not referring to physical appearance.) I'm more intentional with food, with makes me more grateful. I interact with making my food more because I don't have the luxury of just pouring a bowl of cereal. I eat even when I'm not hungry because I know that 37 minutes later when I'm driving the kids to some far away field trip, I will want to saw my arm off as a food source. That just won't do because I need my arms to drive.

I won't slam either side of the health fence, however, because in all honesty as I health nut I feel like a poser. When I watch my children scoop their vanilla bean ice cream, I can assure you that the sugar lust is real.

The Estate Sale

There is a lady who has pulled up to the house in an old Mercedes Benz, the kind that runs on diesel and sighs a little when the ignition is turned off. She makes halting steps to the front door, slightly stooping, and offers to preview the estate sale. I tell her that the sale is tomorrow and she tells me she might not come tomorrow and I might lose her sales. There is a glint in her eyes which turns to fire when I tell her I'm sorry, no, you must come tomorrow. 

The next morning a mass of people has congregated on the driveway forming a rough line, anxious to see what's inside. Presumably they have all found the large, bold signs my mother posted with arrows on the electric poles in the general vicinity of the house. I go out to greet the crowd and tell them the sale is about to begin. They ask pointed questions about things like books for sale and I answer them.

Inside the house are hundreds of decorations and housewares and pieces of furniture affixed with little price tags. Furniture which does not convey wears a bright little sign or Post-It note saying so. 

I have flown in to Maryland from Chicago to help with the sale.

My sister has flown in from Charlotte to help. She leaves four children at home in the care of others. This may even feel like a vacation to her.

My youngest brother has also journeyed north to assist. He is accompanied by his pit bull terrier, Taj. 

I have mentally prepared for long days and negotiations but not the spectrum of humanity I would encounter these two days of this sale.

The older lady with the Mercedes does, in fact, return and buys a glass bowl or plate. She places the item on the cash table and fingers her change purse, looking sad and offering a pitiable sum. Feeling feisty, I counter that I would accept her number if she could produce some sort of happiness. Maybe a smile. I'm not sure what came over me to ask another person to change her countenance, but I did and she did and in the end we both laugh. 

A middle-aged woman arrives with her son, only it wasn't her son it was her grandson. She is such a young grandmother. I tell her so and she smiles. The boy wants toy dinosaurs and we have so many. I almost force the prehistoric figures in their arms and watch with joy as they walk away.

One woman clearly confuses the boundaries of which rooms were for purchasers and begins to find the kitchen and eat our sandwiches.

I descend to the basement to help my sister and a man stops me. He takes my hand and thrusts some change in it. He is smiling brightly, charmingly and I am taken aback by his boldness. "I am buying this," he says, looking at the item, then me and then his family. I look into my hands and see a range of coins which, at first glance, definitely don't add up anywhere near to what this man is buying. I tell him I'm sorry and try to return his money, but he refuses and then I tell him no and return his money. He decides to not be charming anymore and says words. His family is hiding behind him. I don't have time to address "Mr. Ego" and return to organizing things which have been pawed through.

I walk to the back yard and see a woman who is unlike the other buyers. She is walking quietly and contemplating the things strewn in the yard. She is in no hurry. I say hello and she says hello and she tells me she has breast cancer. I have heard a lot of stories today; people like to tell sad stories in order to score great deals at the sale, but I can tell that this woman has no such motive. She is serene and intentional. I can't really remember much else of what she said because when someone says the word "cancer" my senses stop. I can't get over that word. The woman has the face of a warrior, kind but set, and buys something small before leaving.

I make my way to the front yard to help people load furniture when "Mr. Ego" reappears. He drives past our house in a pickup truck and yells numbers, then turns his vehicle around and yells more numbers, back and forth, multiple times. I have never seen this type of negotiation before. I don't think he even needs anything we are selling, I think that maybe this is a game to him, to get something for an abysmally small price. But this is the second day of the sale and I am tired and I simply stop interacting with him. Eventually he drives away for good.

I return to help at the cash box table and see people walking out with things I grew up with. Without any notice, the little girl who I have been trying to suppress inside me springs forth and begins weeping. My mother comes to me and tries to comfort me, but now her eyes are wells and we are both crying and holding each other for a minute, releasing the weight of the day. Some estate sales are happy but this one feels heavy. There will be a fresh start and our family will adjust. 

We are tired of gossip and advice and prying people. Though I live in Illinois people have called me from Maryland and in their fear said very unhelpful things.  One man liked to give me updates about my parents. Another person called and simply ranted. A well meaning older couple sent me books to give my parents on how to stay married, as if they had not considered that option. Others start to say things that at first sound gentle and maybe hopeful but end up soliciting information. The people who choose to speak to us, all of them, have never entered these waters but somehow believe they are fit to captain our ship. Being an adult offspring in this situation feels like standing onboard a sinking boat whose deck is aflame while others look on, eye us with curiosity and douse us with buckets of water. They think they are extinguishing the fire, but their actions only serve to sink our vessel more quickly. Finally, one bold soul suggested that if I don't keep my parents together, the same will fall upon my marriage, citing statistics. Hearing this, I push back. "You know what? No. No. This is their choice and I have my own choices. This has nothing to do with me."

Now my mother and I are finished crying. We wipe the wet off our faces and smile at each other and help the next purchaser.

Things are quieting down and I take a moment to survey the house. My mother tells me I can take whatever I want and my first thought is that I want all of it right now to come back to me but I know that can't be. There are three acrylic shoeboxes full with multiple colors of bias tape, every color you can imagine. They smell of old fabric but are not dryrotted. They are clearly the collection of someone who was frugal and careful, my great grandmother. Dear woman. I scoop up all three boxes and place them in a corner. No one will buy them, but the sentimental value is enough for me.

At the end of the sale we all go upstairs to sit on whatever furniture remains. We fall in a heap and laugh at how exhausted we are.

Later that evening I walk through the halls of my former house. It's so empty that it echoes. I see only a shell; the spirit is gone. I expect to cry, but I don't. Not one tear. I am grateful.

Magic + Ocean

I am standing in front of the Atlantic Ocean, mesmerized by the push and pull of the waves. How do all of the molecules of water know their place? They gather in groups and increase and increase still more until they erupt in a blanket of bubbles and murmurs, teasing the toes of people walking by. It's the same pattern every five seconds. Push and pull, gather and erupt, mound and level. 

While the ocean is happily dancing, there is a greater force at work which is causing the ocean to be fuller, to rise higher for hours and hours until it needs to deflate. What an odd force. It's such magic, those great waters.

I miss the ocean. I miss the sound of the waves. They deafen me to my troubles. 

When I was twenty years old and navigating some greater questions of direction in life, I went to the ocean and sat for hours in her presence, watching her tides pull. I let her strength wash away all the unnecessary in my mind until I was left with the essence of why I was there. I didn't leave until she made me a child again: small, innocent, playful, simple. 

I brought so many questions to the ocean. Why am I so sensitive? Why do I love this man? Why am I so awkward? Why do I overthink things? It was here at the ocean where I shed my girlhood and accepted my adult self. I didn't pray to the ocean. I just left my worries there. The ocean is great and simple, cleansing and terrible. I wasn't the same person after meeting it. 

Today I am in an ocean of laundry, with equally rhythmic tides. Mondays the tide is high with four or five loads of clothing and towels and little girl socks strewn on the living room floor. The washing machine whirs all morning long, pulsing with soap and life and dirt. 

The dishes are the same, mounting high in the sink, then increasing more exactly when my children are home from school. The counters are layered with schoolwork and sticky peanut butter. 

I don't despise the constant chores, but I can't say they soothe me or make me childlike. They require a certain amount of effort. 

A responsible person goes grocery shopping and chops vegetables and minds the tides of running a household. 

A person who wants to be made new spends time being small, unnecessary, plain. She heeds the vastness of the ocean.