The Box: It's Soapy (Rachel's Race Relations)

Take a walk with me, for a moment, down memory lane.  It's mid-May.  I'm wobbling around in physical therapy, being poked and prodded by my knowledgeable (by knowledgeable I really mean "pain-producing") therapist who is twisting me up a like a pretzel for healing purposes.  There is a man on the butcher table next to me who is equally being poked and prodded for very different yet similar reasons; Both of us intent on following doctor's orders while also secretly despising the discomfort experienced at the hands of our clinically-trained punishers. 

At first glance, it would seem that we have absolutely nothing in common... not age, gender, race, context of why we find ourselves in PT in the first place.  At the on-set, we are two perfectly-timed strangers experiencing an instantaneous common-ground at the hands of clinical professionals.   This similarity alone elicits a friendly response from me, and it wasn't an entirely selfless one either.  It was a sort of an oh dear God, please talk to me to lest I cry in pain situation. 

Winning.

Sam (this is not his real name; less out of concern for the innocent, more because I forgot his real name) was kind enough to acquiesce to my desire for friendly banter.  The banter soon became an actual conversation upon the revelation of one fact: Sam is a retired school teacher. 

Sam's history of employment sparked a barrage of questions: How long did you work there? When did you retire? What was teaching like for you? Did you enjoy it? Call me nosey if you must, but I do prefer the kinder, gentler adjective: curious.  This was only the beginning of Sam's interrogation, however.  Eventually, Sam revealed that he was the first African American staff member of this particular high school. 

My synapsis lit up like a Christmas tree at this very moment.  I've yet to experience the honor of being the first white anything.  Thus far in my 36 years of life, the pigmentation of my skin has not yet been a barrier or even a descriptive worth noting.  Why?  Because it has not been an identifier that qualified me as being something or someone "new". 

The cornucopia of genetics that make me Rachel include traces of German, English, Scottish, Irish and Native American descent.  I do not have the warm olive undertones of my father.  Nor do I have the beautiful porcelain underlay of the fairer kind.  I carry the nothing-spectacular pigmentation of the general Caucasian blend complete with residual pock-marks of teenage acne.  Granted, Native American ethnicities have their own special box to check in the demographic sections of most paper work, but for the sake of brevity, I'm freaking white. 

Wait... I'm white?!?

My gender has come up against some fallout in various circles, most notably of the religious and professional sort.  Being a woman has presented its own challenges in society, particularly regarding the art of being an unmarried and childless one.  My capacity for rational thought has been questioned without regard to my actual ability to think.  But this has nothing to do with my skin color.

Economically, I grew up in a family without excess.  The five of us lived in a 999 square foot house which was not large by any means, but it was enough.  We didn't "keep up with the Jones'" which made little difference to me as I didn't know who the hell the "Jones'" were.  I do recall drawing little blue rectangles on the backs of my shoes to make them look like name brand "Keds."  I also remember the overall feel that if the Faded Glory jeans I wore were discovered to be something other than GAP, that I should probably just stick my head in my locker until the bell rang.  But again... nothing to do with race. 

I dug deep into the wrinkles of my brain to recall if being white was ever a glass ceiling I was forced to break through.  For me, it wasn't.  It isn't.  Was I ever the recipient of anger from other ethnicities? Sure, and it's maddening.  Have I ever been discriminated or felt judged because of my skin color?  Yes.  And it sucks; cuts right to the core.  Elicits a general "You don't know me!" from the depths of my Virginian soul. 

But I've never been legally prohibited from participating in life because of my race.  I have not experienced lawmakers generalizing what a group of folks are allowed to do because of my skin.  Not even the Native American part of me... it's not obvious enough.  And I was graced with having the "white" box checked on my birth certificate.  No issue there. 

So I pressed Sam further.  He was a native to the area and grew up in this very community.  He was a contemporary of things I only read about in history books: mainly, segregation.  Here.  Right here where I lived and grew up... segregation ACTUALLY happened.  This man, who was presently folded in half and standing on his head for PT enjoyment, experienced something that I have not... the prohibition of my person because of my skin color.  I. Can't. Even.

Sam did not tell me these things out of anger.  I didn't hear any resentment or blame.  For Sam, it was an existential fact.  He didn't know any different at the time.  It's not that white people were necessarily mean to him... just that, they had their place, and he had his.  It wasn't until integration happened that, for Sam, things got scary.  He shared that some parents did not participate in integration; less because they did not agree with it, more because of fear that their children could come up against aggression by those not sympathetic to the cause. 

Sam's parents?  Sympathetic.  He walked into school that day and was scared to death.  It was new territory.  He recalled some of the white children taunting him, calling him THE word, inviting him to go back to where he belonged... you get the drift.   Sam couldn't get home fast enough those first few weeks.  Luckily, for the Sam, the voices of the few eventually got drowned out by the seeming indifference of the many... and the occasional taunting of those who felt superior held less power over him. 

I would like to take a moment here to point out something important.  As I listened to Sam, not once did he seem to point any fingers.  Not once did Sam seem to blame his experience on anyone.  For Sam, it was the reality of his day and the result of old legislation that had run its course.  I was so enthralled by Sam's story that I forgot about the abuse going at the hands of my physical therapist.  I believe she pulled me apart and put me back together a minimum of three times. 

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Sam would go on to graduate, earn a degree and make it full circle right back to the very school system that once prohibited him from joining his white brothers and sisters.  Now he would be teaching them himself... as the first black full time staff member.  The irony, is that this honor was not necessarily a reality because Sam aimed to be the first black somebody.  The honor was a reality simply because there was no black person who had DONE it before him.  It hadn't been all that long ago that a black person COULD, according to the law books.

Today, there are Black Americans in our midst who heard first hand stories from ancestors about being owned.  Today, there are Black Americans in our midst who not only remember, but LIVED according to the laws that once, quite literally, divided us.  Sure there are those that continue to point fingers.  And there are those for whom this was never their reality, even way back when.  But it doesn't negate the very real fact that there are those for whom this affected.

Sam, oh wonderful Sam, returned to the very community that once told him that Black is sorta whack.  He wasn't angry... he just showed up, followed his passion of teaching young people, happily retired and now found himself still educating "young" people sitting from his new desk known as the "butcher table" in a PT office. 

I share this not because I am interested in pushing any one agenda.  I share this not because I have any interest in pointing fingers or hanging the past over the heads of us white people.  I bring this up because this is a pebble in the stream of our nation's history, whose ripples are still there... whether we like it or not.  Sam was... is... continues to be an amazing teacher, race notwithstanding. 

I'm not suggesting atonement for the sins of the White people either.  What I am advocating for is understanding the bigger picture; Understanding that our history has flaws and injustices and ugly parts that some are still reeling from on many accounts (race, gender, economics, stereotypes, politics, accents, etc).  I long for peace and community and the healing of old wounds... and the realization that not everyone is angry, but many live out their days on the anger of others.  To be the change, I propose being the presence of acknowledgement, of grace and of getting to the nitty gritty reality that we are all humans with baggage.  We are all humans with a story.  We are all humans who generally want the best for our families and friends... and that's a good place to start.  That's a common ground we can all launch from. 

One Nation Under Who?

The Nation's pledge reads:

"I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

I see the "under God" portion of the pledge used as a reference point to support the idea that the US of A is a "Christian" nation. 

Here's another history lesson (I'm SUCH a nerd for this).

The Pledge of Allegiance was written in August 1892 by the socialist (yes, SOCIALIST!) minister Francis Bellamy (1855-1931). It was originally published in The Youth's Companion on September 8, 1892. Bellamy had hoped that the pledge would be used by citizens in ANY country.
In its original form it read:

"I pledge allegiance to my Flag and the Republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

In 1923, the words, "the Flag of the United States of America" were added. At this time it read:

"I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

In 1954, in response to the Communist threat of the times (dang Commies), President Eisenhower encouraged Congress to add the words "under God," creating the 31-word pledge we say today. (Interestingly, Bellamy's daughter objected to this alteration though I still can't determine why exactly). 

Personally I don't take a whole lot of the issue with the phrase "under God"... it does not offend me.  Though I see the potential for a sticky wicket.  God, for me, has the potential to be broad enough that it can mean many things to many different people.  For our Jewish brothers and sisters, God may be the same as YHWH (English alliteration of the Hebrew for Yahweh).  For our Muslim brothers and sisters, God may be the same as Allah.  For our deist or "other" brothers and sisters, God can mean a general concept of the divine.  It's when we get to the Atheists that things can get sticky... and requires a touch more consideration.  And perhaps, for this reason alone, makes the pledge an exclusive one.  I'm not a fan exclusivity. 

In that vein, I do not believe the phrase "under God" to be a religious one.  It's not a confession of a nation's faith or morality.  Rather, it's a confession of a nation's intended unity under a supreme Guide if you will... aaaaaaand in response to the Communist threat (which was also largely driven by fear, let's not kid ourselves here.)

Furthermore, I take no issue with anyone believing whatever they want to about the religious identity of the country they live in... I only take issue when it's pushed on others as the only way to go about doing, seeing, thinking, touching, relating, etc.  If what we are taught in school is true, and those before us settled here in this land to flee religious persecution and establish religious freedom, wouldn't it be logical (and true to the foundation of this place we call US of A) to continue that path? 

Allowing others to believe as they see fit is not an act of condoning on your part.  It's an act of respecting, communing and loving-the-neighbor-as-you-love-yourself-ing.  It's not betraying your convictions or beliefs, it's putting some scary-ass back bone behind being in community with people who may need your kindness, your support and friendship.  This is the real meat and potatoes of it all.  I believe it was St. Francis who said "Preach the gospel at all times; and when necessary, use words."  The Bible says that God does not give a spirit of fear. 

Go with that.  Trust that.  I challenge you =)

Ye Olde Ball-n-Chain

I get it... actually I have a lot of compassion for both sides of the marriage equality issue.  I don't know if this comes as surprise or not, but whatever the case, I've been on the both sides of this camp.  My personal life set aside, I've grappled and chewed and guffawed my way through this stuff while in seminary, and finally arrived at the "who gives a shit" political stance.  And here is why...

I am a history enthusiast.  I love history... that stuff that makes a lot of folks yawn or wish for a stiff drink... yeah, I flock to that like white on rice (and no, that is not intended to be any sort of racial slur or cultural jab - we've gotten REALLY off track with the offenses lately).  During my time in graduate school, I studied theology and church history... the two go really nicely together like french fries and ketchup. 

Sparing you the details of EVERYTHING that I learned, my relationship to the church, the bible and denominational hub-bubs changed significantly.  And with that change, my understanding of God and relationships and community as a whole shifted. 

Hence my compassion and understanding of the more, uh I hate labels but I'm about to use one for the sake of brevity... "conservative" of our brothers and sisters.  I get where they are coming from, primarily because I was once in that camp myself.  And yes, I realize that I am generalizing based on my own experience which does not necessarily include all view points. 

When an individual's relationship (or culture, or identity, or survival, or emotion, or longing for structure of things that cannot be explained, etc) to the world around them is seen through the lenses of Adam and Eve with a creation story and a God Incarnate known as Jesus and a Bible that is considered to be not only holy but, for some, infallible (which particularly frightens me), then that defines how to understand things such as money, service, discipline, family and... dare I say it... marriage.  Or at the very least, offers some pretty hefty guidance and boundaries.

Having been there, I get it. 

I can also say that whatever frustrations or opinions foisted upon this "conservative" camp, for most the part the intention is not one of bigotry or hate or judgment.  Rather, it's an understanding of the "how" and "why" of the world around them... some, I've seen it, are driven by sheer fear that God will smite and destroy if things don't go in the way they feel God has communicated.  It can certainly feel like bigotry.

Oh wait, there was that slavery thing... that's a different blog entry.

Oh, and there's that one time I saw the evangelist in the street spit in a dude's face and call him a fag... yeah, this does actually happen.  And it doesn't feel very good to see it.

For those who do not have this particular thought process when relating to the world around them, then naturally it seems or appears... um... silly? hateful? blind? The understanding of the world and how to relate to it is based on a different basis... maybe there's a God involved?  Maybe there's several or none at all? 

In short, we could be thinking the very same thing about each other!

My problem isn't with the "conservatives" or the Christians.  My problem is with the idea that marriage is something that is first and foremost defined by the church... and here's why....

In June of 2009, I was authorized to officiate weddings, both civil and religious, within the Commonwealth of VA (and other states who did not require specific permission within their state lines).  I was not authorized within the church.  I was authorized before the Circuit Court judge. 

When applying for a marriage license, couples in Virginia do not go before the church or their pastor for this document right?  Right... they go to the clerk of the Circuit Court.  It is local government deal man.  Not a religious one. 

In other words, if gays want to marry, and you have religious opinion on it, that's cool.  If you are a pastor and do not support gay marriage, I fully support the freedom to refuse performing the ceremony.  I still believe that all should hold tight to the freedom of conscience.  (Besides, there are plenty of churches who do.) 

I stand up for the church's right to define marriage as they see fit by their own conviction and moral code.  I stand up for the church's right to adhere to their own belief system (because there are tons and tons of different churches let me tell ya). 

I would caution those of us in the, ugh here I go again, "liberal" camp (I've also been told that I was "progressive", "mislead", "disillusioned", "stupid", "disappointing", "weird", "an abomination", "out there", "sick bitch", "dumbass", "awful sinner", by people that I have loved and respected... the list goes on)... to not exercise the same sort of "intolerance" in reverse.  Ya know what I'm saying?  Sure I've wanted to throat punch and call names and react because this stuff can cut ya to the quick (therapy helps!)... but isn't that also perpetuating the problem here?

Marriage can be defined as a union between and man and woman if a church wants to do that.  But as an entire defining system for a country with a host of non-Christians or "liberal" Christians alike, marriage is not a monopoly.  I mean, I know it's scary for our conservative folk... but I promise you, God is way bigger than your fear.

The gays aren't going to hurt your kids or take over the country.  They are just going to exist... like they already do... as your neighbors, coworkers, friends, family and yes... deacons, pastors, lawyers, judges, police officers, veterans, soldiers, mechanics, NFL stars, FABULOUS interior decorators, etc.  This is a human rights thingy... aaaaaaaaaaand therefore has nothing to do with marrying your dog... let's not be ridiculous people.  C'mon.  Dogs can't even cook or clean up after themselves.  Have you met any gay men?  That would never work out.

If you want the ball and chain, go for it.  If you have a particular understanding of marriage?  Have at it.  Humans do as humans do... we love, we're in relationship, in community.  Let morality/religion/spirituality or lack thereof, be an individual choice. 

Let's challenge one another to love, respect, agree to disagree... and ask yourself before you speak:

Is it kind? Is it necessary? 

One of the early Church Father's named Irenaus defined heresy not as difference of opinion; but rather, when that opinion is foisted upon others and creates division. 

Whether Christian or not, I would say that's a pretty rad piece of advice to go by.  Let ALL of God's  the people say... Amen.  

April's Fool

How about wine?

See, the funny thing about a back injury is that it's not really funny.  When a moderate fender bender has the propensity to send me into weeks of convalescence, the humor fades with brevity like no other.  Some days I can push the vacuum with purpose, other days, I need help putting on my pants.  It plays with my ego like a cat plays with a ball of yarn. 

I'm a mover.  I do not sit still very well.  I enjoy having a task ahead of me... it provides me with a sense of purpose and contribution.  Yet this naughty L4 and L5 thingy mocks me on the daily, taunting me with its spasms and stiffness and overall asshat-ed-ness.  Movement is minimal.

Here's a confession: I have grown to loathe the question "How are you?"... primarily because the truthful answer hasn't changed since 4/1/15. 

How am I?  Well, in pain... still.  I can sometimes get off the toilet with ease and I've learned how to pick up all manner of small objects with my toes.  Walking isn't terrible as long as it's not with my dog or anywhere near potential pitfalls.  Sitting is a possibility, but only for brief periods of time lest you wish to watch a 36 year old require 5 minutes to plan out the launch from the edge of the chair.  I've also learned that I prefer chairs with arms on them.  That way, I have some sort of leverage as the catapult takes place. 

As if this wasn't enough to tickle my "I can't stand this" fancy, let's throw a painful cyst in the mix too.  Now NOTHING is comfortable... not laying down, not sitting up... not even breathing at this point.  A tearful trip to the doctor resulted in additional pills. 



Hahahaha... uh, no.

Cue Spinal Tap, because now my pain is up to NUMBER ELEVEN.  Perhaps it was the universe's way of showing me what pain really is.  Okay.  I got it.  It only lasted 3 excruciating days.

Did you know that my breakfast is a smoothie with a handful of pills now?  If you know me, you know how foreign this is for this "I-gag-at-the-thought-of-taking-a-pill" girl.  Unless it's a pain pill... I tend to get over the fear quicker. 



I wanted to jump for joy when the cyst left my ailing body.  Except I can't jump. 

So I had a beer instead.


The hills are alive...

Cue seasonal allergies... I don't have allergies... except for now.  Now I have allergies.  My head wants to implode and my nose wants to fall off.  My eyes almost drifted from my head what with all the watery-ness, and my tonsils are kicking my ear drums with each cough.  Each cough jolts my injured back, and now my voice sounds like Fran Drescher. 


I'm actually looking forward to next week's MRI and nerve blocker.  Yes, please stick a giant needle in my spine.  Please shove me in a coffin-sized tube to take pictures of my innards.  I promise I'll remember to smile.


 

Woe to the Snow

Us southern gentle folk are not made for single digit temperatures for days on end.  No, we're made for wide open porches and sweet tea and golf and stuff.  The mere suggestion of snow is the antecedent to milk and bread disappearing in all surrounding zip codes.  Whole communities shut down with 1/2" of white dusting.  A general sense of incredible joy mixed with life-threatening peril abounds.  Schools cease and desist.  And the novelty that is wintry precipitation takes hold on all of the neighbors... show shovels, sleds, beer. 

The blizzard of February 2015, however, is one for the books.  It's massive wind gusts of 45 mph not only freaked out the dog, it freaked out the humans inside the house next to the big oak tree.  The "white out" conditions could be monitored from the bright lights of the Walmart parking lot across the way... naturally an un-manned, not-even-opened-yet giant corporation was lit up like a Christmas tree while families around the area struggled with no heat. 

The snow fell and fell and fell until all was covered with an albeit beautiful but cold layer of the most powdery and crystalline 6 inches of white your little heart ever did see.  And it was a wonderful experience... for 24 hours.

Then the freezing, refreezing, freezing and refreezing cycle began over the next few days making for life to go back to normal when it really wasn't and I was forced to walk in the snow in my Danskos. 

Don't ever walk in snow in your Danskos.  Not unless you wish to display your God-given talent of mimicking Michael Jackson on your way from the parking deck.  I had a good run for a minute... but was so exhausted by the time I made it in to the actual office, I had to take a nap before I did anything productive.  My colleagues wouldn't let me get any coffee until I moon-walked to the kitchen.

(I may or may not have taken creative license.)

Also, I've never eaten a bread and milk sandwich.  Why are these the items that disappear?  What are households doing with all of the bread and milk?  Is it necessary?  What about things like toilet paper?  Water?  Bourbon? 

The novelty is wearing off.  It's not that I'm interested in rushing through the seasons.  Rather, I'm interested in being able to walk to my car without the bottoms of my pants being wet.  I'm ready to wake up with ease, rather than immediately wondering how many of the coals in my fireplace are still burning.  I'm ready to shower without battling the stark fear of hypothermia.  I'm ready to relive the freedom of shaving my legs without the mockery of leg hair reappearing within 5 minutes. 

I'm ready for temperatures to remain above 20 degrees so that the heat pump doesn't fill me with fear and anxiety that it is on the verge of explosion.  I'm ready to take down the plethora of thermal blankets that have become make-shift curtains. 

I just want my life back.  Dear Winter, you have the propensity for being a real jerk.  I love you in small doses.  But now, I would like to wear my Danskos without being made to jive.  I wish to make that choice alone without your overbearing demeanor.  And my car is filthy with your aftermath. 

You rush in under the guise of seasonal bliss, and trick us all with initial feelings of "yay it's a snow day"-ness.  Only to find that we can't afford to heat the house and personal hygiene becomes a life or death situation.  You have forced me to drink too much beer and not enough wine only because I couldn't make it to the store in time... and no one wants wine sandwiches. 

I will sustain.  I will rebuild.  And I will be happy to find myself standing in 10 feet of dusty blankets to let the actual sunlight into my home.  So take that you wretched cold anomaly of biblical proportions.  What was once white, is now marred with brownish slough and dotted with yellow.  My dog pees on you on the daily.  Why?  Because we're cold; we're wet and we're tired of you messing up our flow. 

Piece of Mind: On Being Mindful

Breathe.  Be present.  Be in the moment, releasing what holds me back.  Let my thoughts quiet down... acknowledge the distraction and gently allow it to float away.  Ahh yes, sweet sweet breaths.

Damn is that flea bite on my ankle? 

Breathing and letting all the stress and anxiety go.  Ahhh yes.  Being one with the univer-

Oh that itches so bad.

Focus... focus... go ahead and succumb to the scratching and focus.  Let's ohm the way to a good day.  Breathing.  Breathing.  Breathing. 

(sounds of dog scratching)

Yes my sweet Lilly pup brings me feelings of joy and happiness.  Oh I should see if she has water.  I will as soon as I'm done because this is important.  Breathe.  Breathe.  Breeeeaaaatttthe.

The fire sure sounds nice.  My shin feels a little warm.  I should scoot back from the fire place a little bit.  I'll keep my eyes closed though so it's not a real distraction.  Breathe. 

Did I bring my chap stick out here?

Breathe.  Gently seeking that still point... that place of perfect calm. 

Oh that's gotta be a flea bite (quick scratch).  Those bastards have mutated into some stubborn brand of flea that laughs at Frontline.  I should probably wash the dogs today with that vinegar stuff.
Do I have vinegar? I need to do laundry.  Where's my chap stick?

Oh Rachel... shhhh.  Okay universe, I'm ready.  Breathe.  Quiet.  Calm.  Breathe.

Did I close the vent on the wood stove? My foot's falling asleep. Ugh, Kirby your breath stinks dude.
You are huffing in my face... why do you always huff in my face?  I feel sleepy.  I will meditate with my eyes open.  That IS a flea bite!  Ugh!  That's it, both dogs are getting baths.  I should probably vacuum.  There are crumbs ground into this rug from last week.  I live in filth.  It takes 5 seconds to vacuum but why does it FEEL like such a chore.

I'm so sleepy.  I suck at meditating.  I used to be SO good at it... but that was also when I worked out all the time and was healthier.  I'm sleepy.

(Walking back to bedroom)

THERE'S my chap stick!  Oh the covers feel so good.  Yes, let's close the eyeballs... breathe... breathe...

I should probably get up and do something productive.  Falling into heavy sedation seems like a productive venue of meditation... breathing is already more relaxed. 

Breathe... breathe...

Have I checked facebook yet? I wonder what everyone is doing today?  I should see if anyone wants to walk dogs together?!  Hmmm, I wonder if I should wash them before or after... Did I bring more firewood in?  I need to work out and get on track before this weight gets out of hand.  I used to be so fit.  My arms are HUGE.  I bet if I meditated and really let go I would find it easier to get on track.  Or maybe it's about meeting me and loving me right where I am.... I don't know... I feel so lazy right now.  And this meditation is about not feeling guilty for it.

I should get up.  There's so much I should be doing.  Did I turn the coffee pot off?  Coffee.  I should make more.  I will when I get up.  Maybe.  I'm noncommittal.  Breathe... breathe.... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

The Super Moon in my Belly

As much as it grieves me to admit this... I am a sensitive person.  I think "grief" is the correct word.  Maybe embarrassed? Hesitant? Scared?  It's a vulnerable thing to admit to myself much less to you guys.  That's also assuming that I've kept it a secret, which is really more like I didn't want to believe it while those around me see it everyday.  Being honest with myself, then, I admit it - I'm a dote.

A good dote... but a dote.

Over this past year the heavens have hosted a series of "super" moons... meaning that the moon is pretty dang close to the planet.  At the risk of sounding super new-agey, this has meaning for me, personally.  And it can be scientifically based for those of us who need a little more concrete data. 

Let's think about it, the moon is known to regulate the tide and swells of the water.  The human body is made up of a lot of stuff, mostly water.  So, to me, new-agey-ness aside, it makes sense that the human body would equally be affected by the moon and it's phases.  It's our own awareness of this that gets muted and dulled. 

Ask any hospitalist, case manager or nurse's assistant that works within facilities and hospitals... a full moon means an influx of activity.  Perhaps police officers and rescue squads may agree?  The moon affects us because, well, we are walking bodies of fluid. 

The moon is also attributed to having an ebb and flow on emotions... the feely kind.  I was a grade-school-ankle-biter when I noticed that the ocean looked angry... it was choppy and brusque and foamy.  Along the same page, a calm, lapping pond elicits feelings of peace and tranquility.  Religious and lyrical writings alike use similar imagery of water to emulate emotion.  The moon, that dynamic orb of rock in the sky, has a direct influence.

What does this have to do with my belly?  Two words: emotional eating.  I do it.  I have since I was wee.  It's an instantly gratifying activity that distracts as much as it comforts.  A mixture of flavors and textures and immediate enjoyment, eating is a one-way-ticket to instant paradise for me. 

Combine this with normal life ups and downs, and this practice becomes a best friend... always there to lift you up and hold you when stress or sadness or anything less-than-okay knocks on your proverbial door.  It's just an eye-opener... and invitation to look deeper into myself.  I want to discover the why and how that this has become such a second-nature happenstance for me...

So I talked to the moon last night.  I said - Hey you, big beautiful glowing rock thing... if you have sway on the who's and what's of my emotions, would you mind showing me how to respond differently?  I mean, it's cool that you can wreak havoc on my psyche and stuff, but uh... give me a surf board or something okay?

Maybe the moon is just showing me what I already know about myself... the food does not have to be a "weakness"... it is a strength.  My response is the challenge to make choices that actually feed by body; to be mindful of when I'm just putting on a band aid re: circumstance or stress or boredom. 

Sometimes I think she mocks me, the moon.  But last night, she smiled as said "Be gentle with yourself.  You're learning a lot."

So I went out to eat Mexican with some friends.  Also, I had two Sangrias.  My belly was so entirely full and expanded that it was as if the moonbeams crawled inside to make a baby super moon.  And as I gazed up at that lunar sphere from the parking lot, I smiled and said, "Well played you punk.  Well played."