An Anniversary

In August 2022, after years of declining health and mobility and increasing pain, I made a decision to change my life. This is a photo of me in September 2022.

And this is me today, 70 pounds lighter.

First I made the decision to get stronger, so I started strength training twice a week for 20 minutes at a time at a local specialty gym called The Exercise Coach. Then I added cardio to my habits; my favorite gym machine is the elliptical, and I'm a big fan of walking. After a couple of months, I was ready to reduce my intake of calories gradually and track what I ate. I figured there was no timeline except the rest of my life, so progress could be incremental. The practice of losing weight a few ounces per week is what kept me going, because I decided that all foods were acceptable to eat as long as I was honest and tracked it, that starvation would lead to exhaustion and rebellion, and the key to all this is feeling good in my body while shedding weight. 

After the first 25 pounds shed, I saw an endocrinologist who suggested I try a GLP-1 medication. She said it would likely help, as I had "hacked my own psychology" by doing healthy things. I would not be using the shot and expecting it to do all the work. So I tried it, and I am among the percentage of people who were not disabled by side effects and for whom it worked. It was very odd to experience the shift. "Food noise" is real. The medication quieted that. It also dampened my feeling of appetite for many other good things. But I've figured out a way to adapt. I imagine I will take this medication for the rest of my life, as part of the chronic condition of obesity.

I'm now at a weight I was in my thirties, and I was functional and strong. I can remember well-intended suggestions by men that if I just lost some weight, I'd be really pretty. But honestly? I feel and look good.

So yes, I could lose more weight. I'm technically in the "overweight" BMI for my height. However, I have figured out a way to live and enjoy my life, even with the limitations of exhaustion (from aging, from battling cancer, and surgery). So for the time being, I'll keep on as I have been. 

Happy Independence Day!

I want to celebrate something today, and this story is definitely at the top of my list. Kelsey Pfendler just rowed all by herself, unassisted, from Monterey to Hawaii, over 2,400 miles! She did it in 43 days, which means she broke the record for speed for all genders (that's 50-55 miles a day!). She turned 32 during the trip. She's the youngest person and first American woman to do this. In the process, she raised money for a nonprofit that provides mental and physical health services to Grand Canyon river guides, The Whale Foundation. Her Facebook videos through her trip are uplifting and educational. I figure this is a reason to celebrate the 4th. 

In her last video on the water, she encouraged people to take the risk and do the big, hard, scary thing standing between them and a dream. I'm reminded that when I was 31 (1994), my big hard scary thing was moving sight unseen over 1,800 miles from Syracuse, NY, to Austin, TX with no job or abode secured. I disposed of many possessions to lighten my load and shipped some boxes to my brother. I paid off my car loan and loaded up my little Blue Belle. Then I drove into a new life. The big hard scary things didn't stop once I arrived. It took several years to gain a sense of stability, belonging, and confidence. The next big hard scary thing I did was quit my job and go to graduate school to become a psychotherapist. That was a project. I graduated in 1999, and received my license in 2003. 

These feats put me on a trajectory toward a life I had scarcely dreamed I could have. We can do hard things!

This quote is what I referred to repeatedly as I prepared to move to Texas. 

“Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative and creation, there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too.

All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favour all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. I have learned a deep respect for one of Goethe's couplets:
Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now.”

- William Hutchison Murray,The Scottish Himalayan Expedition

The Ogre and the Girl Who Nevertheless Persisted

From an exercise in Your Life As Story, Chapter 3: My Fairytale and Letter

The Ogre and the Girl Who Nevertheless Persisted

Once upon a time there was a girl who was born to an old-fashioned father in an era of feminism. Growing up she displayed aptitude for language and writing and did well academically. However, there were problems: she was raised in the Catholic church, in which females did not have a prominent role. She was drawn to religion even as a young child, but as she grew up her perception of God was shaped by her view of her father. Another problem was her parents’ perception of her ability, especially her father’s. She expressed interest in becoming a teacher; he negated it, saying there was a glut of teachers. She said she wanted to be a writer, a journalist, but was told she wasn't competitive enough to succeed. She revealed a desire to be a psychologist but was told she was too emotional. Because she could not declare without hesitation exactly what she wanted to do with her life that fell outside these three interests, because he was conservative and would not support her in pursuit of a liberal arts education, and because he had the money, she adjusted her educational goals to suit him.

In high school she became involved in a teen Catholic prayer group. She became a vocal, “born again” Christian, a role which defined her life for four years. She lived in dread of making mistakes. Her parents were experiencing relationship problems, notably her father launching into rages at her mother. The girl felt it was all because of her not being good enough, so she tried even harder to be good and perfect. Because of her eldest sister’s departure from college after one year, he would not allow her to go away to school. She received supportive feedback from teachers about her intellect, but felt there was no point because since age 12 her father told her he wouldn’t let her go away to school. Because of her second-eldest sister’s reneging on a parental loan for a car, he would not allow her to get her driver’s license while she lived under his roof. Her life was bound in negatives. In 1981 she applied to the community college under one major, human services; her father repeatedly told her she would only end up working in a welfare office, which sounded depressing. So before school started she switched to food service management, thinking it would at least provide a creative outlet. She quickly learned that cooking was not her passion and changed to business administration. She was miserable. She felt underused, dissatisfied, not academically challenged in any way. She had to take the bus two hours each way daily, or scrabble rides from classmates. After one year, she recognized the waste of time and money involved, and she told her father she would withdraw and seek work.

One week after informing him of her decision, he asked her if she’d gotten a job yet. She replied she had not, and he assumed she hadn’t been looking. He flew into a tirade about how he would not permit her to leech off of him. He stated she would have to start paying rent at $100 a month plus her own groceries. Shortly after, she found a job as a dental assistant that paid a low wage; she could not afford to move out of her parents’ house. After eight months the dentist decided to take a seven week vacation and laid her off. She quit (she needed income) and searched for another job. In 1983, desperate to become competitive in the job market, she entered a business school to pursue a degree in secretarial studies. She didn’t want to, but again, financial aid depended on her father, who only supported practical, clerical subjects for her; the government required he report his income to assess aid, and he resisted. She pushed and he relented, and she ended up borrowing $5,000 to fund this. The school was a diploma mill, not totally legitimate, and again, she loathed the classes. After six months she quit and, using the money from the loan, moved out on her own. She then got a job as a secretary at Syracuse University in 1984. It was an awful job, where the Dean of Students required females to wear skirts and dresses only, where she was given menial tasks and was rebuked for wanting to take on more work. She spent many hours looking busy, which exhausted her. 

Still unsure of what she wanted to study, and struggling with her sense of self and place in life, she meandered through the days. She had remitted tuition benefits, but she started courses and dropped them. After a year, she transferred to a job at the university library, where she immersed herself in reading and books. Her job bored her, and she barely made ends meet. However, she at least could wear jeans and casual clothes and spend many hours getting paid to read and research, which she did love. Gradually she became more serious about her education, and she grew stronger in her sense of ownership over her own life. She took courses she enjoyed and recognized the spark of intelligence within her. She decided in her mid-20s to study psychology, despite what her father would think. She knew it wouldn’t guarantee a job, but she also knew she had skills to at least feed herself. She wanted to study what she loved, a subject that engaged her and made her think. And despite the fact she’d lived on her own for over five years, she felt compelled to explain her decision in a letter to her father. She also wanted to go away to college and have the typical college experience.

In 1989, she applied to a couple of state colleges and was accepted. However, she had no savings. She would have to borrow student loans, but she didn’t know if that would be enough. Her father offered to provide some funding, a loan of $8,000, to be paid upon graduation. The conditions of the loan stated she could not marry, get pregnant, buy a vehicle, or take a vacation while in school, and that she would work temp jobs on her breaks. The arrangement of the loan filled her with foreboding, which she expressed to her mother. Her mother’s response was that if she really wanted the education, to swallow her pride and sign the contract. She did, with reluctance. Off she went, and she did well her first semester. In her second semester, concerned about the amount she borrowed and her father’s implied timeframe for repayment (within five years of graduation), she attempted to adjust her course load so she could graduate sooner. She and her brother were both home for spring break. Her proposal violated her father’s sense of the contract she had signed and was met with his rage and refusal; he grilled her about her expenditures. He behaved as in the past, like a despot. During this encounter, she had an epiphany. At age 26, he was still treating her as if she were 8, and he acted as though he owned her. He said ugly things to her about being a failure, a quitter, and not being his daughter, and he lunged toward her. His emotions were so apoplectic that her brother had to physically intervene to keep their father from reaching her. She decided that her dignity and autonomy were more valuable to her than an education, and she left his house. She finished out the semester (spring 1990) by living with a friend and commuting to the college (100 miles round trip in a borrowed vehicle) and returned to her library job with one year of credits left to earn.

Shortly after leaving, she received a memo from her father through her mother. In this she learned that her father had intended to forgive the entire debt upon her graduation (a decision he declined to share because he thought knowing would make her squander the opportunity), that he wanted the house-key returned, and that he did not want to see or have any contact with her until he decided he wanted it. This was cold, but typical of him. The woman just decided to let go of the desire for a college degree for awhile. She was very, very depressed, more so than she had ever been. Too much was in flux in her life; she didn’t even have a place to live. So she focused on acquiring the basics, on regaining stability, so she could rest and reassess the situation. She sorely needed a means of reliable transportation, and she needed money to pay for classes that the college required she take on campus.

In spring of 1991, she managed to find a deal on a new little car and arranged the loan. This was freedom! Her world opened. With this exhilarating change she felt renewed. She spoke to her boss about changing her work schedule to accommodate the classes she would need to take during the day. Her boss supported this; the endeavor would demand much of her, in that she would work in the morning, commute 100 miles in the afternoon for class, and finish her job in the evening. But it was possible, and she embraced this. In the summer of 1991 she took classes at Oswego, and coursework in the fall at both campuses. In spring of 1992 she took more courses at the university where she worked to transfer to the Oswego. Exhausted but nearly finished, she plowed through more summer and fall courses, and finished her studies in December 1992. Her goal had been to get her B.A. by the day she turned 30. Her birthday was June 24, 1993; she garnered her achievement six months ahead of that deadline. After ten years of hard work and struggle to overcome emotional, financial, and academic obstacles, our heroine prevailed. With the degree that society claimed was necessary to find advanced work, she could move ahead.
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My dear child,
I know I started parenthood quite late in life, and it is my hope that I gained some wisdom to share by waiting. My life was not problem-free growing up; nor was my early adulthood easy. I had to fight for my opportunities. Lacking money and moral support, I spent many years confusedly searching for my path. Sometimes I am wistful, wondering what else I might have accomplished had my life been different, but this is a waste of time. Besides, there is a central message here, in my life: persevere. No matter that your dream is scoffed at, or that you fear you lack the ability. If your heart whispers to you about what you love, if you harbor a dream, believe in it. And then do all you can to manifest this dream, keeping it in sight as life takes you hither and yon. As long as you hold this dream and nurture it, it will grow. It may not flourish all the time, but it will grow. As I look back on my life, this is one clear lesson it taught me.

Tend Your Fire

Your inner landscape is a forest that has grown for six decades.

Very little new can grow, and it makes sense that you can't figure 

out which way to go. Everything is overgrown,

tangled, and dense. Nothing can move through it.

All this growth is the result of living your life in the context of your parents' lives,

and their experiences influenced how they parented. Your forest holds all of 

their trauma, which was untreated.

Yes. They did the best they could. And in many ways they did a great job.

But in raising you they implicitly handed you their emotional undergrowth.

And they were also a generation of savers and holders; possessions

held meaning and create attachment. This generation feels that objects have 

great value, which is simply one worldview -- not an absolute Truth. 

This has been your reality; it's the element in which 

you grew up. So of course you haven't really seen this.

It's been your normal.

You built a life within that emotional structure and

created as meaningful a life as possible, and it's been a

good life. When you transitioned from career to retirement,

the structure fell away, and now you are noticing how

stifled your soul feels.

Maybe you don't need to burn it all down.

But controlled burns could be useful.

To start a fire you need a spark.

Somewhere within you there is a hot spot, a few embers

that have quietly burned your entire life.

It is the mystery of consciousness when it is embodied.

As long as our bodies are alive, it exists.

So why has it not ignited all the overgrowth yet? 

It's buried so deeply in your subconscious,

like the underground coal fire in an abandoned mine

in Centralia, Pennsylvania, which has burned 

since 1962.

Your equanimity about your parents doing

the best they could is the dense earth,

weighed by gravity, covering your buried fire.

You have a gentle temperament with a compassionate 

streak. It's a gift. And yet any trait in excess creates

challenges. This is yours.

Your work is to uncover your embers, let

air in, rearrange the fuel, and allow ignition.

Fire is amazing. It can be destructive when unconfined, 

but it can warm us, give light, keep us alive. We get 

to have s'mores with them. Tend your fire.

-Kathryn Harper

Resurrection

Resurrection

Healing began when her eyes beheld herself,
her heart quickening at the recognition
that she wanted to live again.
Restoring soul to body is a process of reconciliation.

The journey began with a decision to be touched.

There is a vital difference in the quality
of being touched and receiving touch.
Tender as a mother, sensuous as a lover,
transcending into power and wholeness.

When the hour is done, she knows she is a
beloved daughter, a beautiful woman,
having given her entire self,
body and soul, into the hands of Love.

-Kathryn Harper

“Massage” by Jean-Louis GANDON, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Neighborhood Activism

 

I'll begin this post with the standard disclaimer that I do not support or encourage anyone breaking the law and putting graffiti up in public places. I'll say, as well, that I have seen visually gorgeous and compelling graffiti on occasion, especially that of Banksy. But don't do it, 'kay?

And yet, someone in my neighborhood recently went around spraying "FUCK TRUMP" in vivid red on utility boxes, walls, and other places -- one of them being the stop sign limit line at an intersection two blocks from me. Another place I saw it was on a construction fence near me, where a massive Kaiser addition is being built. I waited a day to grab a photo and it had been painted over, but I took a photo and can still see the underlying message. 

I admit to feeling a zing of satisfaction and solidarity that someone has decided their activism involves painting the world with a repudiation of this man, what he represents, and all the harm he has committed. Thank you, mystery neighborhood activist! Well done.

A Bridge Too Far ... On Alex Pretti