Three Cookies

Several years ago, I was having dinner with my friend Karen at a local health club. We sat eating our perfectly virtuous salads, dressing on the side, demonstrating our commitment to using food only as fuel for our bodies.

During the course of the meal, a friend of Karen’s stopped by our table. As memory serves, Karen’s friend was short with dark hair and eyes. She reminded me of a busy sparrow, her spritely charm spilling forth as she chirped and warbled about an AIDS ride from Minneapolis to Chicago, in which she planned to participate. Unabashedly, she asked us to support her trek with a donation. As I happily wrote a check, she asked us about our plans for the evening. We were going to a support group meeting at a church down the road to discuss our problems with food and living.

Suddenly, the light inside of Karen’s friend dropped to low beam. As if inside of a confessional with head bowed low, she whispered she should go with us because she had been so bad that day. She had eaten three cookies. She knew she should try to do better, but the cookies…well, they were just there and the plate was so pretty and her hand just moved to her mouth over and over and over again. And that’s how she ate three cookies.

Moments before overflowing with pride and satisfaction with the activities and goodness in her life, I saw her turn away from herself and take up the whip of self-rejection because she ate three cookies. Her words echoed in my brain…I am bad. I ate three cookies.

Almost as if it was a separate organism, my hand reached out and touched her arm as these words came out of my mouth: I can’t support you in calling yourself bad. That causes me too much pain. You ate three cookies. That is what happened. Eating three cookies has nothing to do with your value as a person. Maybe you don’t like your choice, but you are not bad because you ate cookies. Please don’t talk to yourself like that.

Looking back, I’m wondering who I was talking to – Karen’s friend or myself? Did I need absolution for the years of calling myself names for eating more than I thought I should? For the days when my only enjoyment was found in a bag of Chips Ahoy and the rest of my life felt like one more obligation to be endured until I could rest again in the twisted solace of self-hate caused by one more binge?

I’ve recalled this conversation many times over the almost five years since it took place and how many times I’ve convinced myself I was bad because I thought I should be able to control my hunger by eating only for health and fuel. Meals centered around the formulaic 3 ounces of protein, two cups of vegetables, and one cup of complex carbohydrates. I tried to convince myself I was passionately in love with vegetables. I’ve never been a good liar.


In the beginning of my recovery walk, I eliminated sugar and white flour and a variety of eating behaviors that told me I was headed for relapse. No stepping out of line by tasting or sampling food while I’m preparing, even if it’s a new recipe and I’m serving it to beloved guests. No fingers licked. No eating in the car. No popcorn at movies. No messiness. No joy. No delight. This worked for several years until rebellion took over. The adult firmly in charge while the little child in me looked on in disgust by my efforts to hold back the flow of love contained in passionately feeding myself.

The truth is I do love food. I love the smell, the taste, the idea of food. As a child, my parents owned an A&W Drive-In with car hops on roller skates. I was even named for their favorite car hop. I had my own stool upon which I could perch and clean the trash from the once cold and frosty mugs that came back sucked dry of the sweet syrupy beer. Emptying the trash and dunking the mugs into the ice cold trough of disinfecting water, I felt at home. I was a confident child. I asked a blonde haired blue-eyed football playing teen-aged boy named Tom if he would wait until I grew up to marry me. He said yes, he would wait for me. This must have been the start of my life-long love affair with food.

If there is anything that I have learned in these past several years, it’s that food is more than fuel. Try as I might, my spirit would not accept that the food I was eating was purely medicinal, functional, and utilitarian. Food is given to us for more than sustenance. Food contains enjoyment as lips are licked to capture the last juices from the explosive ripeness of a strawberry in August. Food is a gift from God that is meant to be a celebration. If food wasn’t meant to be savored, why do we have taste buds that distinguish bitter from sweet, salty from sour? We are created to enjoy food.

Food is meant to create fellowship, even if all we share is a humble slice of apple and a bit of cheese. Dear friends gathering around the glow of candles, we commune over hearty beef stew and garlic mashed potatoes. Laughter spills over the table as love and friendship are mopped up like a piece of crusty bread soaking up the succulence of a rare roast beef. Not a bite or crumb left behind. Spirits full, bodies sated. We have supped of the nectar of the gods and declared it good.

And yet, I can still be tempted to return to the days of control and deprivation. Somehow, I think it would be a safer and more familiar route than this feeling out of control, don’t know what I’m doing, honoring my body way of life. The twenty extra pounds I carry today as a result of relative inactivity because of last May’s car accident along with being newly wed weigh heavy on my mind. I forget at times I’m still taking baby steps in claiming my unassailable right to feed my appetites – all of them. I forget that I’m reprogramming more than 30 years of tapes telling me that I’m broken when it comes to food.

I’m learning to live with scraped knees and a bruised ego as I sometimes struggle to distinguish between hunger and Sacred Hunger. Filled with self-doubt as I dare to reach for the stars, there are days when I ask myself what I’m possibly doing writing about Hunger when I sometimes eat too much and haven’t yet perfected the art of obeying the subtle whisper of body wisdom. There are days when the longing for comfort in the form of four pieces of chocolate birthday cake and three chocolate chip cookies roars like a freight train coming through a mountain pass screaming “Eat. Eat. Eat.” Later when the train has passed and I can hear myself think, I remind myself that I am learning to trust again and like any toddler, falling down happens. It’s all about the getting up again.

I sink to my knees and lift up a humble prayer whispering “Teach me how to eat.” In the silence of early morning, a weight is lifted from my shoulders and Sacred Hunger reminds me I am allowed…I am encouraged…I am requested to enjoy myself. Sacred Hunger is just that…Hunger for joy, for acceptance, for dreams…and for good food, too.

Slowly but surely, it’s becoming very simple this learning to truly feed myself. What do I love? What does my body want? Don’t eat salad when I crave ravioli. Don’t eat chocolate when I’d prefer an orange. Eat when I’m hungry. Stop when I’m full. Talk myself off the ledge when I’m sad that the meal is over. Call a friend when I’m lonely. Cry when I’m sad. Sleep when I’m tired. Ask for a hug when I need human touch. Do cartwheels when I can’t contain my delight. Remind myself that there is enough. There will be enough. I am enough. And that’s where Sacred Hunger lives. In knowing that I am enough and so are you. Even when we’ve eaten three cookies.

Blessed Be.

Ode to Wilson

For a little over a year, I was the proud owner of a charmingly needy and somewhat codependent Schnauzer. My little fellow’s name was Wilson, appropriately named after the volleyball in Castaway who kept Tom Hanks’ character sane. He reminded me of a scholarly grandfather with his black coat and silver mustache, eyebrows, and paws. Wilson was sent to me from my sister’s family. He had not been particularly loved by my brother-in-law, and I felt compelled to rescue him. Little did I know it then, but I had it wrong - he was sent to rescue me.

The first night of his arrival in early April was chaotic. Wilson, having come from rural Minnesota, was easily upset by the sounds of the masses in an urban area. Already grieving his lost family, Wilson announced his terror by barking at every noise he heard. And Wilson had exceptional hearing. The paper being dropped at 5 a.m. on our sidewalk elicited a surprise barking attack. Leaving him standing alone in the entry way as I walked 50 yards to get the mail resulted in yelps bordering on hysteria. Anyone who says that dogs do not have feelings has not lived with an animal.

I tried everything I knew to soothe him over the next week, but by Saturday night my nerves – at least what was left of them - were worn to a frazzle. I was not sleeping because every passing car drew a growl from Wilson. No matter where I put him in the house, he would not settle down to sweet dreams of chasing rabbits and squirrels. I found myself to the point of almost inflicting physical harm in a last ditch attempt to quiet him at 2 a.m. It startled me awake, as if I had taken a dive into a frozen lake on a winter morning, to see the reality to which desperation and exhaustion could drive me.

I woke up the next morning, stumbling towards the kitchen for that first cup of tea, convinced that I needed to give Wilson away. Except for an incessant niggling of guilt, I was certain I was right. I was almost willing to take him to the Humane Society, except I needed to be sure that he would be cared for and loved, that no one would beat him, or forget to feed him, or throw him down the stairs. Had I not happened to run into my friend Lou, a closet teddy bear who works very hard to maintain a curmudgeonly exterior, I might have continued with my plan.

But Lou stared me straight in the eyes and said: I think you need to keep him. Take him to obedience classes. You’ll get some mastery over Wilson. But more than that, you’ll get mastery over yourself.

Mastery over myself. He was right, and I knew it. I decided to keep Wilson and make an honest go of it. No running away when it got hard. Returning home, I found a different Wilson. He was calm. He was relaxed. He slept under the table while my friend Lori and I ate lunch at the dining room table.

I was more like Wilson than I wanted to admit. Self-neglect was compounded by a heart still broken in a thousand little pieces from a summer romance that had ended as abruptly as it had started six months earlier. Like Wilson, I felt locked up in a cage and did not know how to live with so much noise. Wilson barked. I ate. We were perfect for each other, only I didn't know it yet.

The unspoken threat of rejection had created a core of antagonism between us, which melted with my decision to keep him. Wilson understood his Sacred Hunger. He craved acceptance for who he was and loving attention he knew he deserved, and he wasn’t afraid to give loud and clear voice to his sense of isolation and loneliness. He didn’t eat to hide his pain or fear. He asked for his needs to be met in the only way he knew how - he howled. I craved acceptance and attention too, but didn’t yet consistently listen to my Sacred Hunger except through the voice of compulsion. And then I would tell myself that I was wrong for experiencing these chaotic feelings and doubly wrong for bowing to the god of hunger. I was flawed. I was defective.

I wasn’t flawed nor was I defective. I wasn’t listening. After the crashing end of the relationship, I had retreated once again into the illusory comfort of food. Food grows a powerful voice when I lack willingness and capacity to listen quietly to the wellspring of my heart. It speaks of desires unfulfilled and a longing for strength and courage to go after what I want, which is sometimes just to be held in the arms of another who looks into my eyes, and without words, accepts all of me. In giving Wilson unconditional love, I began to heal. His constant presence was a soothing balm. I allowed myself to receive devotion from another being. And this is how Wilson and I became a family.

Sometimes Sacred Hunger, the voice of love inside, leads to a path of letting go. The circumstances of my life changed significantly during the time Wilson lived with me. I got a new job that I loved, I found the courage to face more demons and another layer of excess weight came off, and I met and fell in love with my husband Jimmy, who ironically has eyebrows that are black and sprinkled with salt which gives him a bit of a Schnauzer-like appearance. I had to admit I was no longer able to give Wilson the time and attention he needed. I loved him enough to find him a new home with children and a backyard to call his own. Although Wilson has been gone for almost two years, he still lives in my heart. I am forever grateful to this dapper and demanding doggie, who taught me the most fundamental lesson of all: When we listen to our Sacred Hunger, we are forever changed. Thank you, Wilson. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Blessed Be.

When In Doubt, Clean The Closets

Recently, I was overcome with a compulsion to clear out the closets in my house. In the closet in the guest room, among other things, I found the black and white photo of Big Ben that I've wanted to frame for the past six years, the hand-blown glass balls I bought two years ago in Washington D.C. still in their original packaging, and a printer for the laptop that resides in the basement. The closet downstairs contained a jumble of wrapping paper, and performance reviews from 15 years ago, which said that I needed to learn how to take more risks and have better control of my emotions. The entry way closet wasn't quite as littered with bad memories and good intentions. It sheltered coats, hats, mittens along with a few dozen paper grocery bags, some clothes that needed to go back to their rightful owner, and the harness for my dog Wilson, for whom I had found a new home two summers ago.

I've learned that when I want movement in my life, I clean. When I'm trying to sort through the internal chaos of my emotions after a spat with my husband or a tough week at work, I dust and vacume. When I have no sense of why I'm here on this beautiful planet, I rearrange the furniture. And somehow, through the sorting and dusting and polishing and reordering, I find my calm center again. And life opens up new vistas and possibilities that had been obscured by clinging to what was.

I spent years thinking that my life should come in a nice neat package all tied up with a big bright bow. If only I was thin, life would be like a box from Tiffany's in that fabulous eggshell blue that hints at glory inside. Bad things don't happen to good girls. I lived as carefully as possible. I lived in fear of making mistakes or worse yet, getting caught. I was unrelenting in my pursuit of outward perfection. A man I knew once commented to me that in every area of my life, I was in complete control. Except when it came to food. The dam had to burst somewhere.

Towards the end of my suffering as an active food addict, I weighed 265 pounds and knew that I could not even try to diet ever again. Evenings found me cramming slice after slice of a large stuffed crust pepperoni pizza down my throat followed by the soothing sucking sensation of spoonful after spoonful of Butter Pecan Hagen Daazs ice cream. Pizza gone and pint empty, I heaved myself into bed. Night after night, I cried myself to sleep telling God that I promised I would be good the next day.

By 10:00 a.m. the next morning, I would be in front of the candy machine, its glass reflecting the anguish on my face as I mechanically raised my hand and dropped the quarters in the slot, waiting anxiously for the relief found in a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. And so the pattern would be repeated, over and over again.

For a work assignment, life transported me to England where my inner turmoil could no longer be contained, and I heard again the warnings written on those performance reviews in my basement closet telling me to get those emotions under control. I was filled with a bitter poison that left me feeling only blame and resentment towards any and all who crossed my path. My manager named Ray, a kindly bald-headed Brit with watery blue eyes, told me I did excellent work but he was worried about me. I told him my work wasn't good enough. In place of a Tiffany box, there were mistakes and messes and unsolved problems and unanswered questions. My closets were to stuffed to overflowing and in need of a deep and thorough cleaning.

And that's what happened as on January 29, 1998, on the recommendation of my employer, I checked myself into a treatment center in the deepest part of Kent, England. I stayed there for 60 days and learned about being a compulsive eater. Skeletons in the closets were let out to see the light of day. Skeletons like never having felt the loss of my brother's suicide ten years before, fury over the years where I had to be a grown up long before I was ready by being the Cinderella in my family cooking and cleaning because that's what girls do, an aching loneliness and longing for companionship, but with too much fear to reach out my hand in case I would feel the sting of rejection. I was mercifully unaware of the reality of the emotional wasteland through which I would have to wade over the next several weeks and months, sometimes waist-high and rising in pain, anger, and fear.

In spite of myself, I learned how to eat three meals a day with nothing in between. I learned how to eat one piece of dessert without consuming the entire cake. I learned how to tell the truth about how I was feeling. And I began to learn that I had never been alone. I learned about Sacred Hunger. The endless compulsion that brought me face to face with the candy bar machine each morning also brought me face to face with God.

I found the love and acceptance among a houseful of addicts that I had Hungered for my whole life, but had never known was missing. Mornings found me standing on a sawed off tree trunk, overlooking a rolling grassy meadow, with steaming tea cup in my hand. I watched dawn breaking as the cook strode up the hill towards the manor house. I breathed in deeply the crisp English morning, heaving a sigh of relief. I heard the wind in the leaves on the magestic oak and thought it was God's lullaby. I saw the dew on the grass and thought it was tender mercy for a thirsty bunny. I had never been so full. Seeing the world through newborn eyes, I no longer needed to hide from life. It had come to meet me and bring me home.

So when life is feeling like anything but a Tiffany box and the thought of facing another moment without the comfort of pizza or ice cream or Reese's Peanut Butter Cups is too much, it's time to clean a closet. But don't go in alone. You'll need the companionship of fellow travelers. And when you've looked at every piece of stuff and fluff, you'll be amazed at the true treasure you'll find within. I was.

Blessed Be.
Sandi

I Hate Goals

Goals. We live in a goal-oriented society where the majority of people regularly determine where they want to go, what they need to do to get there, measure their progress from time to time, and make adjustments to stay on course. I am not one of those people. I like to be surprised by life. I like to feel my way through things and make grand leaps of faith trusting that the net will appear or the chasm is no more than 1 foot deep.

When I hear the word “Goal”, I immediately want to eat something. Sacred Hunger lurks nearby when the urge to eat strikes as suddenly as a rain shower in the Tropics. Why does this word immediately send me emotionally on a quest for food, preferably brownies or ice cream?

I started setting goals when I learned about diets. I was 10 years old. I was called pleasingly plump by my mother and Chubs by my brother. I learned about diet soda and yogurt. I was in TOPS by the time I was 12. If I lost 5 pounds, I got a rose. My goal was to get roses, lots of them. I wanted to be successful and admired. I wanted the applause and the attention that came with each rose. After several weeks of diligent dieting, I did eventually get one red rose, to the rousing applause of the middle age ladies who also craved the roses. And then I promptly gained the weight back. Yogurt and diet soda are poor substitutes when you're Hungry for attention.

I was put on a diet by a doctor by the time I was 13. I was to weigh and measure my food. ½ sandwich on wheat bread, carrot sticks, and an orange were my fare. Mustard no mayo on the bread. I was miserable and deprived. I felt a soul connection to Oliver with his plaintive wail of “Please sir, can I have some more?”. I lost 12 pounds and the siren song for hot fudge brownie sundaes on Saturday afternoons after bowling league was just too much to resist. I started to regain the weight. My best friends Nancy, Kim, and Annette said they didn’t want to be my friend anymore because I couldn’t stay on my diet. They also disinvited me to their sleep-over on Friday. I went to school in a haze of shame and dread.

The Friday night after being disowned from the In Crowd, I was sitting at the dining room table with my mother when the phone rang. It was Kim. The gal pals had changed their minds, and I was invited to their party after all. My pride having been thoroughly stung, I would give them no satisfaction. Icicles dripping from my voice, I responded “No. I don’t think so.” Without so much as a pause, Kim snorted (as she always did when she thought something was funny) as I heard her say “Good. We didn’t mean it anyway.” Laughing uproariously, they hung up the phone.

I stood in front of my mother, stunned silent and unable to cry. I don’t remember what my mother said to me at that moment. It didn’t really matter because words could not ease the pain or heal the wound. My life as I saw it was crumbling around my ankles, and I didn’t have a clue as to how to fix it other than by loading up on ice cream and hiding the bowls under my bed so no one knew how much I was eating. Soft, smooth, creamy ice cream. My Sacred Hunger was for my mother to have found that soft, smooth, creamy place inside of me, pull it out, and wrap me up in a quilt of love. How do you tell your child that life isn’t fair or fun or even nice sometimes? Or that what they did had nothing to do with me at all? It wouldn’t have mattered what she said, when my sense of belief in myself was already shattered because I believed in my depths that there was something wrong with me because my friends rejected me, and I could not stay on a diet.

I didn’t know how to soothe myself. I picked up the only tool I knew – the goal of a diet and the illusion that if I was thin, I would never again have to experience the pain I felt on a Friday evening hearing my friends laughing as they hung up the phone. Each goal became more elaborate than the next. There was the obligatory graph with date on the x axis and weight loss on the y axis. Written down the side was the expected size of clothing I would be able to wear by specific dates. And then I would be okay.

My family moved to another town the next year, far away from Nancy, Kim and Annette. They couldn't touch me anymore. But there were other rejections and other hurts. I carried them all with me as through the years, I tried to chase happiness up and down the scale. Each time believing this would be it. This would be the time that I would stay on the diet. I saw each failed diet as a reflection of my worth. I was a failure – at goal-setting, at being a good person, at keeping my promises to myself, at life. I told myself I was not trustworthy. Nancy, and Kim, and Annette had known all along.

I didn’t know that my problem wasn’t in being unable to establish and achieve a goal. My problem was the goal, itself. I never failed a diet. Diets always failed me. When a broken heart is the problem, ice cream is not the answer. I treated myself like a cowboy treats a wild mustang. The Hunger in me needed to be dominated, controlled, and vanquished. I thought I just wanted to be thin. The Hunger for belonging and acceptance as a 13 year old lived on, struggling to be heard. The Hunger of the heart whispers softly or screams like a banshee until it is acknowledged and answered. And with every attempt to diet, I moved further and further away from feeling my pain and crying the tears that would allow me to face tomorrow with a sure knowledge that the sun would rise again.

I have no goals today. I have choices. And so do you. Choose to perpetuate the lie that you can not be trusted. Or listen to and honor your Sacred Hunger, whatever it may be.

As I began to walk the path of learning to honor the wisdom of the body, I ate a bowl of ice cream every night for six weeks. And then one day, I just stopped. I carried a brownie around with me in my purse for a month. I didn’t want to eat the brownie, I wanted to know that I could trust myself and that I would honor my Sacred Hunger to heal from the wounds inflicted each time I tried to mend what wasn’t broken. My body wasn’t broken. My belief in myself was. While no amount of food will fill that hole, every time I honored my hunger and fed myself what my body really asked for and stopped when I was full, another brick was taken from it’s place on the wall around my heart.

Sara MacLachlan got it right in her song called Ice Cream. “Your love is better than ice cream. Better than anything I’ve ever seen.” Sing it, Sara. Sing it loud.

Blessed Be,
Sandi

Forgiveness and Compassion - Latino Style

My left lower jaw aches from clenching my teeth. My right arm is throbbing with rage. And I’ve got a zit on my chin that just won’t go away. I am angry. I mean ANGRY. You might not recognize it because I’ve got that good girl face firmly plastered in place, but my body knows, and it won’t let me ignore the truth.

I have a love-hate relationship with anger. I love being angry because it makes me feel so…well…big. I hate being angry because it consumes my body and if left alone long enough turns to hatred, which feels like black ink running through my veins. I didn’t learn how to be okay with being angry during those so-called formative years of zero to seven. Passion is not a word I would associate with our household. I never heard my parents argue, nor did I see them cry. In our house, we were not sad or angry. Then I married an Italian guy from New York who, in his own words, is very comfortable with anger. Life has a way of bringing us what we need to learn to find our way to balance. What would it be like to be comfortable enough with anger to sit with it, express it and let it go instead of allowing it to rage through me like an uncontrolled fire that takes out 25 homes before being tamed?

I want to tell you about the time when I hated a colleague at work. This was not a garden variety personality clash. I really, really hated him. The only thing he did wrong was he reminded me of my Venezuelan ex-boyfriend. Obviously, this guy from south of the border deserved my wrath.

I was living in England on a two-year assignment. This Latino wanted my job when my tour of duty was complete and in order to gain exposure, could I please staff him on my projects? From the Grinch Who Stole Christmas hardness of my heart, I told him that there were better qualified people. As thin as glaze on a donut, I layered a veneer of helpfulness over my contempt and suggested he seek out similar projects in Latin America. The most amazing thing happened – he did just that. And now I was even angrier. Would he stop at nothing to get what he wanted? How non-martyr-like. The venom filling my veins was spilling everywhere. I recruited another colleague and every chance we got, we spent our time bashing this unsuspecting muchacho.

A strange phenomenon happens when anger turns to hatred. It starts to destroy the body from the inside out. The day came when I could physically feel the damage I was inflicting…on myself. I made a promise to God, myself, and several other human beings that I would no longer gossip about my compadre. And by God, I stuck to it. Even though at times it hurt like hell, not one more negative word passed through my lips. I turned down each and every opportunity to say something disparaging. I was even told I wasn’t any fun anymore. I even went so far as to say nice things about him once in a while.

And then a grace-filled miracle arrived. Literally, it happened over a weekend. Somehow between Friday and Monday, the hatred vanished. It hadn’t just seeped away like water down a slow drain. It had been removed and replaced with what felt like…admiration. This guy had guts. He asked for what he wanted. He accommodated when the answer was no, but kept his eye clearly set on the goal. He was flexible like a tree in a storm when faced with obstacles. He moved with the direction of the resistance instead of against it and stayed rooted in what he hungered for most. He knew how to honor his Sacred Hunger. I became his cheerleader. I supported him at every chance I got. When he finally moved to England, he asked me for guidance on all things…big and small. I felt blessed to be asked. Spirit had worked with me to teach me I had to release him and then I was released.

But what to do right now with the insidious flicker of anger burning in the pit of my stomach? And the clenched jaw? Oh yes. I am angry at my husband. My rights – as I define them – are not meshing well with his expectations of what he wants me to be. I’m pretty sure he’d say the same thing about my expectations of him.

As I stomp to the cafeteria for lunch, I am hell bent on having a brownie. Not because I am really even hungry for a brownie. But because I am Hungry. Hungry with a capital H is always uncomfortable because it is calling for something new. I want to leap out of myself and eating a brownie is the quickest, surest, most familiar route to leaving. Instead, I need to listen to my Sacred Hunger.

I ask for help. I pray to release my need to change anything. By acknowledging the pain of thinking I wasn’t being heard and thinking I wasn’t being respected, I turn the full force of my compassionate attention towards my bruised and aching heart. And then I make a decision to remember all the ways my husband loves me, from the diamond earrings at Christmas to the way he picks up the coffee cups I leave around the house. From how he is gentle and kind to my 87 year old aunt to buying a newspaper so we can do the crossword together.

I remember that when I withhold love from another, I withhold it from myself. Shoving my pain and anger down with a brownie won’t work because it isn’t what I am Hungry for. I want compassion for all the times I was not heard, all the times I was not respected, and forgiveness for all the ways I did not listen, all the times I chose to disrespect another. Forgiveness and compassion. My Latino friend taught me well.

The choice between a brownie and forgiveness isn’t always easy. One bleeds and one feeds. Choose forgiveness when you can. And when you can’t, forgive yourself for the brownie. You’re doing your best. We all are.

Blessed Be.
Sandi

How Much Fun Can You Have?

My family was gathered at my aunt’s house in celebration of her 85th birthday. As is my usual custom, I body swerve the adults and hang with my sister’s three oldest children who just might be my greatest teachers.

Julia, the oldest at 11 teaches me about determination and self-confidence. Nine year old Kaitlyn teaches me about creativity and willingness to believe in things unseen as we hunt among the peony bushes for faeries and gnomes. And then, there is James.

Our James is a little sprite at 7 who actually does slightly resemble Smeagle/Gollum from Lord of the Rings, only with much better teeth, more hair, and a twinkle in his eye that could only rival that of jolly old Saint Nick.

Until that day, James, in all of his exuberance, did not know how to skip or gallup. After we had played an exhausting and lung-expanding game of tag, I began to teach him these skills, which are so essential for growing up. Gallupping and skipping through the green velvet carpet of lawn, ducking the low hanging tree branches and gasping for breath, James suddenly pulled to a screeching halt while still grasping my hand and yelled at the top of his lungs: “Sandi! How much fun can you have?”

Indeed. How much fun can I have? During the depths of my food addiction, I lived my life as a series of “have to’s”, “must do’s” and shoulds. Life was serious business. I’ve discovered one of my core beliefs says there is nobility in struggle, and life is about working and striving and being a martyr. No fun at all. James tries to teach me how to play. James teaches me that if something is worth doing, it is worth doing in the messiest, loudest, rowdiest way possible. I love this about him, and I love that I am open enough to recognize God winking and saying "Lighten up," through the tremulous voice of a seven year old. This grabbing at the world with both hands to get his share is something I am just learning about.

And when I forget to keep my fun tank filled because I’ve reverted to this serious business of living, there is always Sacred Hunger to remind me that life is out of balance. When I am not having enough fun, I get cranky. Fast. When I am not looking at the world with a sense of wonder and awe in the way that our James does, I start wanting to look for sweetness, wonder, and awe in chocolate. Eating in healthy, life-enhancing ways becomes just another should, must, and ought to, and rebellion is just a stone’s throw away. I am Hungry.

Sacred Hunger calls my name in the voice of James that echoes in my heart whispering “How Much Fun Can You Have?” As I relax into play, the Sacred Hunger is satisfied and food is just food instead of the center of my life.

Some of the ways I’ve found to feed this Sacred Hunger are wandering in a fabric shop for an hour soaking up color and pattern. Leaving Christmas lights up until February just because they are beautiful and they make my husband happy. Watching squirrels draw their bushy tails up over their bodies on a hot summer day while effortlessly balanced on a tree limb in an attempt to cool off. Jumping in rain puddles and crunching through autumn leaves that look like multi-colored confetti. . Taking a writing class. Having friends over for a potluck dinner party. Getting beat in a game of Crazy Eights by my beloved husband, who is also a James that goes by Jimmy.


My wish is that this list inspires you to find your own ideas of “How Much Fun Can You Have?” Oh playmate, come out and play with me….and tell me….How can play become your personal answer to Sacred Hunger?

Blessed Be.
Sandi

Sacred Hunger Is Born

A Love Letter

I love to eat. Being a compulsive eater is what I know best in all of the world. I've spent more than forty years battling my hunger. Most of the time, the hunger won. A hot fudge brownie sundae sounded like the best idea to any of life's problems. Until it didn't work anymore.

I love recovery. Long after the food stopped working as a solution in my life, I was introduced to a program of recovery. I found and tasted freedom from food obsession. But more than that, I found a way back to my self through listening to stories of others and telling my own. Acceptance and compassion began to melt my hurt and open my heart.

I love to read. As I listened to my heart, I found my way to the writing of Geneen Roth who said it was entirely possible to learn to eat when hungry, stop when full and understand that when I ate compulsively, I was drowning in a river of longing without any idea of how to express it. I sat on my deck one day in July and knew that I could not go back to weighing and measuring and controlling my food. And then I binged on cake for a month. But in the process, I couldn't get it out of my mind that there was something inside me waiting to be voiced.

I love to talk. Sometimes just to hear the sound of my own voice. But mostly to hear Spirit speak through you and through me and lead us to the path of our own greatness. Kicking and screaming the whole way, of course.

I love to create. I have been participating in an on-line support forum for learning to eat like a normal person. I was dissatisfied with how the participation in the forum was shaping up. I was getting hungry. Hungry for something of my own. Unwaveringly, unreservedly, unabashedly hungry. I started to tell my friends. They smiled and reminded me that.....

I love to write. For as long as I can remember, I've been telling myself and listening to y'all telling me that I should write a book. Since most days I don't remember where I left my keys, the prospect of diving into a book was a little more than intimidating. Besides, what would I have to say? What would I have to share with the world that might actually mean something or make someone's life better?

So here we are. I'm going to write and talk about hunger with a capital H. Hunger that tells me there is more to life than just getting by and making do. Hunger that tells me I'm here for a purpose and so are you....and it has nothing to do with a number on the scale or the size jeans I'm wearing. It has everything to do with a hunger so deep that even the biggest hot fudge brownie sundae won't shut it up. Come with me...in search of our heart's desire. Our Sacred Hunger.

Blessed be.
Sandi