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.
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.
posted by No Longer Blogging | 5:17 PM
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