The most important part

5 January 2022

One thing I have neglected to write about this week happens to be the most important ingredient in everything I do. In fact, the most important and chief component in the entirety of my life is God. The bedrock of my life is faith in God and in His Son, Jesus, and the equipping of His Holy Spirit. 

I live by faith, dependent upon God's grace. From waking up in the morning to laying my head on the pillow at night and slipping into slumber, there is truly nothing that I do in my own strength alone apart from Him. Everything, absolutely every thing is only by the grace of God.

So often in life, we hear the phrase that so-and-so "deserves" to succeed, or "deserves" to have good things happen to them. One may work hard at something, so people believe he or she deserves the reward. I believe that what humanity "deserves" is to die and go to hell. We have fallen so far short of the majesty of our eternal Father, and yet, He loves us. Completely and utterly loves us.

Any good we find or earn or receive is a gift from God. Even when one works by the sweat of the brow to accomplish something monumental, the fact is, he or she wouldn't have had the ability to take a breath or put one foot in front of another, let alone conceive and execute intricate plans were it not for the equipping and enabling of the grace of God. 

So at the core of this quest to rid my body of the extra weight its carrying, and find a place of health and peace physically, above all the rules of any plan, I need to be led by the Spirit of God who lives in me. Sometimes that's as simple as trying to be sensitive enough to perceive a "yes" or "no" deep inside. Checking in with what we call the conscience for a peaceful feeling that tells me this seems right or a scratchy feeling that tells me to hold back and wait. 

So I measure everything I'm choosing to do in this quest by whether I have peace about it or whether I'm getting a check in my spirit. So far what seems right is to weigh and measure my breakfast and lunch since those are the things I pack to carry with me to school. Once I'm back to teaching from home, I won't have to pack my lunch anymore. Yay! And for dinner with my husband (I will call him D moving forward), it seems right to eat moderate portions of what I give him so long as it's something healthy and nourishing. Most evenings we have homemade soup and a small salad. I don't have seconds, nor do I have desserts. D doesn't usually either, though sometimes he likes to have a couple belVita cookies and a glass of milk at the end of dinner.  I'm not eating between meals and I don't eat anything in the evening. Once I clean up the dishes, the kitchen is closed as far as I'm concerned. In the afternoon, I will often have a cup of black coffee or tea, but other than water throughout the day, that is all. 

I will report my progress as I go along. If this doesn't seem to move me in the right direction, then I will reassess. But as I said, this seems right to me. 

Digression . . . I do sometimes wonder if anyone will read these posts. For now, it doesn't matter I suppose. I'm writing for me and because this too seems right. I have thought many times over the years about becoming more disciplined with my writing, and that's also a factor in putting my words here. It is time to wind down before going to bed, so I will close with this wish for you and for me.

Peace . . . 

I've been ruined for all others . . .

3 January 2022

Summer 2018

Bright Line Eating is the most effective plan I have ever used in my lifelong war with my weight. On November 6, 2017, I was 5' 3.5" tall, and weighed 245 pounds. I was 58-years old, and a post-menopausal, post-cancer thriving, morbidly obese woman. I began following the Bright Line Eating (BLE) plan. I had read Dr. Susan Peirce Thompson's debut book, Bright Line Eating, The Science of Living Happy, Thin, and Free. 

Within less than a month I had lost 15 pounds. By the 2-month mark, I had lost 27 pounds. In just under 5 months, I reached ONEderland, meaning I was no longer over 200 pounds. And after 11 months, on October 6, 2018, I had lost just over 65 pounds. But sadly by this point, the ship of discipline in which I had smoothly sailed for almost a year began to spring leaks. In myriad significant and insignificant ways life happened. And life has continued to happen ever since. 

I find myself today, more than four years after my initial launch into the BLE life, with my weight over 200 again. I weighed myself this morning and the scale tried to shame me with the number I saw. 210. Despite the success I enjoyed and the freedom I felt for the first time in my adult life, I began to question this stringent way of eating. I tried to reason other ways of getting that would get me where I want to go without being as restrictive. But if the past few years have taught me anything, it's that I had found what works and I stepped away from it. I want what I once had. I want the peace and freedom I experienced. I wasn't finished. I was well on my way, but I wasn't finished. The race wasn't over. And I want to finish the race for the first time in my life. I wanted to defeat the thing that had defeated me for such a long, long time.

I have rejoined the fold by signing up for one year of Bright Line Eating, which includes my second Boot Camp, a rigorous 8 to 10-week course of learning about the science of weight loss, how the brain can and should function when nourished properly and conversely, how it can betray our strongest desires to take control of our eating. And of course, this journey involves behavior change. In addition to the Boot Camp, I now have membership in the ongoing support arm of the organization, Bright Lifers. This is open to those who have completed a Boot Camp and wish to stay connected to, as the founder likes to say, the mothership. 

Even still, with all I know and have tasted (bad pun), some part of me keeps trying to broker a better deal. You see, this plan has four rules for lack of a better word:

1. No sugar of any kind (including honey, maple syrup, stevia, or any other sweetener)
2. No flour of any kind (it's not the grain that's the problem, it's the highly processed nature of flour)
3. Three meals a day with nothing in between
4. Weighed and measured quantities of protein, fruit, vegetables, grains, and fats at each meal

Summer 2018

Why, despite knowing how effective this plan is for dropping weight with relative ease even for those of us in the demographic deemed least likely to be able to lose weight, would something inside me continue to try to talk me out of wholehearted surrender to the plan? One of BLE's mantras if you will, is JFTFP, or Just Follow The Fabulous (though there are those who use a variation of the last F-word) Plan. What part of the internal "me" endlessly tries to sabotage my attempts to lose the extra weight?

Today was supposed to be Day1, but I wasn't true to the plan today. So tomorrow will be my Day 1. One of the disciplines that is encouraged is writing down what you eat the night before. This bypasses will power, because in a clear-thinking manner after eating dinner, I can plan tomorrow's meals without being hungry in the moment and potentially falling to temptation.

So, tomorrow (Tuesday, 1/4/2022) I will eat the following:

• Breakfast: 4 ounces of oatmeal, 1 banana, and 2 ounces of natural peanut butter (just ground peanuts with a little salt), and 1 cup of coffee.
  
• Lunch: 1/2 portion of protein (3 ounces chick peas) and the other portion protein (1 ounce of shredded cheese); 10 ounces of vegetables (a salad with Romaine, kale, matchstick carrots, sliced cooked beets, mini peppers, radishes, and cucumbers); dressing (.5 ounce oil mixed with red wine vinegar, and some seasonings); and an apple. Throughout the day I will drink cold water.
• Dinner: bowl of chicken soup with veggies and a small side salad with the same dressing as at lunch. After dinner, the kitchen will be closed.

One reason I am writing here about all this is because it allows me enough moments of sanity to silence, or at least quiet, the internal voices that try to steer me off course. Another is that I will have a record of the journey to look back upon. That reason, I will admit, is less important to me today. The accountability piece is huge for me.

That is all for tonight. I need to put myself to bed because it's back to school with students tomorrow. I'll be back soon though.

Peace . . .

1 January 2022

Well here we are. Roughly twenty-two hours into this new year. 

Like many, I would imagine, I annually wonder what's ahead for the next twelve months. This year though, there seems to be a greater foreboding about our country and life in general than in the previous years. Yet, with humanity-turned-upside-down due to Covid, mask-wearing, lockdowns or lockouts, and the simple fact that the world I find myself living in bears little if any resemblance to the world in which I grew up, I find that my greatest  hopes and desires for the new year are for peace. 

Peace in my relationships, and in particular with my elderly dad, for whom I am the only family member within arm's reach. Though I am not his caregiver per se, I keep a watchful eye on him and his needs, and I often find this to be a heavier emotional weight than was the rearing our children. He will soon turn 88. My mother, his wife of just shy of 64 years, died more than a year and a half ago. As the only daughter in a family of 5 children, I have assumed the burden of looking after Daddy in the absence of my mom. Thankfully, that does not include him living with us. 

Peace in my work as a teacher. I have spent over twenty years in physical classrooms, and one year--last year--teaching online. Last year showed me how fulfilling teaching could be. I have certainly had precious moments over the years, and developed wonderful relationships with many of my students, but last year I worked harder and longer hours than ever before, while building deep and caring relationships with students, their parents, and the most extraordinary colleagues imaginable. In the words of one of my fellow online teachers last year, this really was my "unicorn job". The one most people only hope for but don't genuinely believe they can have. Peace in this arena for me will mean returning to that school. It will be the last professional move of my career, and I am pursuing it as if my well-being and sanity depend upon it.

Without question, my greatest quest for peace is with my body. It has felt like my nemesis for the majority of my life. Tempting, taunting, and seducing me with with food the way booze calls the name of the alcoholic every waking moment. Four years ago I found a program that worked beautifully for me for months. I dropped seventy pounds as a post-menopausal woman nearing the end of her sixth decade. I felt amazing. Free. Hopeful. Alive! So what happened? I fell off the wagon. Little by little old habits showed up and asked me to dance. They reminded me that food had always been there for me when I was sad or lonely or frightened or depressed. Food was for celebrating or numbing, but rarely for nourishing. 

I began writing this blog years ago as a means of accountability around my eating, in the ever-present hope of losing weight. A dear old well-meaning friend gently chastised me, reminding me that there is more to me than this one issue. And I let his words burrow under my skin. I continued to write, but tried to broaden my subject matter. The problem with that was it blurred my focus. That focus which was the whole reason I was writing to begin with. This blog had been a source of bargain-basement therapy. But that changed. 

So, here I am. Back again. Writing here for me and not to please anyone else. To create and clarify renewed focus for taking back my life. I don't know if anyone will ever read my words, or if they are only for me. It doesn't matter. Today is my new starting line. And here is where I will chronicle my race. By the grace of God I will be back tomorrow with more thoughts. More reflections. More determination.

Peace . . .

Ripping off the bandage

 Tuesday, September, 22, 2020

I'm here to rip off the bandage. To confess the way an alcoholic steps in front of a roomful of people at an AA meting and says, "My name is . . . and I'm an alcoholic." Well, my name is Michele Moore, and I have gained back better than 20 of the 73 pounds I had lost. And why? Because I turned my back on doing what I had been doing since 2017 that worked and felt virtually effortless. I reached for foods that were, for all intents and purposes, poison to me, and I shoved them into my mouth like I didn't care. The conundrum is, I did care, but I surrendered the self-control and long-term benefits to momentary pleasure followed by guilt, shame, and self-loathing.

In the program I had embraced to lose all that weight, the majority of followers believe themselves to be food addicts or specifically sugar and/or flour addicts. But I chafe at the term addict when it comes to me. I don't embrace that term. I don't accept that label. But what am I if I continually return to detrimental behavior that makes me feel like a prisoner? What am I if I often feel as though I do what I do not want to do?

Romans 7:15, 18-19 says, "I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing." If the Apostle Paul experienced this same torment of the soul, then I am in good company.

The plan I followed, Bright Line Eating or BLE, is highly structured, which is why it worked so well for me. Adhering to the four dictates-no sugar, no flour, 3-meals a day (no snacking), and weighed and measured quantities of protein, veggies, fruit, grains, and fat-became automatic. In fact, the term automaticity is used often among the devotees of BLE. Eating this way over time became a habit. I experienced the feeling of effortlessness in the midst of living and eating in such a disciplined manner. Does that sound like an oxymoron? That following a stringently structured path leads to feeling peacefully free? Yet, it is true. So, why have I strayed at all, much less in such a big way? That's the million dollar question. 

I don't call myself an addict. Yet, without adhering to a strict abstinence policy around food, I seem to fall prey to the lure of what BLE calls, NMF (Not My Food). In fact, in the vast lexicon of BLE, that lure is attributed to the saboteur, that niggling voice that taunts us with thoughts of eating off plan.

As a believer, a born-again, Spirit-filled believer in the Lord Jesus, I believe there isn't anything I cannot overcome with God's help. That in Him is the solution for every problem or issue. So my saboteur uses that very thing, my faith, to continue to whisper to me that I should be able to overcome this with God's help, not a plan some person came up with. Yet, couldn't God have led me to this plan, knowing it was the very thing that would help me get where I want to go? Why should I feel like I'm not being a truly faithful Christian if I can't do this with "just me and God"?

It's time to return to the mothership, as BLE founder, Dr. Susan Peirce Thompson is fond of saying when referring to Bright Line Eating.  In fact, another one of the many acronyms bright life folks like to use is JFTFP. Just follow the freaking (or fabulous, or another F-word I loathe) plan. All I have to do is follow the plan as it is laid out, and it will work. Of that I have no doubt. Zero! That's what I did for months, and the results were unprecedented. And that was when I was post menopausal, and barely over two and a half years post cancer diagnosis and treatment. It works. It really and truly works. And I hate that I have regained ANY weight. I do, however, acknowledge and honor the fact that I still weigh 50 pounds less than when I started in 2017, and 65 pounds less than when I was at my highest weight. That fact is nothing short of miraculous for me and my 50+ year history of battling my body.

So, tomorrow morning, I will weight myself to know my restarting point. I will chronicle this journey. I will do this for ME. Yes, my husband will be happy, but I have to give myself the love and care I need before I run out of time and opportunity to do it. And tomorrow, I will eat only and exactly
what is on the plan for me to eat. 

And here's where my faith can come into the fight. I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me (Philippians 4:13), and all things are possible for him or her that believes (Mark 9:23). I will not be ashamed of a (wo)man-made tool that I can use to achieve the goals that I have held in my heart all my life. What I do, I do by the grace of God. And I will not entertain the temptation to feel ashamed of myself for failing again. Shame is a filthy, ugly thing that clouds our vision and distracts our focus. No. it is what it is. This is where I am today, but this is NOT where I have to stay for the rest of my life.

Until tomorrow . . .

Pandemic 2020 Update

Monday, July 6, 2020, 4:00pm

Hello, friends . . .

It seems odd to say that the world is a distinctly different place from what it was the last time I wrote. That was March 11, 2020, and ironically I wrote about having difficulty staying focused. Ironic because that has turned into the theme of the last four months with the chaotic craziness that the first half of this year has become.

Friday, March 13th was the last day of school prior to the start of spring break. We had a lengthy faculty meeting at the close of the day to say that we need to be ready for what may happen as a result of the ever-changing Covid-19 situation. Once I arrived home that same day and logged onto my iPad, I found an email from my Principal saying that our one-week spring break was to include an additional week off school due to the burgeoning situation. Cool! Two weeks off. No argument there. The break felt welcome. Before the end of that second week, our Governor announced that schools would remain closed until April, which of course, was extended to  May, and ultimately schools were closed for the remainder of this academic year. Unprecedented.

My colleagues and I learned a whole new way of doing our jobs. By default, we all became online teachers. It wasn't horrible, especially compared with other results of society's insanity. Grocery shopping became almost barbaric. Toilet paper became the most precious and hard-to-find commodity, along with masks, and all types of cleaning and medical supplies. I still haven't seen isopropyl alcohol in any store.

The one benefit for me from the work-from-home scenario was the freedom to spend the last thirteen days of my mother's life sitting by her bedside. If you recall from the last post, my parents' ACLF had to prohibit non-essential visits, which meant I could no longer physically go to see them; we could only visit via Skype. During the brief times Mom was awake in those last couple of weeks, we talked a little. I told her we would look after Dad. And I provided my dad with breaks, allowing him to walk downstairs to have a modicum of human interaction. I was there when Mom died. Dad and I held each other and sobbed. We each made calls to family and friends to share the news. And for the following week, I was able to be there daily to help Dad with everything that needed done. He sorted and folded Mom's clothes with the care of a heartbroken, devoted husband, and I took them to Goodwill. We negotiated the legwork necessary to get death certificates, and contacted the entities that needed to know that my mother had moved to Heaven. She died on a Tuesday, and by Wednesday of the next week, the revocation of my restrictions was rescinded. I was politely told I could no longer come in to see my dad. I was thankful for the three weeks' reprieve I had been given to say goodbye, to comfort my dad, and help him acclimate to his new life without his bride of nearly 64 years. Since then, we have been relying on Skype and texts to keep in touch, until last week on July 1st.

My dad moved into a brand new independent living facility built on the same campus as their ACLF, where there are currently no restrictions on residents and visitors other than wearing masks coming and going and in common areas. So I'm back to  being able to spend time with him. He's doing well, all things considered. He misses my mom terribly, but he's is still living (physically and emotionally) and putting one foot in front of the other every day.

One significant drawback to this time of forced sequestering, has been a virtually complete backsliding from the way I had been eating. Beginning in November of 2017, I began following Bright Line Eating, and as a result, lost 72 pounds. The past year, however, has included a lot of yo-yoing with increasing times of eating off plan, and some of the pounds coming back on. In fact, as of this morning, when I forced myself to step onto the scale to survey the damage, I had gained back 24.4 pounds. From 245# to 173# back to 197.4#. I consider it a blessing that I didn't gain all the weight back, and that it is still south of 200. So today, I went back online and logged into my Boot Camp materials (more on that another time), and "rezoomed!" That's BLE vernacular for climbing back up onto the wagon and beginning again, though thankfully, not beginning from scratch. I've done this long enough to know what and how to do the work. This time, the battle is mostly in the mind and heart, having allowed the hard-earned discipline I had developed to evaporate. I have to work to regain that. The positive is that I know from experience that this works for me. Regardless that I'm going to be 61 in 10 days and that I'm post-menopausal, this works! So, by the grace of God, and with a deeper sense of humility this time around, I have had a successfully bright day so far. And since I can only do this one day at a time (ODAAT), I need only concern myself with today.

So, there we are. Back in the present. A little bruised and battered by life, but still here nonetheless. I hope you are well and safe and happy. Ultimately for us all, we must choose to be so.

Until next time . . .

Focus? What focus?

11 March 2020

Well, here I am again, two and a half weeks between posts. Sigh. No shame though. I think shame is a horrible commodity, and I refuse to feel shame anymore. Not for my weight. Not for my mistakes. Not for taking longer to accomplish goals than I would like. Shame is debilitating. It assaults the soul . . . the mind, the will, and the emotions . . . and leaves its victims wounded, often beyond repair. No more shame. Life is to be lived, mistakes and all. It is what it is. I'm here now, and that's a good thing.

Something I have pondered, especially lately, is my need and desire for focus.

I tend to be much like Dug, the dog in the movie "Up!" Dug is a sweetheart of a pup who is easily and often distracted. "Squirrel!" He nearly always wears a smile. In fact it takes an awful lot to bring Dug's spirits down. He is a loyal and faithful friend. He is also prone to succumb to distractions. It takes great effort for Dug to stay the course and remain focused on the task at hand. And I often feel like I am Dug.

Case in point: I pulled out my laptop to begin typing a new blog after spending at least thirty to forty minutes watching YouTube videos. After typing less than two full paragraphs, I set the laptop aside to stir the soup I'm warming for dinner, which led me to set the table for my husband and me. I then went into my master bathroom to use the toilet, and remembered noticing last night that my bathroom countertop was in need of cleaning. So off to the garage I trekked to get a nitrite glove, then back to the bathroom, where I pulled out the disinfecting cloths and wiped down the counter. Then I had to wipe down the toilet, so while I was at it, I popped some toilet bowl cleaner in there to freshen that. Back out to the laptop (obviously) to type some more. But that will be interrupted any minute so I can again stir the soup and make a salad. Thank God for the auto save feature on this site.

Now here I am, an hour later, back on the laptop. We've eaten dinner and I cleaned the kitchen while my dear hubby collected the trash to take out to the can. There shouldn't be many interruptions for a while. Correction: I am intermittently texting with my eighty-six year old father. As I have mentioned previously, he and my mom live in a nice assisted living facility nearby; he is there to watch over his bride of sixty-three years, whose health is failing. This week their facility eliminated all nonessential visiting due to the Corona virus (Covid-19), so I haven't been over to see them since Sunday. I was texting to ask if he wanted me to call him on Skype, but he decided we should forego it for tonight since immediately upon returning from dinner and getting into her chair, my sweet old mother fell asleep.

Focus. That's the topic at hand. And there are so many things I want to turn my attention to that I feel like I am flitting from one thing to another. My YouTube channels are a perfect example. I enjoy makeup, always have. Well there must be hundreds or thousands of channels devoted to feminine beauty, and I watch about eight of those. Then there's the topic of homesteading/prepping (not the same thing), and I watch a bunch of channels devoted to that. I watch channels about whole food plant-based eating, health, wellness, cooking, and baking. And there are some ministries I follow and enjoy learning from. YouTube can easily be a time-sucker for me. And when I allow my time to be occupied in stuff that isn't meaningful, then I've given away a precious treasure I can never reclaim. Time. That's not to say I haven't learned a lot from many of the videos I have watched. I have. But I have also allowed YouTube and social media to be the "Squirrels!" to my attempts to remain focused and on task.

I think this blog may have to be a two-parter.  There's more I want to say, but I'm having trouble staying focused. See?

Until next time . . .

Life's interruptions

21 February 2020

Trying to stay on a healthy eating plan for weight loss. Deciding to write at least weekly and post blogs regularly. Setting up a system for decluttering my home. Why is it when I set my course to focus on specific tasks or endeavors, with the best intentions to follow through, my momentum is thwarted by life's interruptions? I have had my share recently, and for at least some of them, I am the responsible party.

For the past 2-plus years I have been following a specific eating regimen, which has allowed me to shed about 70 pounds. But during our most recent holiday season, for some unfathomable reason, I decided that I could engage in culinary debauchery rather than continue on the highly successful path I had been following. I didn't simply stray from my course; I careened off the highway at breakneck speed from Thanksgiving into Christmas, and beyond into the new year. Here we are with almost 2 full months of 2020 behind us, and I have yet to reign myself in. I hope that with this public mea culpa I will be able to drag my sad, sorry wagon back up onto the path and begin again making forward movement. Life interruption #1: holiday indulgences and ensuing gluttony.

Nearly two months ago, I posted my first blog in over a year with the express desire to post at least weekly moving forward. I posted three blogs in succession at more or less a week's interval between each, and then . . . nothing for eleven days. I'm here now. And granted, a week and a half between blogs instead of a week might not seem like that big a deal. But if I let time lapse now, it will become increasingly easy to let longer breaks happen until I'm not writing with any regularity. And that means I would have let myself down again. I don't want to be that person anymore. I've spent my entire life being her. The girl, the woman who makes promises to herself only to break them. If I had a friend who did that to me, I don't think we'd stay friends for long. Life interruption #2: giving in to old behavior patterns that don't propel me toward success.

I have never been able to claim personal discipline and organizational skills as two of my strongest character traits. Some would say I do not possess them in any measure. I would like to think I am a work in progress. It may sometimes be slothfully slow, but progress is progress. And I have taken significant steps toward decluttering recently. I finally let go of my thirty-eight-year old wedding gown, keeping the dress thirty-one years longer than I kept the husband. I boxed up some lovely old glassware for the purpose of selling it or giving it away. It had been given to my mother years ago, and she in turn, gave it to me, though I have never used it. It no longer needs to take up valuable real estate in my China cabinet collecting dust. Just this past week, I listened to a webinar on the subject of decluttering and home organization and decorating, in which the guest made a simple yet profound statement. She said that when someone, anyone, gives us something for our home, the only thing we owe that person is a sincere and heartfelt thank you. We do not owe them our promise to keep the item they gave us. Life interruption #3: old habits and faulty thinking.

To be fair, my excuses for the last two are genuine. First, my mother's health has been in a steady decline for a while, but in recent months, the downhill slide has increased exponentially. I see my parents most every day, and Mom's deterioration is unmistakable. She is now in Hospice care, not because we believe her death is imminent, but in order for Hospice to provide her with palliative care, and my father with extra help and support. Miraculously, Mom will see her eighty-ninth birthday tomorrow. I wasn't sure she'd be here to celebrate it, but by the grace of God she is.

And second, our daughter-in-law delivered our seventh grandchild (who happens to be our first granddaughter) two weeks ago, five weeks premature. A week later, we loaded up the car and headed north by about fours hours to spend a day and overnight with them to meet our sweet little princess. We were overjoyed by her arrival, and by getting a few precious hours to hold and cuddle her.

Finally, despite our desire to step into retirement, we are not there yet. Severing our professional ties now would be tantamount to stepping off a moving bus into oncoming traffic. Certainly not the best choice for a sound future. It would be far safer to wait until the bus arrives at its destination before getting off.

The bottom line is this: not all of life's interruptions are inconsequential. Many are significant and even critical. They require our focus and involvement. They demand of us that we give them our attention and action, which means that what we had planned to do must be shelved until "later." Whenever later turns out to be. And, I suppose, this also means we need to forgive ourselves for not adhering to a preset schedule or for falling off the wagon. If it really is important enough to us, then we will find a way to make it happen.

I will get back on track with my eating, one meal at a time. I will embrace the discipline of writing and posting each week, no matter what is going on. And I will take up the challenge to declutter my home, keeping what brings us joy, and letting go of what doesn't. In the process, I know I will be replacing chaos and clutter with purpose and peace.

Until next time . . .

Does everyone feel like this?

10 February 2020

Sixty. That's how many years I have occupied space on the earth. Sixty years, six months and twenty-five days to be exact. On one hand, I can hardly get my mind around the fact that so many years have passed since I graduated high school and college, or since I was young and had babies. But on the other hand, I wonder how long I'm going to have to wait until I can retire.

I spent precious years during which my career was rearing my children and keeping my home. But for almost two decades, I have been a public school teacher, spending most of that time at the high school level, with a five-year patch in middle school. The funny thing is, I went into teaching on a whim. I hadn't majored in education. In fact I earned my BA in theater arts, which allowed me to start my career as a drama teacher. After the first year, I switched to English, and later spent seven years as a media specialist, returning to the classroom eight years ago. Now, in my twentieth year, I marvel that I've made it this long.

I spent that first year feeling like I was barely keeping one nostril above water, and the next many years wondering when someone would realize I was faking it. Somewhere along the line, though, I managed to learn a thing or two, and in the last couple of years, I can call myself a teacher without feeling like a fraud. At every single meeting, in-service, or training, for most of my tenure, I left knowing I did not belong in this field. But . . . and this is will sound extraordinarily juvenile . . . since this was a "real" job, I had to stick with it. I earned tenure and was placed on a professional service contract; those no longer exist for newbies entering teaching. My pay increased at a snail's pace, but I'm still making more than I have made doing anything else. I never saw myself as a career person, so when I was young, I didn't invest time and energy building a career. The one thing I knew I was put on earth to do was be a mother, but the pay is nothing to write home about. By the time my children were all out of elementary school, I started to feel like I should find a paying gig.

The truth is, I began to feel bored at home. My kids were increasingly self-sufficient, so my role as a mom was less demanding. I didn't garden, nor did I have a passion for any particular crafts or hobbies. Eventually I felt like I was wasting time. So at the age of forty-one, I became a teacher. The best training I had, preparing me for this role, was being a mother. The same instincts necessary to parent well, are also employed in the classroom. And having had a brood at home was a practicum in classroom management.

But back to my question: does everyone feel like this?

Like what?

I'm glad you asked. Is it universal to reach the point at which you just want to be done? When you either don't have to set an alarm, or if you do, it's because you have something special you're doing, and you want to get up early for it. Is it "normal" to just not want to play the game anymore? You know, the political games necessary to keep those around you happy . . . or at least . . . not miserable. Don't get me wrong. I work with some outstanding people, and I can and do find creative outlets in my work. And yes I know it is a great paradox to say that though we are grossly underpaid (in my state and county), we do enjoy more than average amounts of time off. Still, I just want to not have to do it anymore. I want my time to be my time.

So, tell me, dear readers . . . is this universal? Is it normal? The closer I get to closing this chapter, the more I believe I will not for one moment look back and miss it. I wholeheartedly believe that on my last day of teaching I will breathe a sigh of relief, drive home with a smile on my face, and turn off my alarm clock. I don't want to do nothing, but I do want to be able to choose where and how and with whom I spend my time. I want the freedom to choose. Yes. That's what I'm looking forward to. Freedom. All things being equal, and barring an unexpected (but highly desirable) windfall, that freedom is still about five years away. And given the speed at which the previous sixty years have flown by, five years will pass in the blink of an eye. In the mean time, I will continue to set that alarm, and do what I do, finding joy along the way.

Until next time . . .

Still chugging along . . .

2 February 2020

At 60 years of age, I am fortunate to still have my parents with me. My dad recently turned 86, and is in excellent health, unlike his twin brother and their older brother, both of whom passed away after suffering with Alzheimer's. My mom, on the other hand, will be 89 in a few short weeks, and she is not so fortunate. Mom was diagnosed more than 6 years ago with pulmonary fibrosis, a disease that causes lung tissue to become thick and stiff, resulting in the build up of scar tissue in the lungs, making breathing increasingly difficult and eventually impossible. This is considered a fatal disease, and life expectancy from diagnosis is generally 3 to 5 years. I have heard my mom say she is on borrowed time.

Circa 1955

My mother used to be the kind of woman who was always working. Always moving. The only times I remember seeing her sit and relax when I was growing up was in the evenings. At the end of the day, she would curl up in her chair and watch TV and smoke. As a matter of fact, those few cigarettes each evening, were about all I remember her smoking, unless my parents were socializing with their friends. Mom was never a heavy smoker, unlike my dad, who at one time smoked two packs a day. Thankfully, both parents quit decades ago. Mom, however, did not escape unscathed.

Before retirement, my parents took up golf, and once retired, golfed multiple times each week. They had worked hard, saved and invested, and happily retired in Florida. They lived the good life for several years, remaining active, taking trips, and going on a few cruises. Eighteen years ago, they moved from their first retirement residence an hour and a half south of me, to a gated golf community just a mile from my house. It's been nice having them so nearby. We have spent holidays together, and celebrated birthdays and special occasions.

I don't even remember what led up to my mother's diagnosis. My dad recalls that Mom had had bronchitis, and was having difficulty breathing, so their primary care physician referred her to a pulmonary specialist. That doctor ran breathing tests and ordered imaging and delivered the diagnosis. My parents told my husband and me that Mom had this . . . condition . . . I don't know if  they called it a disease. Pulmonary fibrosis.

Daddy learned about Mother's life expectancy, and mentioned it often. I used to get frustrated with him for talking about it so much. It wasn't possible that she had such a limited future, when she didn't really seem that sick. I remember when my mom began daily oral steroids because it seemed that overnight my ever-slender mother, looked as though her face had been inflated with a bicycle pump. The change was dramatic. Eventually she had to go on oxygen. In time, walking into her bedroom caused her to be winded. She started using a cane, then a walker as she began to weaken, and as losing her breath from activity worsened. The woman who used to move about the kitchen with ease and speed, cooking and baking, now needed a stool on which to perch when she worked at the sink.

My parents downsized from a lovely pool home to a small villa, where they lived for just over three years, and where Mom's condition worsened at an exponential rate. Her legs grew weaker, and would sometimes give out on her. More than once my dad needed help getting her off the floor where she had fallen. No longer able to trust her own legs to support her, she started using a wheelchair to get to and from the bathroom or bedroom, and ultimately to get anywhere she needed to go.

Five months ago, my parents moved into an assisted living facility; my mom needed extra care, and my dad needed help. Plus, Daddy wanted to be sure Mom would be well taken care of, so he moved in to be her watchdog. It's a nice place. They have a two-bedroom apartment, and plenty of amenities. All meals are included, which means that a few times a day they get out of their apartment and head to the dining room where they can socialize while eating their meals. I go almost every day and spend about an hour with them, often without much to chat about. But I go because I still can. I won't have my parents forever, and I feel like I need to be there for them while I have them. Dad still has his car and he drives to Walmart for odds and ends, or to the grocery store for prescriptions, or to the barber shop for haircuts. It's important for him to maintain a measure of independence.

For the most part, I don't focus on what is ahead for my mom. I focus on today, and talking about what she ate for lunch, and reminding her what day it is, and telling her I love her and that I'll see her again tomorrow. And each day I wonder just a little if she'll be there when I ride the elevator up to the second floor and walk the long hallway to their new home. I wonder if she'll be here to celebrate her 89th birthday in 20 days. On the bad days, when she appears to be little more than catatonic, it doesn't seem possible. But the next day, she wakes up and it's a better day. She's my energizer bunny, losing steam, but still chugging along.

I know that I am approaching life in a world without my mother in it. But for now, she's still here. She's still with me. And I will be there with her and for her. Because she's my mom.

Until next time . . .

Beginning again . . .

27 January 2020

Years ago I started this blog as an outlet for my thoughts, and for a means of accountability. My life and purpose had been radically changed as my children grew to adulthood and one after the other, moved out. In order to make sense of it all, I reached out with my words to whomever might happen upon them. I welcomed the responses I received with gratitude. They meant I wasn't alone grappling with the ever-present question, "Who am I now?" And the accountability I craved was one more attempt to end the battle my body and I had waged against each other for fifty years. Blogging gave me a place to rejoice in the victories and lament the pitfalls. It was going well until I received a note from a dear old friend, a well-meaning friend to be sure, who lovingly pointed out that I should paint with a broader brush. That I am more than this issue with my weight, and that there were other, more interesting things about which to write. I allowed those words of correction to derail me, and thus lost the focus and drive to continue regularly posting. I harbor no ill will toward my friend. The comments were meant to encourage me and expand my view.

Looking back though, I now realize that what I was doing, I was doing for myself. While I wanted feedback from and engagement with readers, and while I loved hearing that something I said had helped someone else feel less alone, my motives were self-serving. I did the work of writing and posting because it helped fulfill me in some way. And once I realized that, I knew I wanted to pick up where I had left off. I genuinely enjoy having an outlet for the thoughts and questions swirling in my brain. And unlike before, I now write with the hope that my words will resonate with others. That people will feel less isolated when they recognize themselves and their circumstances in me and mine.

I come to this forum with the intention to write regularly and often. Once the wheels are used to turning again, perhaps I will write more. I will write about my life, my faith, my dreams, aspirations, and struggles, and whatever else pops into my quirky middle-aged-plus brain. I will write about being sixty for the first time, because after all, every passage, event, and benchmark in our lives is a maiden voyage, right? Do we ever really take stock of the fact that for all of our lives, we are learning on the job? Growing up, getting married, becoming parents, building (or enduring) a career, preparing for retirement, even facing life-threatening illness . . . each one is a new first. We are figuring it out as we go, and oddly enough, about the time we've got it pretty well figured out, it'll be time to go. And that too will be a first.

Visit https://jamesclear.com/

When James Clear, New York Times Bestselling author of Atomic Habits, and renowned expert in the development and benefits of habits, decided to write a blog post twice a week, no matter what, he knew he was committing to this discipline regardless of whether he had written one sentence or a hundred. Whether what he wrote was crap or brilliance (my words, not his). It was establishing the habit of consistently writing that initiated the extraordinary success he is experiencing today. Until now I haven't been the kind of person who exhibited traits of discipline and consistency in my undertakings. I want that to change, and I'm the only one who can change it. If not now, when, right?

I hope you will visit me here often, and that we can share our journeys and lives together. We can encourage one another and build a community of friends. I know this world can sometimes seem like it's getting uglier and darker with each passing day, but I'd like to think that every positive interaction lightens the atmosphere and brightens the world.

Until next time . . .

The Perpetual Quest for Meaning

Is it just me, or is my seemingly insatiable search for meaning and fulfillment common to most midlife women? Of course I can only truly consider myself at the mid point in life if I intend to stick around until I am 118. 😳 What? It could happen! But I digress . . .

I have always been someone who dreams of more. Perhaps that's why I enjoyed performing in plays during my school years, and why I continued into college. Acting allowed me to try being different kinds of people doing different kinds of things, unlike many "grown up" jobs I have had, which quickly caused me to grow bored and become discontent. It wasn't until I began teaching back in 2000, that I found something I could stick with long term. But even now, I still dream of finding something that would provide a more personally fulfilling outlet for my interests and passions by which I could earn my income.

For example, my sister-in-law is an amazing baker and cake/cookie decorator, while my specialties are pies, breads and homemade soups. She and I have often fantasized about opening our own shop where people could come in and either buy yummies to take home, or sit and sip a good cup of coffee or tea, and enjoy a fresh-baked treat. Or both! I have seen it in my mind’s eye, set squarely on the main street of my hometown up north, with windows facing the thoroughfare. It would be our place to run as we want, season after season, becoming a fixture in the community. The reality of it is that the baking we love and enjoy could lose its luster by having to do it day in and day out, not to mention the constant focus on having to become and remain profitable.

In the last year, I have discovered a number of YouTube channels whose focus is beauty and skin care for mature women. Oddly, the YouTubers in this genre range in age from their 20s to their 60s. I relate more to the latter than the former. For a while I started thinking about how I could start a YouTube channel too and weigh in on the same topics while throwing in my own take on navigating this autumn season, which includes physical and familial changes. Our bodies begin morphing at a rate akin to puberty, but in not-so-pleasant ways. Children grow and leave the nest, creating their own independence; this is natural and needful.  In time, grandchildren bring a new and amazing dynamic to the mix. And let’s not forget that our own parents, if we are fortunate enough to still have them, also redefine our life and purpose as we become the caretakers of our original caregivers.

While I have shelved the fantasy of having a YouTube channel, it is the desire to express my thoughts on these very topics, and others, that has led me back to my blog. So here I am. Writing to satisfy that force in me that begs for outlet. And, hopefully, to provide a bit of guiding wisdom born of experience for the autumn travelers who will find themselves in this very place long before they ever expected to.

For my peers and me, there were precious few voices speaking to us of what was ahead. We are the offspring of depression-era parents, who kept themselves to themselves for the most part. Theirs was not a generation that talked about their feelings. As a result, my generation has been figuring it out as we go. And unlike our parents, we talk about everything.

As one by one my children left home for the last time, I lost my sense of identity. I had no road map telling me which way to turn or what lay before me. My identity was firmly planted in motherhood, and while I was still a mother, I no longer had children who needed me as they once did. They went off to live their lives, which was as it should be. Couple that with the onset of menopause, and I experienced the perfect storm of tangled emotions and confusion. It has taken me almost a decade to find myself fully past the angst of those years. And now, there is a wealth I hope to share for the benefit of women who are beginning their own upheavals. Perhaps this can provide some insight to men as well, helping them to understand the women in their lives. I invite ladies and gentlemen alike to come along for the ride.

I look forward to every blog post, and hope you will feel free to add your own thoughts as well. We will learn from each other. I do hope we can encourage one another to live our best lives and be kind to ourselves as we do.

Until next time . . . 

I'm baaaaaack!

I started my blog in February 2013 with ever intention of writing regularly. And I did. For a few months. Then procrastination and avoidance set in, and the longer the lapses between posting . . . well you get the picture. 2014 saw only 4 posts, and 2015 just 3. Then a little thing called life happened.

Less than 1 month after my last post, I was hit with a curve ball of sorts. And the resulting fallout lasted  through August of the same year. I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. In the 5 months that followed, I underwent a major surgery, other surgical procedures, numerous appointments with a variety of doctors, and 6 chemotherapy treatments. As a result of the latter, I lost all my hair, and often felt like a wrung-out dishrag. I missed more than 2 months of work, but thankfully because of our school district's sick bank, I did not miss a single paycheck. What a blessing that was for us! I returned to school on August 17, 2015, the first day of teacher planning week, in the afternoon following my final chemo treatment that morning. I was bald and still somewhat weak, but I was alive, and knew I would be for a very long time to come. With long life He satisfies me and shows me His salvation (Psalm 91:16).

In the past three years, I have continued with physician follow-up appointments, occasional CT scans, and oodles of blood tests. I regained my strength and my hair. I'm thankful for every day I wake up. I am awed by the goodness of God, and His love for me. I learned that my husband is my champion. He was an attentive, compassionate caregiver when I needed him to be. He overwhelmed me with his love through it all. We are closer now than we have ever been.💖

I don't share all this to gain sympathy, pity, or praise. I don't want it. This experience humbled me in a profound way, because it is only by the grace and mercy of God that I am here. I do not label myself a "survivor." I am an over-comer like those in scripture who heard the words of the Master when He said, "Your faith has made you whole."

I do share this as a way to pick up where I left off three years ago. I am well. I am healthy. I am happy. And I have so much to write about in the days and weeks ahead. I hope you will stay with me. Please let me know you're here, and don't hesitate to ask questions if you have them. You can even just say "Hi!" That would be fun too.  I will let you know when I've posted a new blog. Consider it my invitation to hang out, share a cup of coffee or tea, and good conversation virtually. I will likely even venture into video blogs (vlogs) from time to time. We'll see. I'm excited to be back.

Until next time . . .

February 5, 2015: Update on my Mom

I've been on quite an emotional roller coaster for the past eight days. Until yesterday, I wondered how in the world my dear mother would ever get out of the hospital alive. I have called her nurses every morning for updates, and gone to visit her every day, and I watched as she looked increasingly weak and frail, and doctors and nurses added to the laundry list of her illnesses and ailments. Early on, she blew through two IVs, and had to have a PICC line inserted. 

I have also seen the toll on her body of mass quantities of medications. Drinking the stuff that preceded her contrast CT scan caused her to have difficulty breathing, and sent her heart into AFib, for which she was given a new medicine to bring her back into normal sinus rhythm. Her oxygen was upped to fifteen liters for several days, and that alone kept her in ICU until yesterday. She has received large doses of steroids to help clear her lungs, but that has sent her blood sugar soaring over 300 more than once. Because of this, they have been giving her shots of insulin.

Finally yesterday, I was told that the amount of oxygen Mom is getting had been reduced to five liters. Good news! Her catheter had been removed. More good news. No more need for heart medicine. Great news. And she was downgraded from ICU to regular patient status. Brilliant. Though she's always tired when I visit her after school around 3:00, still she looked better yesterday, and I could see improvement. I desperately needed to SEE improvement.

I think the most difficult thing for me to deal with this past week, was the discussion I had with my parents about their advanced directives, and in particular, Mom's. I knew they/she did not want to be kept around via life support such as ventilators or something keeping the heart beating. But I did not realize that their wishes extended further than that. They signed DNR (do not resuscitate) orders, which meant that if for some reason my mom's heart stopped, they would let her go. No chest compressions. No CPR of any kind. She wants to be allowed to die naturally. 

Being a believer, and knowing my mother is as well, allows me to see in my mind's eye what awaits us and in particular, her, beyond this life. When my mom leaves this world, I am certain she will be greeted by her two children who preceded her in death, her first baby, lost to miscarriage, and my brother, Bobby who was hit by a car and killed at the age of six. Her own parents will be there too, and my cousins Jim and Brenda, and my cousins' sons as well. My Aunt Cecile will welcome her home as will so many others who went on before. She will be healthy and whole and at perfect peace. She will be young again, in her prime. No difficulty breathing or moving or walking. No more dizziness and coughing. No more pain. 

I thought about those things, and about how much I want my mom to stay here, but that means she will experience increasing shortness of breath due to the pulmonary fibrosis that has attacked her lungs. The pain she constantly lives with from arthritis and fibromyalgia. The frustration she experiences living in a broken-down body. My desire to keep her here is absolutely and purely selfish. I know how much better off she will be in heaven, but she's still my mom. And at some point I will have to surrender my desire to keep her close despite what it's costing her, and let her go to a place where I will know she is happy and healthy, and where I have no doubt I will see her again. And when the time comes, I will comfort myself in knowing that our parting is temporary.

I am immensely thankful that the times during which we have to face our own or our loved ones' mortality are usually few and far between. They are excruciating. But they also serve to remind us how very precious life is, and indeed, how finite. I can only be the daughter I want to be to my parents while I still have them. I can only be the wife or mother or friend I want to be, while I'm still breathing. It's insane to put off living to another day, because we have no guarantee of another day. I am so grateful that my mom's still here and that I'll get to see her and talk to her and hold her hand in about an hour from now. She is, after all, my mom.

Until next time  . . .

January 29, 2015: Yesterday I saw My Future

I received one of those calls yesterday about twenty minutes after noon. It was my dad telling me that he had taken my mom to the hospital. My nearly eighty-four-year old mother has been diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis, which means that any cold or other assault on her pulmonary system must be taken seriously. Dad had had a bad cold the week before, and Mom must have picked it up from him. When she vomited on Tuesday night, then again Wednesday morning, Daddy decided to take her in to the ER and have her evaluated. That's where I found her the minute I could leave work and get to the hospital, mercifully only seven or eight minutes from the school where I teach.

I spent most of the next five and a half hours watching her sleep in her emergency room gurney. Amid the noise and chaos of the ER, blood draws, nebulizer treatments, and even a CT scan, Mom slept. Normally when my mom sleeps, she wears her CPAP mask, but there in the ER, she didn't have it. So as she slept, I watched as her chest expanded and contracted and I listened as she snored and gurgled. Several times I saw her chest movements, but realized she was cutting off her own air supply. And though those moments passed within seconds, it frightened me to see how frail she had become.

See, my mom had a hip replacement surgery several years ago, followed by a torn hamstring, which occurred in her first rehab facility due to the negligence of the staff there. We didn't learn she'd torn her hamstring until almost two weeks afterward. What we did know was that my mother was crying out in excruciating pain, and asking Jesus to take her because she didn't believe she could endure the torment. She was returned to the hospital and spent another week there, during which time the staff did not diagnose the secondary injury, but instead tried to make us believe that she was becoming dependent upon the medications they were giving her for pain. After that week, she was sent to a different rehab facility; one where the staff actually knew what they were doing. After nearly a week there, they ran either an MRI or a CT Scan - I don't recall which - and they finally found the torn hamstring. They then realized that, because Mom had been on and remained on blood thinners, the tear continued to bleed internally, and when the blood would pool, it put direct pressure against nerves in the area of her groin and her new hip. No wonder she was wishing for death. Immediately they stopped administering blood thinners, and instantly she began the process of healing. Mean time, she was left with fear. Fear of pain. Fear of injury. And as icing on the cake, the hip surgery left one leg three-quarters of an inch shorter than the other one. This meant that for the rest of her life, each time she bought shoes, she'd have to pay in excess of a hundred dollars per pair to have a larger sole built onto the shoe corresponding with the shorter leg.

Because of the surgery and the subsequent injury, that perfect storm of horrible medical experiences took the starch out of my once active, healthy mother. The woman who always nurtured a garden when I was a girl . . . the woman who learned to play golf prior to retirement, and even shot a hole-in-one . . . that woman who moved with my dad to Florida to enjoy their retirement years in the warm sunshine . . . that woman was replaced by a woman who has become increasingly sedentary and plagued with one health problem after another. Pulmonary Fibrosis. Fibromyalgia. Bouts of pneumonia. She gained weight and moved less. As a result of the steroids she takes on a regular basis, her face is now so full and puffy. My mother was a petite woman for most of her life. She's on oxygen 24/7 now. She has dizzy spells, and often nearly falls because of them.

And as I watched her sleep and watched her body's effort to breathe, I knew I was seeing my future if I don't turn things around now. My weight has been an issue for forty-five years. And in the past fifteen years, I have ballooned to a morbidly obese weight on my five foot, three inch frame. I have noticed in the past six months or so that my mid section now looks as it did when I was about to deliver one of my babies. But at my post-menopausal age of fifty-five, there can be no other explanation than FAT. The heavier I've gotten, the less active I have become. Walking short distances which once took no effort at all, now leaves me winded and feeling the beating of my heart. I snore like a lumberjack (my husband's description), and often hear myself wheezing. I have six adult children and four grandsons, and I am way too young to feel so old that I can't enjoy their endless energy. I looked at my mother and saw what I do not want to become. I knew that I want to live.

I want adventures. I want to bike the Erie Canal trail. I want to kayak with my husband. I want to take ballroom dancing lessons. I want to sit on my husband's lap. I want to learn to play tennis. I want to breathe freely and tie my shoes. I want to shave my legs without breaking a sweat. I want to see the petite woman I know I'm meant to be, emerge from this shell of fat, and really live. I cannot start this journey from any place but the present. I saw what my future could be if I don't make changes in my life, and it is not the future I want. So today. Right now. I choose to find my way out of the life I've created, and into the life I long for. It will be a process of discovery, and I'll share as much of it as I can. Right here. By the grace of God, I will live, and live well!

Until next time . . .

Finding Balance & ABC's Extreme Weight Loss

Inside all of us who fight the battle of our own bulge, is the thin self aching to be free. I have heard morbidly obese people on talk shows espouse their self love and self acceptance, while knowing in myself that the truth is they hate their physical condition, and deep down fear they can never change. More than likely this belief comes from countless failed attempts to rid themselves of excess weight. I get it. There is nothing so frustrating as continuing to live in a body that holds you captive and keeps you from living the kind of life about which you have only dreamed.

I am now fifty-five years old, and I have been at war with my body for forty-five years. Since the age of ten, I have had to wrestle with two versions of me, the ideal me and the me I see in the mirror. And with every passing year, the reflected me has grown stronger and more oppressive in an attempt to silence the hidden me. There must be a way to free her. If one person can do it, then so can I. And daily we see proof of those who have succeeded in escaping prisons of their own making.

In my heart of hearts I believe the answer is in finding balance. Spiritual. Emotional. Nutritional. Physical. Balance. The $64,000 question is this: after so many years, where do I begin? And that is simply the beginning of an avalanche of questions that follow. How do I do it? Who do I believe when there are so many conflicting opinions on nutrition and weight loss? Why haven't I been able to change in all these years despite my desire to do so? What is wrong with me? Is it too late? The questions circle my brain and spin faster and faster, leaving me confused, frustrated, and waist-deep in self loathing, which is completely counter productive.

How do I see myself as worth the investment of the time and energy (not to mention the pain and discomfort) required to release the me held captive for decades? For every voice in my head that whispers You're a good person or You are pretty, there are myriad voices screaming You are a failure! You are a LOSER! You'll never get the weight off. You're too far gone.

I went out on a limb this week. After checking occasionally over the past few months, I discovered that Extreme Weight Loss (on ABC) has begun casting for Season 6. In fact, the day I checked this week, is the very day that the process began. I was home alone, and I perused the show's website, and the next thing I knew, I was filling out the preregistration. The open casting calls are a long way from where I live, so I won't be able to get to one, which leaves me with having to make an audition video, and send it in by the first week of March. I'll keep you posted on my progress. But what does any of this have to do with balance?

I feel as though I am so far OUT of balance that I will need to do something drastic to find a place of equilibrium for the rest of my life. Believe me, the thought of doing what it takes to achieve the change I desire is overwhelming and frightening. Having the help and support of someone who has helped others like me chisel themselves out of their prisons of fat, would be the gift of a lifetime. What I long for is to live in my body and not be at war with myself. In fact, what I really long for is to stop thinking so much about ME! Self-centeredness is not always thinking how superior you are; for millions, there is a constant mental ticker tape scrolling through the mind announcing that others are negatively judging you, or reminding you to compare yourself to any random thin person with the understanding that you are a failure and they are winners.

I'm not foolish enough to believe that I am the most deserving of any person who applies to Chris and Heidi Powell for their help. Nor do I believe it's likely I will be selected for the show. This is as long a shot as it can be. But somewhere along the way, I hope they hear my heart, and give me a chance to become the inspiration I know I can be. I have to believe that by the grace of God and with the help of the Powell Pack, I can achieve my lifelong dream, and chisel my way out of the prison in which I've been living for over forty years.

Until next time . . .
 

Progress Here and There

Another week has come and gone and I have made some progress. I find it's easiest for me to be disciplined during the day, but after my husband goes to work and I'm home alone until bedtime, that's when I struggle. I am, however, so weary of excuses for failure, that I will not make them anymore. If I succeed, it's because I allowed the grace of God to get me through. If I fail, it's because I gave in to momentary, childish desire to satisfy something . . . boredom, loneliness, disappointment, frustration . . . whatever it was that came floating to the surface. 

And I must find a way to force myself to MOVE. I have not merely been sedentary, I have been a sloth! Once my husband pulls out of the driveway and leaves for work, I park my posterior in the chair in front of my computer, and there I veg until it's time to go to bed. Of course there are the occasional, unavoidable bursts of energy when I get up to go to the bathroom or to get something to eat. 

I actually made progress today by beginning my preparations for the new school year. And by beginning, I'm reminded of something I heard Brother Kenneth E. Hagin (founder of Rhema Bible Training Center, where my husband attended) say years ago when he was preaching. "I'm fixin' to commence to begin to close." I didn't move any mountains, but, at least I made a start. And since I'm back to work on August 11th, and students are back on the 18th, now's as good a time as any to commence to begin getting ready.

I have a yoga DVD my daughter gave me. I'd like to use that because I've had a lot of back pain and discomfort that I know would be helped by consistent, quality stretching. And I have a couple of Leslie Sansone walking DVDs that are just taking up space on a shelf. I have an entire house to myself for almost nine hours a day before bedtime. I could pop in a DVD in the living room where there's plenty of space to move, and walk a couple of miles, followed by some yoga stretches. Have I done it yet? Not so much. I want to. But that's not enough. I need to position myself for success. I've made so many promises to myself over the years, and I've broken pretty much all of them. I need to get the DVDs, and put them in the living room where I can see them. And I need to mean it when I make a promise to myself, as much as if I make a promise to anyone else.

Okay, so . . . when I post today's blog, before I do anything else, I will get the DVDs out and take them to the living room. And tomorrow I will use them. It's not enough to WANT to change unless I'm willing to also DO what it takes to make the change.

I have come to realize there's no point in wasting time feeling shame over the fact that I've let so much of life pass me by. It is what it is. Tomorrow morning is a new day, and I have the chance to make it count for me. What I do with tomorrow is up to me. God, please give me the strength and grace to make the right choices tomorrow. We'll deal with the next day when it comes.

Until next time . . .

It's a New Day

And . . . here we go again. I admit it. I didn't think I'd ever get this close to my highest all-time weight, but I am half a pound under it. It must stop now. The upward progression needs to end, and my weight needs to start sliding downward.

As I usually do on Tuesdays, last night I watched ABC's Extreme Makeover Weight Loss Edition. And like ever Tuesday, last night I cried like a friggin' baby from the first five minutes of the show. I did something last night though that I hadn't done before. I went on Twitter, and commented about the show a few times. And one of my comments elicited a response from Chris Powell, the trainer who works miracles with the people he chooses to feature on the show.

This season, they have been weighing in the selected people on the spot, when and where they surprise them with the news they are chosen. Georgeanna, last night's person, was in a gathering at her church. Right there, in front of her husband, daughters, church folks, God and everyone . . . she stepped on a scale, then wept when she was told her weight was 315 pounds. My comment reflected that moment, when I said "I get the shame." Chris's response was swift and to the point.

Wow. I guess truly, what IS the point of shame? God knows the truth and how far I've fallen. I certainly know it. My husband isn't blind, nor are my kids, my friends, my coworkers, or fellow travelers on life's journey. Shoot. Who do I think can't see what I've done to myself. So yeah. What good does shame do? Just keeps me defeated and wallowing in self pity. And like Chris said, "Own it and then release it." It is what it is. (IIWII! spoken as: Double I, W, Double I) It certainly doesn't have to be a permanent fact. Even that ugly number on the scale is subject to change, if I choose to make it happen. And Chris says I can succeed. He should know. He has counseled and trained and coached a lot of people who were far worse off than me.

After Georgeanna had her 90-day weigh-in, at which she had lost an astonishing 94 pounds, Chris looked straight at the camera and said something like this: What about you watching at home? What could YOU do in the next 90 days? I'm not sure I believe I could lose 90+ pounds in the next 90 days on my own, but I could make a heck of a start on getting where I want to be in that amount of time. Let's face it; the time will pass whether I make progress or not. The question is, what will I have to show for that time once it has passed?

My son issued me a challenge today. He suggested we both work on losing weight in the coming weeks and months. And he added that we should also set another goal. For him, it will be to write 750 words every day, so that by the beginning of summer 2015, he will have written the first draft of his first book. I'm not sure I have a book in me, but I do have words and thoughts enough to blog regularly during the upcoming year. About what we're doing. About how we're changing. About whatever I feel like sharing. I think I'm going to take him up on it. I turned 55 years old last week (on July 16th), and time is slipping by. I've wasted far too much of it. It's time to redeem the time. It's time to be the me I've always dreamed of being. I don't for a moment think it will be an easy process. It will likely be one of the hardest things I've ever done. But it will be for me. An investment in my body and my life.

Hey Chris (& your gorgeous wife, Heidi) . . . if you're listening . . . you have inspired me. Please keep doing what you do. It's a gift of God and you truly are working miracles in the lives of many, many people. I'll keep you posted!

Until next time . . .

The Bread's in the Oven

I suppose it's a good thing that at this point in my blogging career, there isn't anyone reading my posts. My MO (Method of Operation) has been to get all fired up, all gung-ho, and write a brilliant post about how I am fed up with the status quo . . . usually my weight . . . and declare and proclaim that the time for change is NOW! Then spout my litany of from-now-on-I-will do such and such, and thus and so. Then, well . . . (cue the crickets).

That's not to say I'm not well-meaning when I post my deep and philosophical thoughts. But inertia is a difficult force to overcome. Especially inertia that has been in place for forty-five years. (Holy crap, I'm getting old!) You see, I just posted a book review yesterday, which allowed me to not only remember I have a blog, but to actually look at my last post. That was on November 30, 2013. Voila. There you have it. The ugly confession. The mea culpa. The from-now-on. And how did I do?

Today is April 8, 2014 and my weight remains unchanged. Since then, I was sick as a dog for 6 or 8 weeks starting a few days before Christmas. It resulted in both ear drums rupturing and me losing most of my hearing for about 6 weeks. I had to have a tooth extracted. And there have been other family crises, big and small. Basically, the first quarter of 2014 has sucked. I do, however, have hope for the remainder of the year. So what's my focus now? Still self-improvement. Still an aching desire to find peace and balance in my life, and yes, to lose weight and find a comfortable place for me.

I've also really started to look at my life, our life. What we do. What we buy. What we use and how we do things. And I'm finding joy and satisfaction in activities that are self sustaining. For instance, I haven't bought bread in months. I bake our bread now, using what I believe is basic, good quality flour. I found a recipe that I like, and the bread comes out delicious every time. But it's more than just good tasting bread that is satisfying. I like the way the house smells when it's almost ready to come out of the oven. I enjoy thumping it on the underside to make sure it's done. I like melting some butter on top while it's still hot to create a softer crust. I like how my son teases me mercilessly because I once commented in front of him on the beauty of the bread's crumb, it's internal texture. I bake a loaf about 3 times a week, and each time he'll tell me how good it is, and adds, "And you know, Ma . . . it has a great crumb! I've never seen such amazing crumb!"

I've been making my own laundry soap for a few years now too. It just costs so much less to make it, and every two to three months when it's time for a new batch, it only takes me about twenty minutes. There is no argument for going back to buying overpriced detergent that makes sense to me now.

Who knows what my next project will be. I watch enough how-to videos on YouTube that I'm sure to come up with one soon. As a matter of fact, just today I found instructions for a tumbling composter that I'm confident my husband could build for me. After all, why not put our refuse to work for us. Regardless of what's next, I will try to do better with stopping by here and letting you (whoever you are . . . if you're even out there) know what's what. For now, I need to get a loaf of bread out of the oven. Mmmm-mmm, it smells good in this house!

Until next time . . .

Book Review: The Dawn of Christmas

The Dawn of Christmas

Cindy Woodsmall

In the interest of full disclosure, and as means of a personal mea culpa, I must make a confession before I begin reviewing The Dawn of Christmas. I read Cindy Woodsmall’s most recent Christmas novella as soon as it was in my hands, and loved it. I did not, however, take the time to sit down and write a review until now, months later. Without going into detail, the Christmas season and subsequent New Year have proved challenging in far too many ways, and as a result, many things that I had on my to-do list found themselves waiting indefinitely to be done, this review among them. So, that being said, coupled with my sincerest apology to Cindy Woodsmall as well as the fine people at WaterBrook Multnomah Publishing Group, and the folks at Blogging for Books (Ashley and Chris) in particular, I give you my review . . .

Sadie enjoys her freedom away from home and her mission trips to Peru, but after four years, her Old Order Amish family insists it’s time to come home and settle down. Levi, a bachelor who distrusts women after a family heartbreak, also has no desire for romance. To keep their families from meddling in their lives, Sadie and Levi devise a plan—but soon discover that the walls around their hearts are breaking down. Can they let go of their prejudices, learn to trust each other, and embrace a future together?

Cindy Woodsmall crafts stories that draw readers into fictional worlds where they meet characters who become like friends. She’s done it again in her novella, The Dawn of Christmas. From the first lines of chapter one, we feel the panic and pain that threaten to suffocate our protagonist. Sadie is humiliated and devastated by the actions of her fiancé and her own cousin. Worse, these two characters lie to the family and friends who surround Sadie, creating doubt and innuendo. Thanks to Sadie’s loving and understanding father, she is allowed the freedom to move to a different community, far enough away from her family’s home that she can move forward with her life without her past getting in the way.

Dawn of Christmas weaves Sadie’s life with another character named Levi. They form a friendship based on a respect and appreciation for each other’s strengths. Sadie and Levi face obstacles to their friendship, not the least of which are the pressures from their families for them to find mates and settle down. And nothing could be further from their thoughts.

Woodsmall’s characters are rich and realistic. The reader roots for the main characters while wishing to punch the antagonist right in the kisser. Ironic, I suppose, since we’re talking about Amish fiction here. This author’s ability to craft believable and beloved works of fiction is what brings me back time and again to her books. Whether it’s December or April, reading The Dawn of Christmas will satisfy someone who is looking to make new fictional friends and share a bit of their life’s journey.

I received this book for free from WaterBrook Multnomah Publishing Group for this review.