Food, Health, & Self-Love

This post is rambly. And it's essentially just a reposting of my comment on Chicory's post, linked below. It's in response to three posts that clearly had a strong impression on me: Chicory's Not Giving Up, Something Other Than That at An Accident of Hope; M. Leblanc's Shapely Prose Nails It Again at Bitch PhD; and Kate Harding's The Fantasy of Being Thin at Shapely Prose, the post about which the first two refer.

I am glad to have been reading about self acceptance, fat acceptance, about body image, about health. Glad to be thinking/feeling it. Glad on a lot of levels and for a lot of reasons. Introspection, shame, denial, sorrow, regret, internalized beliefs — lots of stuff going on in my brain and heart. There are lots of things to unpack.

A few years ago, I became a raw vegan. I blogged briefly about my first raw Thanksgiving, my parents' reaction, and a mishmash of links and a video here. A number of factors have reduced my raw intake since then and I’m hardly raw at all anymore. During the summer months my intake of raw food increases dramatically. But you know what keeps me from “doing” the nearly-all-raw thing again? Well, it’s a couple things.

1. I became an annoying proselytizer, despite my best efforts not to be that person and despite disclaimers that I wasn't being that person, erstwhile emailing websites and personal testimonials willy nilly. How grossly annoying.

2. Other people’s reactions to the supposed dangers and how unhealthy it was and how I was buying into a myth of being skinny=being healthy. And/or people saying, “But Moss you look great! Those raw vegans are too skinny! You don’t need to do that!” as if the only reason to eat predominantly fresh, living food is because I don’t like the way I look. That food choice affects how I FEEL seemed so unreasonable it was never considered as the reason I was making my decisions.

>>2.a. Social interactions became very very difficult and awkward and I found myself either coming off as having an eating disorder because I wouldn’t eat anything I was offered or seeming to be a snob who was too good for what food was available.

And you know what? That’s just bullshit. It’s bullshit that 1. I won’t take control of my own propensity to proselytize and 2. that I would seriously let other people affect such a fundamental and personal decision like what to put in my body.

It’s especially bullshit because *I really REALLY like the way I feel when I eat raw vegan food.* I feel better than I have EVER felt in my life (which has led to that #1 proselytizing problem, but that’s not insurmountable if I just get a fucking grip already and remember that what feels good for ME and what works for MY life is just that - MINE).

I won’t even get into what I weighed or my size at different points in time, because those numbers on the scale or on the tags of my clothes are not the measure. The measure is how I feel, and that is incredibly subjective and not readily quantified to anyone outside my own flesh.

What most struck home for me about Chicory's post and about Kate’s original post, was that self-acceptance is so much deeper and more profound and perhaps more difficult than “just” body issues. This new life I’ve created in my new home in a new state has provided me ample opportunity to really look close and hard at who I am, who I think I am, who I project myself to be, and who I would really like to be. Working that shit out might be a lifetime project, but it’s one that I’m finally willing to tackle.

Is thinking/feeling/acknowledging the first steps toward action? I sure hope so.

Sick of Sick

the benefits of being sick:

* I appreciate being well
* lots of rest
* watching movies on my laptop in bed
* cuddling with cats
* meditating to sleep
* catching up with incredibly creative folks at the forum from Joe's Hit Record site

Pushing Liquids

After sleeping for 13 hours, I just got up to rehydrate. In the kitchen I downed a big glass of not-from-concentrate orange juice as I forced Chinese herbal remedies down my tight throat.

Next to my bed I have a nearly empty box of tissue, a quart of water in my beloved Sigg, a big glass of water infused with two Emergency supplements (2000% vitamin C!), and a huge cup of tea with two echinacea bags and two throat coat bags.

Now the trick will be to drink them all before falling asleep. Oh, and not wetting the bed.

Frowny Sick

I'm sick. Tired. Whiney. Headachey. My sweetheart is en route back to SLC, and I miss her fiercely already.

But I did manage to smile wryly at this.

And I also just heard from TW, the aforementioned sweetheart, about a narrowly averted tragedy in the form of an almost-lost fly rod, being transported by TW on my behalf, for J, who needs the rod to potentially snag something on his roadtrip tomorrow. Thanks, love, for seeing that project through. What a relief in the form of a white paging phone at SLC International Airport. Whew.

Wimmin

XX1 to XX2, frustrated by trouble with her husband and anticipating going to work at a new office: Can't wait to meet these fifteen attorneys - most of them are men. I wonder which one I'll be f*ckin.

XX2: Men are so stupid. Our husbands treat us like shit, but they don't know that we can always f*ck around if we want to. We're the ones with the power.

XX1, nodding: Damn straight.

Me, listening in, picking my chin up off the floor.

There are real world scenarios for which Gender Studies could never adequately prepare me.

Good Dates

We've had nothing but good dates. We include our hang-out-at-home and stay-in-bed-until-1:00-pm encounters as good dates, too. Maybe even as especially good dates.

Today was no exception. We took Max downtown Portland, wandered around the Market, laughed a lot, talked to artists, dreamed of how we will configure our future home, and maneuvered through a Hare Krishna encounter. Then we went to the library where I headed for the law section and she the botany/science areas.

To add the utter cream to our day, we then transplanted indoor plants at my office and went home for squash soup.

Good dates, oh yes.

Aggressive Solicitation

The conversation could have gone like this:

her, walking up to us quickly, entering the realm of our personal space, thrusting american flag and peace sign stickers in my hand: You are hereby under arrest for being too beautiful, for smiling too much, for being too happy. Your citation fee is a minimum of $10 that goes to our food bank where we feed hot vegetarian meals to the hungry.

me, practicing nonviolent communication: Wow! I can see that you are really motivated by this project and very enthusiastic to gain my support. You seem like you feel passionately about what you are doing and you want me to give you money for it. I am feeling like my personal space is being violated and that you aren't giving me a viable way of saying no to your request, and I feel resentful when I feel as though I am being manipulated or cajoled into giving money. I am requesting that you take your stickers, give me some space, and tell me more about what you are doing in a less invasive way.

Instead, the conversation went something like this:

her, walking up to us quickly, entering the realm of our personal space, thrusting american flag and peace sign stickers in my hand: You are hereby under arrest for being too beautiful, for smiling too much, for being too happy. Your citation fee is a minimum of $10 that goes to our food bank where we feed hot vegetarian meals to the hungry.

me, slightly inebriated, staring at the stickers in my hand, just starting to understand she was asking for money: is this a religious based charity?

her: this project is run by the Hare Krishnas, but --

me: is there proselytizing?

her: people can listen if they want or not. But many people want someone to talk to when they come share our meals.

me, lamely: There is a lot of loneliness in the world. Then, handing her $5, feeling manipulated and like I wanted my personal space back, thank-you-very-much: Have a nice day.

I felt pissed until I left the stickers at the free literature stand at the public library.

Moral of the story: NVC is much easier to think about and plan than it is to do spontaneously. Clearly I need more practice.

Isn't Life Great?

I don't have to be anybody but myself with you, he said, through a telephone transmission spanning 760 miles. He'd gone to Alaska for work, before I moved to Oregon, and now he's back in Salt Lake City. He's writing away and reuniting with Silver, his trusty automobilic stallion.

As we said goodbye from the phonecall, he told me that it was good to hear my smile, that I have an audible smile.

Friendship, connection, what blessings.

Today

Today is beautiful.

I am blessed to live and breathe and learn and love.

Gratitude is a wondrous emotional/mental/spiritual state.

Anticipator

One of my grandfather's sayings, after I'd tell him about travel plans to go visit him:

"Oooh, girlie! That gets my anticipator cranking!"

That saying always makes me smile and feel fondly of that dear man.

And today, my anticipator is seriously cranked. My lover arrives in a mere twelve hours. Twelve hours!

That is all I can manage at this moment. Excitement ...

Nerd Word Games

Last night I went to the adult spelling bee at Mississippi Pizza. No, I didn't compete. But I cheered on and played along and had a wonderful awesome brain-stimulating time. Hooray! I love being a nerd. And I tend to like nerdy people. Cool kids need not apply to my friend-scene.

Oh, and I saw http://www.freerice.com/ today. The warning at the bottom cautions that it will make you smarter and a better conversationalist. So there you go.

Blank Canvas

You're my first blank canvas, I told C. The first person I've met who hasn't known me for a long time or peripherally in another context or known people I've known or vice versa. I'm reinventing myself before your eyes, as you get to know me, I said.

(What a curious view, I bet!)

The vulnerable self-revealing of painting the blank canvas of our mutual Knowing has been met with amazing generosity and tenderness.

How lucky I feel, to know such kindness.

My Brain Turns WhichWise?

What was most astounding to me about yesterday's rotating image was that when C showed me, we were both looking at the same thing, and seeing her turn in different directions.

That was really cool. The nipples are also a nice touch.

(And see this science-y post for more info about the whole thing.)

Click da Chik

Nonbelievers, check this science-y post for more info.

Click the image to see the action!

Right Brain v Left Brain

Article from:

October 09, 2007 12:00am

THE Right Brain vs Left Brain test ... do you see the dancer turning clockwise or anti-clockwise?

If clockwise, then you use more of the right side of the brain and vice versa.

Most of us would see the dancer turning anti-clockwise though you can try to focus and change the direction; see if you can do it.

LEFT BRAIN FUNCTIONS
uses logic
detail oriented
facts rule
words and language
present and past
math and science
can comprehend
knowing
acknowledges
order/pattern perception
knows object name
reality based
forms strategies
practical
safe

RIGHT BRAIN FUNCTIONS
uses feeling
"big picture" oriented
imagination rules
symbols and images
present and future
philosophy & religion
can "get it" (i.e. meaning)
believes
appreciates
spatial perception
knows object function
fantasy based
presents possibilities
impetuous
risk taking

Compassion

If you want others to be happy,
practice compassion.
If you want to be happy,
practice compassion.
- Dalai Lama

Not Enough Retirement Activites?

News of the weird: Dear diary of too much information ...

The Salt Lake Tribune wire services

Article Launched: 11/14/2007 07:59:05 AM MST

Posted: 7:57 AM- A man noted for keeping an almost unbelievably detailed personal diary died in October at age 89.
For 25 years, the Rev. Robert Shields of Dayton, Wash., had chronicled his life in five-minute segments of banalities, leaving 37 million words on paper filling 91 boxes. His self-described "uninhibited," "spontaneous" work was astonishing in its mundaneness.
Examples: Aug. 13, 1995, 8:40 a.m. "I filled the humidifying basin mounted over the Futura baseboard heater." 8:45 a.m.: "I shaved twice with the Gillette Sensor blade (and) shaved my neck behind both ears, and crossways of my cheeks, too."' July 25, 1993, 7 a.m.: "I cleaned out the tub and scraped my feet with my fingernails to remove layers of dead skin." 7:05 a.m.: "Passed a large, firm stool, and a pint of urine. Used 5 sheets of paper."
-- Chuck Shepherd

Screw the Purple Hat, I Want THIS When I'm Old

Display

Ring ring ring

voice, slightly muffled: Hello?

me: Hey, baby, how's your night?

voice, more clearly: What?

me, panic rising: Mom?!

I'll be watching the cellphone display a lot more carefully from now on. I'm just so relieved that all I did was say "baby." It could've been worse. It could've been a hot and steamy sexy-text. Yikes.

Bitchy 8th Grade Grrls Would Be Comfortable Here

My mom was a substitute teacher in public schools. Thankless job, that. I had more than one fistfight over it, since kids can be so incredibly rude to sub teachers, and you know, I might be a bitch to my mom, but I'll be damned if someone else is rude to her. Harumph.

For all the tribulations of her time as a substitute teacher, my mom says very little, except: "There is nothing so unpleasant as an eighth grade girl."

Setting aside her likely internalized misogyny, I have to say that I agree. When I was an eighth-grade girl, I was horrible. Horrible. So I was amused to find that my blog's readability requires a junior high education. Maybe if I didn't purposefully misspell words or use incorrect grammar or cuss, I'd rise to the level of high school. But fuck that. Junior high it is.

Confessions

Chicory sent me a message today asking if I was cheating on NaBloPoMo. I giggled (via email) and answered affirmatively. Caught! I joined the post-everyday-in-November club a couple days ago, and I unleashed some stuff that was saved as drafts and changed the dates to protect the innocent. Oh wait. I mean I changed the dates because I like order (ahem. except when I don't like order . . .). Ommmmm.

So there it is. My confession. AND a promise: I will post every day from here on out. The back-posting was just because I joined late! Am I naughty? Oh yes. Yes I am. Naughty notty notteeeee. I'll take my punishment later, thankyouverymuch.

And here's an image that makes me smile. The beautiful B in her famous Mexican wrestling mask. Roar!

Um, Tagged?

Wow, I've never done this before. I know, that's what all the born-again virgins say. But seriously. Until I joined NaBloPoMo, I existed in a very lonely blog place. No one read or saw my blog. It was a wasteland, truly. I wrote and posted mostly just for me. In the wasteland. My blog and me. But now that the randomizer is in play, oh my! It's like a carnival of activity. So I got tagged. By the lovely MissMess. And as a dutiful sort (ha!), I'm playing along:

* Link to the person that tagged you, and post the rules on your blog.
* Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself.
* Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
* Let each person know that they’ve been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

7 Random and/or Weird Facts About Me:

1. I have lots of names.
2. I drink more water than most people would believe.
3. As a kid I listened to Neil Diamond on vinyl. Hot August Nights.
4. My tongue has been pierced for a dozen years.
5. I believe that I will hit the jackpot someday. Yes. The lottery kind of jackpot.
6. I used to have a pet snake. And I was deathly afraid of snakes. It's a long story.
7. My closet used to be alphabetized.

I started to use NaBloPoMo Randomizer to choose my tagged fellow bloggers (who may or may not allow the comments to go though, but you know who they are in case they drop the ball). But I grew so embarrassed that I was tagging random strangers that I had to revert to people I knew. And then I got tired, so I stopped at five.

My victims:
Yoga Teacher
Chris Carlaw
For the Birds
An Accident of Hope
Pieces of Gray

Vet Day

This is the day when I contact those who have served in the military and thank them. Politics aside, my respect and appreciation for the sacrifice of those who have served is deep and very meaningful to me. There's a reason time in the military is called service.

Last night I saw In the Valley of Elah. As always, I sat to the end until the final credits rolled (all those hairstylists, animal handlers, and gaffers deserved for me to appreciate their names, too), which provided me the opportunity to compose myself after seeing the final scene where an American flag, sent by an Iraq vet to his father, was raised in the SOS signal.


And I was reminded of the oratory I did during my junior year in high school, in which I talked about my father's military service, his PTSD, the violence in my home as a result of my father's demons, and the frustration I felt with the ways young men and women are trained in violence and to kill without thought, but are not untrained. They are programmed to be killers but never deprogrammed to better fit within civilian life. The way in which vets were met Stateside during the Vietnam era with contempt and disgrace gave them no hero's outlet with which to channel the extreme violence they had witnessed and in which they had engaged.

The sadness I feel is tempered by my humble gratitude to my many family members and friends who have served, including for my friend B, who works in mental health services for the VA. Supporting the healing, while also trying to minimize the initial damage, is perhaps our best hope for a changed culture.

Bumper Sticker Wisdom

Seen on a vehicle near Hawthorne and 39th Avenue in SE Portland:

It's never too late to have a happy childhood.

Empty Mind

The five-year-old who lives upstairs likes to come down and eat fruit with me. We're buddies, she and me. I'll be posting some of our conversations because this child knows what's up.

M: Hey, B, I saw you meditating while I was cutting up the pineapple.

B: I wasn't meditating. I was doing yoga.

M: What do you think about when you do yoga?

B: I don't think about anything. I have an empty mind.

M: Will you teach me how to have an empty mind?

B: No, Mossy. You have to do it yourself. I don't know how to teach you.

Vegansexuals

This article, while amusing, does little to rebut the perception that vegans are exclusive, weird, and perhaps lacking in social skills.

That said, when I'm not eating meat, I can smell a meat-eater across the room. Same thing when I'm not eating dairy. And really, smell has a lot to do with attractiveness, right?

But I do wonder, is oral sex okay for ethically-motivated (as opposed to health-motivated) vegans because it's an issue of consent? As in, My lover consents to my eating her, but the chicken does not consent to my eating its eggs.

Thoughts?

Utaaaahhhhh

Interesting the way that perspective shifts. Now that I've moved away from Utah I find myself defending Utah, Salt Lake City, even Mormons. No, it's not so bad, I say. It's beautiful! And Salt Lake City has an incredibly progressive mayor and is a great city! The counterculture there is strong and the community of freaks fairly cohesive!

When I lived in Utah, I would bitch and moan about politics, Mormons, small-minded backwater culture. I (perhaps begrudgingly) recognized and acknowledged the good things, too, but my focus on the good parts has increased and my vocal defense of my previous homestate has grown tremendously. It feels good to actively focus on the good parts, because certainly there are wonderful, amazing things about my former homestate and my religious/cultural upbringing.

Yeah, there are really shitty parts, too. But this is a positive post.

Wrapping my head and heart around the fact that whether I like it or not, I am Mormon, is a long, protracted trudging through subconsciousness and repression. At age 21, I had my name removed from the Mormon (LDS) church rolls. When I got the letter saying, "You are no longer a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints," I let out a little whoop. I wasn't Mormon anymore! I lived under that delusion for about six months until I realized that I will always be Mormon. It's part of who I am. Inextricably.

So I'll focus on the good parts. For now, anyway. I had a great time singing early Mormon education songs like "Give Said the Little Stream" and "Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree" with another "former" Mormon I met after moving to Portland. Actually, I have no idea if those songs are unique to Mormons or not. (Probably not.) But they were quintessential to my Mormon experience. And this YouTube video, though the quality sucks, still makes me smile.

Civic Action, Or An Approximation Thereof

I love Election Day.

The only drawback I've found thus far to my new state is that Oregon does mail-in voting. What?! That means I can't go smile at the senior citizens volunteering as election personnel at the church or elementary school closest to my house, sign my name on the line next to my printed name, go into the little booth, and punch my ballot (or use the computer touch screen, like I did last year). That's my favorite part of voting: the ritual! Well, the ritual and the cool sticker that proclaims to the world I Voted! (Last year's sticker had a thumbprint on it, for the touch screen voting.)

So I "forgot" to mail my ballot in time and now I have to make sure I get to the polls (I'll use my branch library's drop-spot) before 8:00 pm.

The Onion Knows

Sure, I was being sarcastic by posting this, but think about it - wouldn't the death of a sexclub member be really sad for her or his clubmates? Wouldn't the next encounter be fundamentally different, especially if the group had formed a cohesive bond? Sometimes the Onion is right on. Right on.

First Orgy After Brian's Death Very Solemn

FAIRFIELD, CA—The orgy was marked by long stretches of silence despite the use of only two ball gags, and began with a melancholy daisy chain on the floor.

She Begat Me

Two weeks ago I found myself in Salem, Oregon, to perform an unpleasant task requiring me to entertain myself for a period of time. With help from a not-quite-articulate employee at a Shell station, a tattered phonebook, and repeated phone calls to my mother in Utah, I found the graves of my maternal grandparents.

Unpacking the baggage of my maternal relations is a slow project. Just when I believe I have made progress, a seemingly insignificant word, gesture, or memory slams me back to a space of bewilderment, where nothing makes sense and a toxic cocktail of sadness swirled with resentment courses through me. Lately the sadness predominates, especially in the aftertaste, which is a welcomed change from the days and years when I took my resentment (and often rage) straight up, followed by agonizing emotional hangovers.

No wonder I love paradox, what with the mix of teetotaling women, alcoholic men, and a familial culture of silence that leaves me with the above picture as my only tangible remnant of the woman who gave birth to my mother.

Diff'rent Strokes

I'm a pluralistic kind of person, in case that isn't obvious. As a pluralistic sort, I have no problem with people who want to have kids. I do have a problem when people with kids think that everyone else should have them too. Yeah, I hear you when you say that having kids is the best thing in your life. I get that. Or at least I see that it brings you meaning.

But I see this image I think, "Mmm hmmm. Deciding not to have kids is the right decision for me." Not for you, but for me. It's all about me. Me me me me me.

Which might have something to do with my lack of desire to dedicate my life to a child . . . ? Sure. But at least I'm honest about that fact. What fact? That it's all about me.

.

Reincarnation

Yesterday's post on Recognition prompted further thoughts. I do find that I often meet people I "recognize," which is a nice reminder of interconnectedness. Life is a fantastic mystery, and I make no pretension at understanding that Mystery. It is, in fact, what I love most - that much is unknown. I am comfortable with that Unknowing.

And because I Don't Know, I don't disparage those who believe in Pre-Life, Post-Life, and/or Reincarnation. But I don't relate to the detailed accounts of how I am connected to so-and-so because in a past life I was the French scullery maid working in the house where Young Master X (who is now embodied in the female form in this lifetime) and I had a torrid affair. Such stories have never rung true for me, and I am seemingly a magnet for past-live-connection stories.

What motivates a person to tell me how I am supposedly connected to them through a past life? I don't quibble with their belief relating to their own life, but I find it presumptuous to tell me about my own. Maybe if it EVER rings true, I'll change my tune and maybe even update this post.

In the mean time, don't tell me we were siblings in the Civil War. I probably won't buy it.

Recognition

I smiled at a woman at the market last week and she said, "Do I know you?" to which I responded, "Not yet." She furrowed her brow and walked away.

I smiled at her in the first place because she looked grumpy, and sometimes when I feel grumpy a random smile can change my whole day.