Funny Little Hybrid Child

I am a funny little hybrid child; currently studying Buddhist philosophy and practicing yoga, believing fully in the earth-based spirituality offered in Paganism, and a Christ-doubting, but God-loving, Lutheran Christian.

It works for me.

My dad is a Lutheran pastor, which means that I always get a good dose of Christianity when I'm home to visit. We Lutherans are "grace-lovers," which is to say that we believe that there is nothing we can do or say to make us more or less loved by the divine. I embrace the idea of grace with open arms, but as a perfectionist constantly trying to prove my worth, I must admit that I still cannot understand how grace could extend to a being as "imperfect" as myself.

The psychologist Carl Jung emphasizes that it is only when we fully love and embrace our "dark parts" that our lights can shine freely in this world. Similarly, the Buddhist nun Pema Chodron writes continuously about the importance of accepting ourselves as we are - wherever we are - however we might be. This means opening to all of our pieces - the broken and dirty ones, the cravings, the addictions, the imperfections - without hardening ourselves against them, wishing they were gone, or trying to cover them up. In a word, trying to love ourselves with the same grace my dad believes in so surely, the same foundational concept inherent in all of my funny hybrid spiritual practices. Accept myself as I am, know that I need not change or do anything to be "better," "more worthy," or "more loved." Live with confidence in grace and impermanence, accepting imperfection and pushing nothing away in this world's experience.

My job is to be open. To be open enough that the universe and the divine can sing through me, blowing through the channel of my being freely and unrestricted. My constant worries block the spirits from flowing through me, obstructing the song that I was meant to produce. When I worry about my body being perfect enough to be worthy of use, I block the channel and destroy my song. When I try to control the tune, tempo, quality, and audience, everything seems to fall apart, and I lose the divine grace that was meant to flow through me without my constant intrusion, doubts, and worries.

I've been worried a lot today - more than usual, I've been acutely aware of what I'm eating, how much I've exercised, and how much weight I've gained. Instead of dropping into the present moment, reflecting on my breath and the impermanent sensations I am experiencing, I've been stuck in a constant string of "what ifs." What if I get fat? What if I don't find a job when I move to Colorado? What if I can't find the true purpose of my life, and wander aimlessly forever? When will I get to live deep in the mountains? When won't I be trapped in debt? When will I be able to fully release from all of this future-boding and rest in the grace of this present moment?

In the middle of all of this chest tightening, breath confining anxiety, I picked up my dad's devotional book and read this - a favorite of mine from when I studied Christianity with slightly more fervor than I do today:

"Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which passes all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ."
Phil. 4: 6-7

I suppose this is a similar vein to the Alcoholics Anonymous foundational thought that a "higher power" is needed to get through any addiction. I love control; I've been resisting the idea that I need help to get through my eating disorder for years. I've wanted to recover alone, prove my strength and discipline, and I've refused all sorts of intervention (both human and divine) with the stubborn resolution that I could prove that I am good enough by recovering on my own.

And now, I'm being held like a small child, fed by my parents who fix my food and keep me company. I sleep during the day and have monitored exercise periods. I've started relying entirely upon what my mom and dad say about the world - when they tell me that I haven't eaten too much, I try to trust them, and rest in the peace that comes from releasing control.

I guess that it's finally time to start relinquishing control on a larger level, trusting that there is something bigger taking care of me - something bigger, even, than my dear parents. Trusting, maybe, that if I stop worrying, the universe will hold me, and that the divine God will in fact sing through me once I stop trying so hard. And the song might just be peace, a peace that passes all understanding because it comes without being earned or deserved. It comes as a song of grace, once I release enough to open myself to the universal instrument I was meant to be.

And as a funky hybrid child, born of many spiritual persuasions, all of this seems to fit and make sense. All things are impermanent, our experience is ours to feel and not protect ourselves against. I am connected to all things - the earth, wind, water, and fire - and am part of all things. My song is not mine, but simply a sound produced in the channel of being I currently occupy. It's a song of grace, impermanence, and light. It's a song of peace and letting go, of accepting and loving the instrument I am, with all of its perfect flaws and imperfect desires for control.

So tonight, I sing. Wild hopes.

Marshmallow Courage

Today I feel like I'm walking on the rim of a ferocious volcano, with red hot lava spitting up at me as I twirl and dance, holding my balance simply by staying in motion. I've been afraid of falling into the pit for so long, and I've avoiding hiking up the volcano for years because I know that a fall is possible - even inevitable.

My younger sister, a brave and bold traveler of this planet, just returned from a grand adventure to Guatemala and Costa Rica. My mom and I met her in Minneapolis shortly after she returned, and we were blessed to hear some of the details of her adventure. If she wasn't camping in the rainforest or jumping through a dark hole in some cave with only a candle and her optimism to hold onto, she was talking with strangers, being led to people's homes to see their weavings, and hiking up the side of the Pacayo Volcano.

For those who follow the news, my baby sister hiked up the side of THE volcano that only TWO DAYS later erupted and killed several people. Not only did she hike Pacayo, but she roasted marshmallows over the hot lava.

She is brave in so many ways - and always has been. She has a spontaneous spirit and a bold trust in this universe that I have always admired. She rides the scary rides, follows the rules only until she finds them ridiculous, and has a confidence about her that I can only hope to one day emulate.

So, back to the volcano. Today I've been stressed, anxious, and worried. I have been at this recovery thing - at full speed - for two weeks. I feel like after talking about getting better and planning to "recover" for the past several years, I finally started hiking up the side of my own "volcano." And now... two weeks later, I am standing on the rim and peering into the lava beneath me, terrified of being burned.

Today I was bored. I was stressed about the future and had a difficult time bringing myself back to the present moment. I ate a lot, panicked a lot, and had a DANGEROUS day. A full box of Hot Tamales this afternoon; hamburger, french fries, AND a milk shake for dinner. I am okay; slightly anxious and uncomfortable, but managing it. I feel like today I truly did wobble alongside the rim of this volcano, playing dangerously close to the edge.

And then I realized... what if I took a breath, calmed down, and trusted that I could balance on the edge? What if, instead of freaking out about what MIGHT happen, I took a cue from my little sister and simply made the journey to the rim a grand adventure? What if, instead of running and wobbling along the rim, I stopped to roast marshmallows?

Trusting that I will be okay is a difficult thing for me. Jumping into a dark hole with no assurance of what awaits me sends me into a panic; following a stranger to see their mother's weaving at a small home (in who knows where) makes my heart race. But my sister just jumps. With grace and trust, she knows that everything will work itself out; and if it doesn't, she knows that we aren't in control anyway, and that such worries are senseless.

My body knows what to do and how to regulate itself. Too much food is uncomfortable, but it doesn't have to result in panic. What if, instead, I prayed in thanksgiving for the feast? What if I stopped running scared and brought out the marshmallows instead?

I love telling people that "life's a party, but no one's going to throw it for you." I find myself often saying this to others, but rarely able to take my eyes away from my fear long enough to relax into the party waiting for me. When I think about my sister, it brings me to tears to realize how proud I am that she ALREADY lives this way.

So, my baby sister will be my guide for today (and, probably, forever). I'll grow into some of her boldness and hopefully give her something in return. And maybe one day, we will roast marshmallows over this volcano together, laughing about the journey, and grateful for the feast.

"Keep your gaze on the bandaged place..."

"Don't turn away. Keep your gaze on the bandaged place. That's where the light enters you."
Rumi

This afternoon I had a victory - something small in the grand scheme, but overwhelmingly large in my own psyche.

It started mid-afternoon; I got bored. My hunger and fullness cues are still out of whack, and I have a difficult time knowing when I'm hungry, full, or tired. All of the sensations are jumbled together right now, and even though I've gotten much better at interpreting my body's signs, I still get confused sometimes.

So what happened was this: I was bored. And it was time for me to have a snack. But the eating disordered part of me HATES the mid-afternoon snack; I am always terrified to eat too much and not be hungry enough (aka "deserving enough") for dinner, and I'm also constantly thinking about food during this part of the day - probably because my body is hungry and trying to get me to realize it, while I fixate on ignoring the sensation.

I decided to have a snack. I ate some Hot Tamales (good Lord, they're my favorite), and then realized that eating something more substantial would be to my benefit. So I made a little bit of trail mix (my mom looked so pleased!) and promptly inhaled that. And then... I couldn't tell if I was still hungry or not. I didn't WANT to eat more, because my brain was warning me to be cautious about "over-eating."

My mom and I were supposed to be running errands, but we got sidetracked and stuck at home. So I was sitting on the couch, in a sort of limbo, waiting for my mom and unsure about how much time I had. Could I take a nap? Should I read a little bit? Watch a movie? I didn't know what I was supposed to be doing... which meant that my brain fixated on its favorite subject... what I've eaten, what I shouldn't have eaten, and what "intellectually" I should decide in the food game I play so often when I don't know what to occupy myself with. I was frustrated and confused, but couldn't label it as such, and decided to eat some cookie wafers.

But the cookies put me over the edge. I felt terrible - it was too much. I berated myself and kept thinking, "well now I've royally fucked up. I won't be hungry for dinner, and I'm going to get fat at this rate... hell I'm already blown up like a balloon." I couldn't help it - my brain went into panic mode and immediately tried to manage my anxiety. I wanted to throw up so badly, but my mom was here and deeply engaged with a contractor about redoing our kitchen floor. I was itching to purge; I wanted the contractor to leave and my mom to finish her errands without me so that I could go about my eating drama in peace. I needed to manage my panic - I needed to undo my mistake.

Instead, my mom and the contractor talked for an hour. Then my dad came home, and my mom left. Somewhere along the line I fell asleep on the couch; I was too terrified to move anywhere because I knew if I got up I would either eat more or try and get to the bathroom unnoticed. So I sat. With my "gaze on the bandaged place," leaning in towards my pain instead of wishing it away or trying to "fix it" in some maladaptive way.

I woke up two hours later, still feeling full and crappy. It was almost dinner time, and I realized that my panic had faded a bit. After all, it was just some afternoon snacks. Maybe it wasn't "too much," but was just an experiment in learning to eat again. It doesn't feel great to eat candy, trail mix, and cookies in one sitting. It doesn't mean that I am bad, or wrong, or disgusting. It just means that I ate some candy, and trail mix, and cookies.

And I was upset about it, but that's okay too. The pain was there, and instead of DOING SOMETHING about it, I sort of leaned in and felt it. Recognizing that I felt disgusting - and separating it from the belief that I am disgusting - was a big revelation. I am not defined by my feelings. The pain and panic are there, but the stories I've been telling myself about what that means about ME are just stories. The things I am so ashamed of - eating too many afternoon snacks, being hungry, getting bigger than the thin and childlike person I idealize - don't make ME bad or wrong or shameful. They don't define me.

So instead of hiding from them, trying desperately to prove that I have no shameful parts... no imperfections to tarnish my identity that I want so badly to be "good enough..." I leaned in towards the pain. I didn't deny it, but kept my gaze steady on the bandaged wounds I've been so scared of for so many years.

I am sick. I don't think rationally. I'm not perfect. I'm not in control of my life, especially when I most desperately need to be. Sometimes I do the wrong things, and eat the wrong things, and worry about everything under the moon. If I had it my way, I would probably eat seven bowls of vanilla ice cream every afternoon. I wouldn't feel very good - physically my body would probably let me know fairly quickly that seven bowls leads to discomfort of some kind - but the truth is that I love ice cream. And I often eat too much.

I'm kind of a pig when I'm hungry - especially because I've been starving for so long. I watch what everyone else eats and try to gauge what is "normal," but long ago I set up a game with rules for myself that don't apply to anyone else. I want to be the one who eats the least - who is the best and thinnest and most disciplined - but in reality, I sometimes act without discipline at all. I don't always crave carrot sticks and I sometimes hate having to exercise. I don't love vegetables any more than junk food and I'm not the picture perfect image of health and happiness.

Pretending to be something that I'm not - and lying to myself for years - has created a deep wound in my soul. I keep looking away from it, trying to make it go away by ignoring its existence. I think, "maybe if I pretend long enough, I will evolve into the person I really want to be and the hole will disappear."

But the hole remains, bandaged.
And this afternoon, my victory was that I kept my gaze on that place, noticing it and trying to have compassion for both my injury and the lies that created it. I ate too much, felt crappy, and noticed it. I am not bad for eating three snacks, I just did. My hole is that I am imperfect, and struggling, and still unable to accept myself with grace. But instead of acting to fix it - or ignore the wound - I kept my eyes on it.

It's not miraculously healed or better; I just know that it's there. And that's okay. I am trusting that, like Rumi asserts, it is the same place where the light will enter me. Or, like Carl Rogers said, "The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change."

So the light will come in. I have to trust that it will. And I am okay. Hole and all.

When Does It Get Easier?

Today I was fishing through some old letters and past-loved items, and I came across a book, made for me several years ago by a lover of mine. I have been eating and digesting, feeling, sleeping, and healing for almost two weeks, and my recovery seems to be progressing. My brain and my heart are waking up - and so when I stumbled upon this small book of memories, I found myself sobbing over its contents. Now that I am no longer numb with starvation, I am experiencing emotion more deeply and widely than I have in several years. I found myself mourning a broken relationship long put to rest - my heart heavy with past love and commitment, broken hopes of a future, and of my own unravelled identity.

Even now, as I sit near my beautiful window, looking out on a glorious June evening and hearing the birds sing the sun to sleep, my heart is still holding this deep sadness - a sadness that birthed out of nothing sensible or logical - a sadness that should have been put to rest several years ago. I finally curled up with my mom, heavy heart and all, and simply asked, "when does it get easier? Do broken hearts ever heal?"

Her answer - and the truth, I think - is that it might not ever be "gone" entirely. The residue is there, under our fingernails and in our boxes of old letters and postcards and ticket stubs. The fingerprints left on our hearts and pillows and identities don't ever really leave us... they just kind of fade and become part of the background in our ever changing, active lives.

I'm thinking the same is true for this eating disorder. Because even after two weeks of fairly consistent eating and healthy behavior, I am still feeling anxious panic as I sit here listening to the birds. I would be lying if I said that I wasn't in a deep battle with my body, wanting so badly for it to be thinner and more perfect. I've gotten much better at sitting in this state of imperfection - without acting in a maladaptive way - but I still hate the imperfection. I am eating, but not loving it. I'm not throwing up, but I still think about it and dream up diets and plans and ways to lose the weight I am gaining so steadily.

So after two weeks of refeeding, I keep thinking, "shouldn't I be over this? When will this finally get easier?" But maybe it is like our old loves... the pain fades, but the sadness stays. And I may never be the same. The residue will be there, and I will probably stumble across books or pictures and cry over what was and what could have been. Why couldn't she love me? Why didn't she choose me? Why can't I love myself? Why can't I love all of the imperfect pieces of this life instead of tolerating them and hating myself for failing to fix them? What would my life have been like had I not had this eating disorder to battle? Where would I be now? How much time have I wasted?

I thought at some point that these questions would be silent - no longer a refrain haunting the recesses of my brain. But maybe that isn't realistic. Maybe the best we can hope for is that it fades to a quiet hum... something to remind us of where we've been and what we've learned. And for that, maybe we're lucky. Our lives are littered with residue - lessons learned, loves lost, battles fought, and wars won. Without the residue, would we still be who we are? My guess is, no. But for today, I would like the residue to hold less sadness and be a bit lighter... because when it all piles up, it's difficult to see the way out.

And does it ever really get easier? Will I be able to sit here someday and only listen to the sun hitting the horizon... without the underlying panic of what I've eaten for dinner or the sadness from past loves tainting my thoughts? I cling to the hope that I will... and that all of this "residue" has some greater teaching and purpose waiting for me.

In that, I will place my faith tonight. Maybe this pain and sadness has a purpose. Maybe it is tracing in me a path toward something brighter and more meaningful. Maybe it's good that the residue only fades, and never quite disappears... like a trail of bread crumbs leading me back to myself... back home...