Honoring the Season...A Muse-ments

Honoring the season…this is what rises for me as I lean into a bit of writing for me. So much has happened in the last four weeks that I struggle to slow down enough to listen to my life, become more deeply conscious of the gifts all around me. Paris was a bit of that amped-up-pace. Brian and I walked 8-10 miles a day, loving it, body fine, exploring and receiving the sights of the City of Light. I was so very blessed to have that extended time with him—a rarity in his life as a pastor—and it was shyly unfamiliar too. We traveled well together and enjoyed who we are becoming, each of us and both of us together. The week of return had three big ‘happenings’ which kept me at the amped-up pace, with great blessing received, in the end.

Deep breath. Pause. Another deep breath. Listening to Tony here at Wholly Grounds, sharing his voice with his friends, companions in the business of it all. Amy quietly making her coffee drinks for customers, smiling and gentle presence for all. I can feel my hunger rising, having forgotten to bring my breakfast snack for post-workout recovery. And my latte with unsweetened coconut milk is delightful, luscious. Not too sweet…

…which is quite different from the Manhattan moment of last night. Funny thing I’ve already shared with my CF family, but…I refused a drink I simply presumed was made poorly. Had the bartender make it twice, standing up for myself, what I desire. Only to realize that he had made it perfectly, normally, both times. My palette is the thing that was different this time. I don’t like Manhattans anymore, it seems! Too sweet. I insisted on paying for both, though I did not drink both. Costly ‘mistake’ which has amused me ever since.

Probably the biggest celebration for me came the night of the CrossFit holiday party, with our silly and serious Superlatives awards. Who is voted to take the most bathroom breaks? Who wins the warmup the most? Most progress? Most mischievous? It was fun suggesting categories for these, and it was fun to vote for various CF friends from across classes. I was not remotely prepared to win an award, however. I’ve never won an award, really, let alone an athletic one in my 50^th year. CrossFit Dedication Athlete of the Year? I was touched, stunned, embarrassed (because I’m me, unused to spotlight moments), and deeply grateful. My body journey has been so convoluted, complicated, shame-ridden, self-defeating at times…so to be seen by my CrossFit family in this way…? Speechless and thankful…more than I could ever say.

I’m learning to push through my inherited voices about meat too! At least once a week, I pan-sear and roast a rib-eye steak just for myself, with some eggs usually. It offers a high-protein, lower-carb day for myself, and I’m getting used to feeling worth the effort and special occasion that steak used to be for me. I like having ‘special occasion’ moments for my bodyself like this each week. Steadies something in me.

The reconnection circle with some Women Writing leadership sisters went well, undergirded by all kinds of anxiety, adrenalin, and even distrust in me. I wasn’t sure I would share any of my words with them. My very existence, doing what I am gifted to do, seems to trigger negative and shadow reactivities in two of the three of them. So I try to play small with them—an old pattern that I will begin to refuse gently in the months to come. Yet honoring my desire too, to stay connected, ‘in right relationship’ as we would say in that circle, while still growing, evolving, with what is rising in our own circle communities here. Opening to the More, the beckoning invitations of a restorative wisdom. Hmmm….

Lots of tiny seeds seem to be landing in soil for this next year, toward receiving stories I don’t know but as a privileged white woman probably need to hear. I’m hopeful the soil will be fertile and I will be willing, open, receptive… Part of why I like Wholly Grounds coffee shop is the leadership/business partnership seems to be between two blue-collar-looking white older men and two African-American women, one of whom I know (Amy) more than the other (who usually works afternoons, not mornings when I am here). I have felt nudges to invite stories of the start of the United DMin program, from weighty elders in the African-American streams of leadership there—mostly men, but some women too. I learned of a Civil Rights pilgrimage I could participate in, in August 2-7^th 2020, which feels more Led than the retreat practicum I have tentatively expressed interest in for those same dates… And I see a Quanita Roberson next Friday, to explore some possibilities of coaching work with her. African-American woman I learned of well over two years ago now, but a Circle-Way trainer in PeerSpirit lineage who also demonstrates experience and wisdom in shamanistic lineages, healing-work, reconciliation energies in the world… I love her laugh. I am drawn in by her energy and feel I could learn a lot with her, from her. Maybe even heal one of my most damning stories—that strong black women hate me and I can never win with them, even when I do my own work, at the pace that it comes to me.

So…time for breakfast, which is now lunch. A good and blessed season…I am more thankful than I could say.

A Two and a Six go to Paris…

The numbers refer to the Enneagram, of course, which would protest the typing ‘use’ of the numbers in such fashion. Each of us has all the numbers within us, after all. The ‘type’ we feel most at home in is the one most familiar, one most relied upon to create a safe and abiding ‘center’ in our nature-nurture environments of formation. Yet, the personalities or tendencies of each number can be so very illuminating. Not to mention de-personalizing of differences that could seem ‘personal’ or directed at just one of us. [For context then: a Two is called 'the caring and interpersonal type', generous, demonstrative, people-pleasing and possessive. A Six is called ' the committed, security-oriented type,' 'engaging, responsible, anxious and suspicious.'  I'm the Two, Brian's the Six...but if it's useful and easier to understand what is to come, the summaries at the end of this post are from the Enneagram Institute website; scroll down to get a sense of each type, Two and Six. Or click the live links in this paragraph...]

I thought it might be amusing to explore Brian's and my visit to Paris with what I’ve been noticing through these lenses. It’s made some of our differences or some of my experience less ‘reactive’ with unproductive thinking, which has been a blessing right there! So…as I said…a Two and a Six go to Paris…

Brian and I have been to Paris three times now. The visit always begins for him months before we actually arrive—a significant part of being a Six, making sure security of itinerary and details is set. Weeks, if not months, before our departure, he has already browsed Google-Earth and various Internet websites giving him an overview of our neighborhood, restaurants close-by, Metro-stops and lines, etc. This time, he read as many restaurant reviews as he could, deciding where he wanted to eat, weeks before we even arrived or felt any actual hunger.To me, this seems such a waste of time and energy. He's seen everything there is to see before he arrives. Why are we going again?

I’ve benefitted from this overwhelming amount of information, of course. The restaurants we go to when we travel have been well vetted by many travelers and sorted through Brian’s preferences. They are often excellent choices, with precisely what he thinks I or we would like. This can also mean we march on a schedule of pre-determined security, however, with no need to check in with how we feel or what might be of interest on that particular day. To ask the question can be a bother for him, actually, because of course it’s best to be in what he’s planned or expected. It can also mean there is really no need for any of my own preferences or participation in the moment to be there, to contribute, to be present. This can drive my Two self batty, of course. He’s relating to his schedule, to the secure plan, not to any part of me actually present with him. I can be present or not, inside, and it won’t matter to him much at all. Which is actually not true—he wants me to be more present with him—but not as much as he wants the predictability of our time in an unfamiliar location, even Paris.

This trip has included a bit more ‘me’ than previous ones, which made a significant impression on me, at least. Previous trips to Paris, we’ve visited museums and meandered in parts of the city, taking in the sights and all this information! He’s in heaven, a Six with a Five wing. He can gorge on information and spend all day happily sharing it with me. I reach my overflow in about one hour of this, unfortunately (for me). :) Myself, I’m content to meander along for that hour, but it’s not feeding much of my own preferences for engagement, relationship. I can easily get overwhelmed with all the history, simply shutting down and ‘going along for the ride’ until I can have some writing and breathing time on my own. Particularly long days can result in a bit of crankiness inside... not good for either of us.

Of course, it’s hard to come to such a distant-location and not feel compelled to take in all the history. Obligation rises quickly, which dampens my own sense of adventure and spontaneity. It's hard for me to argue for downtime, sitting in a chair, breathing, just being. I cannot land long enough to actually hear my own thoughts or do any substantial writing. All I can hear: Why be in Paris and not spend the hours meandering the streets, taking in the sights? I’d not seen how perfectly this kind of travel nourishes Brian, and how-why I often feel so disoriented, so disconnected inside. There’s very little personal-relational engagement for a Two’s sensibilities. This kind of travel does not align well with my own charisms, values...which is fine, but therefore disorienting!

This third visit, however, we wove in a couple things that mesh better with my  sensibilities--Brian's maven-like-research and clearer sense of what makes me tick as an interpersonal connector. Wednesday was a day for me to take a class from a master boulanger, not far from our hotel. Didier at Le Petit Mitron offered an introduction to puff-pastry, croissant, and baguette baking through a company called Meeting the French. I got to spend time learning from a Frenchman, through the translator Eloise, accompanied by three other Americans (eventually—their plane had been late…). It was personal, engaged, creative, informative, fun. I loved it, even though the cultural differences were quite stark. (Take a look at the boulangerie’s sign below, for heaven’s sake! Ugh.) Acknowledging my own distaste for that and the cultural divergences of tasteless male humor...the rest of it--the morning, creative endeavor, etc.--for a Two? This was what I’ve been missing in our Paris travels…personal, creative, relational…

Later that afternoon, we went on another errand to find a Parisian CrossFit ‘box,’ something that suited my relationships and sense of connection.  CrossFit Lutece (I&II...we were at II, I think). Vasily the coach on site, was friendly and accommodating of my hope for a t-shirt. At the time, I tentatively planned to return the next day, or that Saturday, to work out with those gathered. Personal, relational, connected to what I love from my life right now. (As it turns out, Saturday was the only truly sunny day we'd had all week. Brian and I enjoyed a 'return' to our first long day's meandering in the rain, this time in warmer, sunnier weather. I chose that time with him over working out with folks I'd probably never see again...a relational choice, which is just like me. :))

These two ‘additions’ to our usual Parisian meanders have taught me something important to remember, for myself. These are the kinds of things that make my life so full, so abundant, right now. I simply open up inside with creative explorations, with body-movement in community, things like that. Spending an entire week with my beloved Brian, a Six with a five wing, can be demanding, exhausting even. He doesn’t want to participate in much of what I would consider a relational-creative adventure…He's much happier being in all the history and being able to share information he knows/receives with me as a listening companion--which I am much of the time, but not all of the time. :) We’ve figured out the rhythms of this difference at home, and we’re figuring it out together when we travel. But the differences can feel stark to me…

...which gives me a much better sense of why I feel so disoriented and disconnected when we travel to Paris or places full of history he can always learn more in, like Paris. I love this man and what we need when we play is so very different. I feel like we created a more balanced time together, with things nurturing and engaging for me along the way(s). 

It's a far cry from attending a conference together--something I'd love to do with him, I think, surrounded by interesting people with whom we could deepen our own spiritual awarenesses/practices--or taking a hermitage vacation at a cabin in the woods for 5 days together. Those are things I'd love to relax into with him, were he able to relax into it with me. His command of information in those settings is not required, however, nor is there the hours-long flirtations with history and urban/cultural impulses all around. 

All the same...Never say never, right?

Notes:

[1]  Twos are empathetic, sincere, and warm-hearted. They are friendly, generous, and self-sacrificing, but can also be sentimental, flattering, and people-pleasing. They are well-meaning and driven to be close to others, but can slip into doing things for others in order to be needed. They typically have problems with possessiveness and with acknowledging their own needs. At their Best: unselfish and altruistic, they have unconditional love for others.

• Basic Fear: Of being unwanted, unworthy of being loved
• Basic Desire: To feel loved
• Enneagram Two with a One-Wing: "Servant"
• Enneagram Two with a Three-Wing: "The Host/Hostess"

[2]  Sixes are reliable, hard-working, responsible, and trustworthy. Excellent "troubleshooters," they foresee problems and foster cooperation, but can also become defensive, evasive, and anxious—running on stress while complaining about it. They can be cautious and indecisive, but also reactive, defiant and rebellious. They typically have problems with self-doubt and suspicion. At their Best: internally stable and self-reliant, courageously championing themselves and others.

• Basic Fear: Of being without support and guidance
• Basic Desire: To have security and support
• Enneagram Six with a Five-Wing: "The Defender"
• Enneagram Six with a Seven-Wing: "The Buddy"

Freedom, Food, Loss and Life...

Food freedom, freedom from fear. This has been the gift of the recent year or so for me, with movement and with attention to health, what my body feels good eating and being, doing. I have learned what my body feels good eating—wholesome meats, greens, fats, no sugar, less and less processed anything. I have learned how my body cherishes movement in community—workouts several times a week and holding ‘just get better’ in my bodysoul as I/we move. The numbers really don’t matter, though it is part of the practice to offer them up anyway. Now I have landed in Paris with my dear Brian, and I’m all verklempt, feeling the fear and uncertainty of choices available to me for what I know my body feels good eating and doing.

I did well for our travel, which I celebrate for myself. I packed my ‘bread,’ squeeze packets of nut butters, 1-oz baggies of nuts for the duration. I made myself hard-boiled eggs for the start of the journey together, when lunch at the airport was going to be the option available to me. Brian enjoyed his bagel sandwich and I munched my hard-boiled eggs. I chose the flight-meal option that had the protein I could eat, and I left the stuff that didn’t appeal to me—the rice, bread, corn-salad. I awoke hungry about 2 hours outside of Paris, so I munched the nuts I had brought with me. I awoke 2 hours later to the Air France ‘Bon Appetit’ bag on my tray-table—a warmed cheese brioche-roll-sandwich, a plain roll and a small bottle of kefir, 6 g sugar. I felt so out of it and hungry, I decided to just eat the warm option of what I’d been given. When we got here to Paris, Brian and I went to the grocery store and got me two avocados, for the next couple of days. We’re not sure our mini-bar fridge is actually working, so I hesitated to get the lunchmeat from the supermarket. It was probably processed anyway, so not worth bothering about. All this to say, I am already making choices for me, for the things that will be familiar and nourishing, freeing.

We had our first rather predictable ‘flare,’ of course, just moving into finding a place we could enjoy a meal together. We ultimately landed at the mussels joint we’ve been to before—a bit more protein focused meal for me, though still familiar and ‘on his list’ for us for this week. Good to get one of those list-items for him ‘checked off’, I figure. And the mussels were tasty enough. They came with mixed salad with dressing (sugar added), a cup of French-fries and a basket of baguette slices. The luncheon special meant a three-course meal, cheapest and easiest: a salad, an entrée-dish, and a dessert option. We both chose the coffee and two mini-desserts to accompany it—a chocolate cake and a mini-crème-brulee. I tasted everything, to enjoy and smile into it all, and left what I did not want to finish. Our opening meal, it felt important to just go with what came. My intestines are already feeling the tight/loose of the occasional cramp. Hmmm….

And now, nearly a day later, I’m smiling into a bit more ease with what we get to enjoy here together. Amazing what a good night’s sleep, a hot shower, and hours of walking can do for you/us! My aim to stay conscious may simply mean tending to myself in the morning—my familiar ‘bread’ and nut-butter squeeze-pack, which sustains me well through midday. I could feel my new-familiar ease in being present with him, having tended to what I needed first. Then aiming for ‘plan-reminiscent’ choices at the restaurants/cafes we meander into during the day, without too much worry up front. Today allowed an omelette, for instance, with mixed greens. Close enough for government work. :) Brian loves the dessert and coffee thing late afternoon, but coffee (a café – espresso shot) suffices for me. Perrier here has finer-bubbles, which is fun. Evening meals, I’m simply enjoying whatever comes, methinks. Last night gave opportunity for a Breton-creperie kind of place we had been before, called the Cormorant. It was a sweet place, small, close tables, pizza-like ‘crepes’ with dry cidre. Staying conscious then: foods I cannot find at home will be the tourism of the evenings.

It was helpful to be reminded that I would not lose my ‘new learnings/self’ simply from a week in Paris. It seems an obvious statement when said aloud or written on the page. Duh. But at some level, I think I did come in with a fear of losing myself, what I’ve learned now, at least a little bit. It often happens when Brian and I have extended, uninterrupted time together. His inner world is simply overwhelming for me to navigate easily for long—intense waves of information, lots of internal-referents shared with me to connect but which can actually disconnect me from a sense of myself, the relationships and ways of connecting I value. Firming up my food boundaries these months has actually firmed up my energetic boundaries, allowing me to be present with him in a new peaceful way. Choosing my food boundaries here is helping some of that, but I am also easing into the unfamiliar and ‘the moment’…which makes me wonder if I will stay present with him, emotionally, for long…? 

One thing that’s an easy ‘diary’ and observation choice is simply taking pictures of each café meal together. It tracks our food-tourism, which delights him, and it allows me to be more conscious with what I’m choosing. I also picked up a couple small pocket journals, with my desire to see Paris with the eyes of a poet. That kind of writing keeps me present with all that I’m sensing amidst so many people and new places. 

Like the wizened older woman with square-blue-rimmed spectacles on the subway car today… Her eyes gently closed, her body rocking with the rhythm of the movement. Made me wonder what stories rested behind those closed eyelids…

The Next Step in the Dance...or Marriage...

I am afraid of buying meat at the grocery store. The dance between food and fear for me is a longstanding tradition, I know, but really?  I can hear myself say inside. Yes, really. This may be the key to a little (miniscule, actually) logjam that happened inside me this week.

I have been sitting with this invitation about carbs and protein, end of Dedication Health and discerning my own intentions inside. Now that the formal program is over, what do I focus on or desire? Intend for the continuing journey…?

It was good to sit in the circle last night, listening to Cindy speak her wisdom of ‘maintenance’ and ‘continuing ever on…’ I love the handout she has, the two columns of tips of the trade. Lots of wisdom and several smiles. “Melissa is always right” showing up various ways, for instance. I was done eating for the day, as Wednesday night made most sense for my fast day this week, but after the meeting, I finally had time to swing by the grocery store before picking up Nala from her day-care day with Josie.

I walked into Dorothy Lane Market, a pricier place to shop but one closest to where I needed to be next. Protein and veggies were in my mental list, but also just a bit of artist-date wandering, being drawn to what I might be drawn to, listening… I picked up another dozen eggs, pasture-fed chickens and large-brown eggs. I meandered past the butcher-fish-counters, enjoying the colors and the artistry of presentation. Nothing seemed to fit what I was looking for, so I continued on to the packaged meat section, remembering that I could probably find what I was looking for there.

Mark Hyman’s writing has altered some of what I noticed, which was fun. I saw ‘grass-fed’ in a much more obvious way. I found myself trying to remember the ‘look for these phrases of ‘certification’ and best-practice’ phrases. I couldn’t be sure, could not remember. I made a mental note to jot them into my phone, so to remember with more precision.

And then I stopped, realizing I felt a bit overwhelmed. I don’t know cuts of beef, portions of veal, portions of pork or turkey…what cut should be used for which kinds of dishes? What did I want to try to make for myself? The proteins I’m most comfortable with are lunch-meat, breasts of chicken, and chicken thighs. I’m easier with ground beef and turkey, for various sauces etc. But the number of ‘kinds of cuts’ overwhelmed me. I didn’t know what to choose or how to decide.

Ah so…I am afraid to buy meat at the grocery store. It’s too expensive, said one voice. You’ll just waste it, not using it in time before it spoils, said another. Be careful of calories and fat, said a third. I’ll prepare it better than you will, so just let me do it, said the Brian in my head (who often bears no resemblance to the actual Brian, by the way).  A fully grown, competent, professional woman, brought to silence and confusion standing before the packaged meat section of a grocery store.

Perhaps the next step in the fear-food dance, the carbs-protein marriage, is simply becoming comfortable with eating more meat, the meats I know are recommended and invited for clean eating.

So I purchased a cut of beef I don’t even remember now. It wasn’t too pricey. It looked like it could be tasty, or at least interesting. I’ll slice it into sections tomorrow and begin with a saute of some kind. This doesn’t feel restrictive in the least. It feels curious and ‘next’…

Sure doesn’t take long, when one is intentional about listening…

Deepening the Health-ing I Now Love -- Listening Anew

Dedication Health, the formal ‘program’ I have been vested in since June 10^th, concludes tomorrow. Or today, plus a celebration visit tomorrow at the gym. This week, anyway. I sit here with the ‘power tower’ behind me, inviting some strict pull-ups as I get antsy sitting for too long. A cup of half-caf coffee next to me, a little bit of almond-milk, like I enjoy in the afternoon. I find myself curious about what my intentions will be in these next weeks, even months. The formality of the health-journey with coach and community has provided a good container for me to learn habits that make me feel good, body soul and mind. I suspect simply the regularity at the gym will hold enough of this kind of container to continue on with maintaining what I’ve learned, and listening for anything new. So…what might be beckoning…? I wonder, with a sense of not-knowing in the least…

As I was driving home, I got curious about the journal/poem I remember writing one night, spring of 2018. I knew it had a number that I had been ashamed of, but I honestly could not remember what the number was. Poetic this seems to me now, I might add. I bounded upstairs when I got home, to look for it. Yes…easily found. And a smile. 207 was the name of the poem. I had had to visit the doctor for something that spring—maybe a bronchial bug or some such—and had been pushed onto the scale by an assertive nurse. I was surprised and embarrassed, a short slide into ashamed, for me. The highest weight I had ever seen on a scale that I stood on. Writing circle that night provided a window to face it, to bring my sketching and poetic mind to befriending what was, who I was, right at that moment. I drew the numbers 2-0-7 with space to write words within them. Then a mouth with fleshy lips, space enough for words to fit within them too.

How do numbers shame women? Why do we let them? I wrote at the top. In the sketched numbers and mouth, I wrote: (In the sketched 2-0-7) A perfect number for / All of Me is needed for All I get to do / Evenly and with LOVE. (then in the mouth) Shame began before I could talk /wordless/ It ended when I was birthed anew in her eyes. I remember hardly being able to speak these words aloud to my spirit-friend, Lisa, whose eyes I referenced, who loves me so fiercely that weight nor numbers nor body-image matter little, if at all. She was one of the most powerful ones to unlock the door for me, actually, letting all that I feared out of my body energies and into the world without harm. Unbeknownst to me at the time: it was an important event that night—loving my body at the heaviest it had ever been. Being seen and not ashamed. Knowing I was loved regardless, unconditionally, right then and there.

Now, I’d say that health was born in me at that moment, though I did not know the decisions I would be making in the months to come to live that journey into its harvest. I entered into CrossFit, and then Dedication Health, less to change what or who I was than to know what they know and see what it might feel like in my body. My beloved, over-200-pounds woman’s body.

Which has become nearly 30 pounds less than she was, more muscled than she used to be, and more energized and feeling-good than I have ever known before. There’s less of you to hug, said a friend recently, smiling. Yet my bodysoul is so much bigger, more expansive, steady, easy.

Today I celebrate ‘having arrived’ a bit, at a destination I had not necessarily crafted for myself, but which I receive with deep belly satisfaction and pleasure. I love how I get to eat, what I get to eat, and the precision of tracking on the app that allows me to tweak and confirm, hold the practice/container for myself. The Inbody ‘norms’ urge me to lose 6.4 lbs of body fat mass. Melissa and I talked about keeping an eye on my metabolic rate, which dropped about 40 cals/day. I find myself wondering whether my body does that in the autumn, preparing a bit for winter and more sedentary rhythms in the cold. I’ve only been measured in the height of summer, which IS my most active time of the year, period. Longer days, more light, better temperatures… I could begin to explore intermittent fasting twice a week from time to time, instead of once/week. Which I’m curious about to some extent. We talked about moving my net carbs down to more like 40 g/day, as I do tend to hit 50g or even a little more regularly.

I listen to each of these invitations, I here return to my opening pondering—what beckons for me in this next part of the health-ing journey? I am tickled pink with where I am. Do I want to be further down the road, with a potentially-perceived ‘more restrictive’ setting to my ‘norms’? Is the last 6 lbs of body fat worth tightening some of the specifics, so to ‘achieve’ what the InBody norms suggest? Is it a fine thing to arrive at one’s plateau and simply enjoy the view?

I may desire to do just that!

Regardless, I will sit and move with these invitations for a while, just doing what I know to do now. My instinct is to turn my attention to activity and some skill-building things—pull-ups have been on my view-screen for a while, but not with focused attention during my heaviest work-season (which slows down a little in three weeks); double-unders arose today as something that opened unexpectedly, and the cardio aspect attracts me; as has running, for that matter. My body just loves to move now, and I’m blessedly strain and injury free. (Part of me wants to write, ‘knock on wood and all that’). I’m enjoying the Mark Hyman reading that is before me, beginning to research some of the local-farm possibilities in my area, exploring with some new and on-plan cooking, even baking. Restricting my eating habits to the next level ‘inward’ feels just that, restrictive. Without a clear sense of discerning and valuing the end-goal—a norm given by an outside source, population-norms, etc.—it’s simply not my goal yet. And it might not become my goal at all. Or it may, if I find myself desiring in that direction...

It is good to receive the invitation, to listen with coach(es) and community, to participate in the regular rhythms of the gym and just enjoy the movement. Just show up. Just get better, as I discern in these next weeks, months.

Ember of Curiosity Under Heavy Logs of Disillusionment and Cynicism

My eye caught a glimpse of an email that arrived unexpectedly amid the rush to ‘airplane mode’ on the phone, for my flight. “Historic” “Task Force,” “Board decision” “repentance for participation in slavery” were some of the words I caught before the flight attendant came by to check on us all. An African-American woman, with striking hands, beautiful nails, well-trained kinky curls in her hair. I had little phone battery left, so turned it off and decided to read with interest when way opened after the flight. Pat Schneider’s ‘beginning again’ writing exercise asked me to sit with her question, “What matters, then?”

I find myself befuddled, to be honest, with seeds of hope and a slight ember of curiosity underneath the heavy logs of disillusionment and cynicism well familiar to the mid-career theological scholar. My relationship to Princeton Theological Seminary is a convoluted and conflicted one, rife with painful and pleasurable memories both. It was a time in which I made use of father’s-daughter transferences, becoming the model ‘good-girl’ with just enough innovation and charm-ster in me to be interesting and succeed in intellectual, social, and political ways. Unaware of the cost to my whole Self, I fed their hungers too, seeing now the cannibalism of my own work and voice by unconscious, well-intentioned father-figure scholars-mentors. Faithful men. Good-hearted men. Men doing what they had been trained to do, supporting me while relying upon my exuberance in less-healthy ways too.

I played my role well, at various stages of my 11 years there—student, intern, PhD candidate, administrator, adjunct/designated lecturer, student’s wife, etc.—until I didn’t play it well within the necessary norms. I advocated for a grant program, on behalf of all those we had said we would serve, forcing my direct supervisor’s hand in the privilege and political-capital I had with the standing president.  Unknowingly, I signed my exit papers in that passion, but not until the grant program (which was of course successfully funded/won) was well on its way. This institution paved the way for me to do what I do in theological education, for which I am inexpressibly thankful. This institution was also a desert without in-depth spiritual and emotional nourishment for me as a contemplative, as a woman, as an old-soul on an unknown but familiar path outward, forward, inward.

Ten years after my husband and I left Princeton for sacred callings in Dayton, Ohio, I was finally free of both attachment and aversion energies with the institution. I had traveled outward and inward paths to see more clearly the attachments I had had that drew me there in the first place: Ivy-league associations of privilege and intellectual prowess, commonplace in the Midwest, where I grew up; beautiful grounds and comfortable settings in which to explore my own intellectual interests; high acclamation in my family of origin, who boasted “Lisa’s at Princeton” in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. Going to Princeton bought me intellectual, social, political, and familial capital that heightened my status and my interactions with those for whom those things mattered.

And I was as lonely as I ever knew anyone could be. I knew people’s call stories and their personas for ministry, but never felt known myself, or deeply connected to others around me. I attended chapel and learned the practices of worship for this community, but rarely felt seen or heard in who I was. All the forms of community were unfolding around me, but few touched the deepest parts of me. Until David Weadon. Until James Loder. Until Wentzel van Huyssteen. Three men who saw my musical heart, my love of philosophy and science. Three men who were lonely in their own ways, encased in the privileges and politics of a functional-academic ‘community’ with high performative norms.

Some of this loneliness was staved off when I reconnected with my first-love from college-days and got married. My husband and I were our own emotional island in a sea of polite, lonely Presbyterians, most of whom would never articulate a loneliness, deep to the bone. The entire eleven years I was in Princeton, only one person ever used the word ‘love’ in a personal-relationship way, like good friends say to one another, or prayerful Christians share amidst suffering. The only one to speak love to me in Princeton was the man I imported into the town by marrying him, my husband. Eleven years of bible-studies and prayer meetings and deep conversations…not once did I ever hear the words, “I love you Lisa.” Not even from a close friend. It simply wasn't the culture of the place at the time to honor deep feelings so vulnerably.

So when it was finally time for me to depart, for me to be freed from my successes, trials and tribulations in this academic community, I had a huge aversion energy that would erupt whenever any reference to Princeton arose, or Princeton would contact us as well-oiled marketing machines do—calls for money, etc. I had no awareness of how bound I was in this negative energy, how overwhelming it was of everything I was trying to grow into as a young theological scholar. Eventually, along with the help of a Buddhist sangha and a deep dive into Buddhist practice, I began to see that aversion was simply the negative expression of attachment. I was still deeply attached to Princeton in its sizeable gifts to me and its deep body wounds as a woman in the fields of theological education, practical theology in particular. I began to do the work of healing into non-attachment, of release and relinquishment, of acceptance and allowance.

[One amusement in this path was having my eldest 1^st-cousin marry the fellow who would then become the President of Princeton Seminary. After ten years of deep inner work to finally be free of the institution in question, it freakin’ married into my family. I have very little contact with that cousin, though I see her Facebook feed from time to time, catching glimpses of her implicit work offered to that institution today. This convergence has often brought discomfort for me, for a variety of reasons. One, my husband and I have refused all contact with the institution, including offering financial support to it. Money and privilege are the problem and wounding of community, in our experience of the place, so though we actively support other institutions (college and other), we have not given a cent to Princeton. Over the years, I have written the alumni/ae and development directors to inquire if there are other ways to give back that would honor our experience of Princeton’s light and shadow sides. None has ever responded with any communal or truly relational connection, rather proving our point. Princeton is not about relationship or community in our experience; it is about privilege, performance, and a certain brand of Presbyterianism I have since left behind.]

But…having it marry into my family did facilitate the inner and outer work to “Let Princeton be Princeton,” to allow and honor it to be just as it was, and to have no attraction to it, nor any aversion to it. Equanimity. Non-attachment.

Christian sisters and brothers might ask me at this point whether this kind of work was really about forgiveness and reconciliation…but my gut-instinct is to say, “No, it has not been of that ilk at all.” That work would require repentance and alteration of behavior, at a level that human institutions are simply unable to manifest at this point, unconscious and unwilling to look hard at systemic and ‘socially architectural’ aspects of institutional life and function. I do not know of any institutions, to be honest, that have repented—of the treatment of women for centuries, of the dehumanization of people of color, of the rape and pillage of the land. Institutions are corporate entities without personal characteristics (though I think another cousin has made a philosophical case for corporations as ‘persons’ in our legal currents today…Not sure…).

So perhaps that is the seed of the ember of curiosity and even hope? Is this the energy of ‘what matters’ to me today?

I read, briefly, an email that spoke of institutional repentance written by a man 'in my own family' yet with whom I am very careful to cloak association. It has pricked a scar in my bodysoul that I haven’t had to tend or even consider for years now. This scar that has spear-headed so much of what I do and how I do it today: circle-work, creating alternative realities because the current ‘wine-skins’ or ‘containers’ I know are declining and sinking into irrelevance (for me). One elder’s words that landed deeply in my bodysoul: Don’t go to war with the way things are; create alternative realities. This thickened scar-skin has allowed me to delve deeply into collaboratively-birthing circle communities in Dayton and Columbus Ohio. This sizeable disillusionment has driven an idealism and passion to create alternative realities of human collectives able to be fully human—being-with, present to, strong-for the ‘other,’ the wounded, the silenced.

Over these two decades, then, Princeton became blessedly irrelevant and non-existent for me. I demur my association with the place. I refuse it entrance into my awareness or my work, mostly because its spiritual vacuity (for me) makes it unnecessary and not of much interest.

And yet...and yet... I read: An institution is repenting of its participation and support of slavery in our country’s history. A place left purposefully in my past has acted within a stream of my own values and current spiritual journey-work.  Hmmmm….

Food, Boundaries, Healing Energies in the World

Boundaries matter. Knowing where my energies extend to (and no further), knowing where another’s energy field begins in proximity to my own, matters. Distinguishing and honoring both requires a highly sensitized discernment so very new to me today. Most of us in today’s rather secular, materialistic culture(s) are not adept at discerning these energetic boundaries. The reasons for this are vast and varied, of course.

Speaking only for myself—I was reared in a highly cognitive, deeply rational home with a strong religious faith and a rather clinical ‘see it, believe it’ lens on the body. Getting curious about and exploring something so airy-fairy as ‘energetic fields’ would send my father off the skeptical disdainful deep end. He could hardly sit for a whole lunch with a woman who practiced Qigong and wanted to talk with him about her experience. So growing up, I had no way to really know my own boundaries amidst the spiritual and psychological hungers of my parents, those around me. I didn’t become sensitized enough to feel my own energetic field and boundaries until the last 1-2 years. I’m 50 years old.

I don’t want or need to convince anyone about energetic fields, or how they could feasibly be understood as your ‘soul,’ within which your body is nourished (or not). What I’m interested in is the role food can play in honoring good, healthy boundaries—for oneself, for others.

Food is energy. Whatever kind you may choose, it is ostensibly to nourish your cells, your bones, your blood so you have energy to be as active as you want, to do what you dream of doing with your ‘one wild and precious life.’ (Mary Oliver). I have had a wonky relationship with food my entire life, with its role much beyond energy and nourishment.

My storyline: I inherited my mother’s deep fear of scarcity and ‘not-enough.’ She grew up in a rough part of Detroit, one of 6 children in a truck-driver’s salaried family. She knows what it is to not have enough. She and my father have lived a modest but increasingly well-privileged life with an internist’s and school teacher’s salaries. I have never wanted for anything material (except my sophomore year in college when I ran out of money 2 days before my mom was to come pick my up. I used my credit cards at the bookstore to make it to the end). But I have had a deep belly fear of not enough. Yet I was also reared in a fairly rigid religious home with a high-shame ethic. Eating ‘too much,’ or ‘wanting too much,’ was a ready shame trigger. I remember coming home from school, shaky hungry (I now know from high carb, high salt diet), and being refused any food, or shamed for eating too much before dinner.

As a result, I have a hard-to-hit, razor-thin ‘sweet spot’ between ‘not enough’ and ‘too much.’ Food choices have always been highly charged, emotionally-driven, and tinged with shame. These parallel similar body-judgments, many of which were simply my mother’s projections about her own body experiences: too big, too much, not attractive, high shame. I entered into a ‘nutrition re-education’ health program this past summer precisely to see if ‘food-freedom’ could be a fruit of this learning, re-learning. And it has been. I know a freedom with food that I have never known before. Shame rarely comes from the inside of me anymore. When it is directed at me from the outside, which still sometimes happens, I have a strong body-center-awareness of my own freedom, my own energetic field. I can even sometimes deflect it now, knowing who and how I am in my body, for me.

I know my own energetic boundaries when I live into the food-choices that I can feel are good and wise for my own cells, bones, blood, body. What I was taught, what we knew when I was growing up, was simply not accurate for this woman’s body (perhaps most human bodies, but that’s not my argument or intent to surmise here). What I know now, how I know to choose my nourishment now, sensitizes my body to know its boundaries, its expansiveness and its contractions when I’m weary. When I’m in a highly social environment, surrounded by people choosing all kinds of foods for themselves, I can feel where I extend to, where my field ‘ends’...if I am choosing well for me.

What intrigues me is that when I choose as another is eating, particularly if s/he is choosing something that I know my body will not be nourished by, I lose my felt-sense of where my energetic field ends and where his/hers begins. For the longest time, my husband and I would eat almost exactly the same foods and similar portion sizes. It’s important for his sense of generosity and hospitality to serve plates overflowing with food. When I would demur and move my portions to half-size, he would get offended and feel shamed or that his artistry/offerings were unappreciated. Given my own empathic self, my own deep feeling ways, it was often more important to avoid his displeasure than to listen to my own body. Same is true with cocktail hour. He can pour a stiff drink, and it was easiest simply to receive it, usually drinking more than I wanted. So my boundaries would diffuse and while I then felt connected to him in a way I recognized and even thought I appreciated, I would lose my own sense of center. 

I have used food as this energetic connector for most of my life. It is what so much table fellowship in religious communities is built on, after all. Families and friends sharing meals and festivities together. What a beautiful thing, and a web of community building we need to do more of in our highly fragmented civic spaces today. And yet, those who are highly sensitized to the energies of others—empaths, healers, deep-feeling bodies of all genders—often find themselves faced with challenging food choices and confusions when surrounded by others.

The new learning for me is that when I am strongest in my own center, I can be more present and more connected with whomever I’m with than if I allow my own boundaries to diffuse and cave to whatever their food choices are. How odd it has seemed, to feel connected through my body not beyond it or despite it.

So…it means I’m willing to withstand the social pressures a preacher’s wife might face, for instance, at a dinner party of pizza and beer or some marvelously named sugary alcoholic drinks (Jamaican Me Crazy…love that clever wordplay). Or pack my own nourishment when I travel with my husband, minimizing the ‘special diet’ characteristics necessary in restaurants, requests that embarrass his Swedish-Lutheran sensibilities (in which you never ask for what you actually need/want, but only what might be offered or decided by the other…). What I’m learning is that I am able to listen to my body deeply enough now to consciously choose indulgences I want to enjoy, in a rhythm that is sparse enough to make them ‘special occasions’ and indulgent. The rest of the time, I know what helps my body feel the best and be as active as I know I want to be now. As a result, I’m more attuned to my own center, and more present with whomever I am with, able to offer and celebrate whatever they want to eat, as they so desire.

I suspect my capacity to participate in healing work in the world is expanding, as my body gets stronger within its bodysoul field. 

Food is energy. 

Good food strengthens the body so to expand and shine in the world in a way that most of our corporate-created foods simply cannot provide. 

Good food means a greater chance of healthy boundaries, for self and for other.