17 Years Ago This Blog Is What I Looked Like

And while I knew at the time that I would probably NOT make sufficient use of the PROFESSIONAL photography session in my professional life as a yoga instructor-massage therapist-personal trainer, I DID IT ANYWAYS.

Why?

Because I could.

Because I wanted to.

Because I didn’t know when that opportunity might present itself again.

I vaguely resemble this smiling, fit American woman best seen in my About or Yoga pages. I cared about how I looked then a lot more than I do now, but a whole lot less than most, and not that far removed from where I am now. Which is to say, about twice a year when I have to go somewhere and look nice, meet new people and wear makeup and accessories from this decade.

I don’t quite recognize my body. Even my face. I often look BEYOND myself in the mirror and tend to keep moving forward.

It hasn’t felt like me (fit,strong, pain free) in a LONG time, and that creates a distance, a patience, a dis-interest that has led me to here.

I want and need help. With the many areas of pain, I need a doctor or team that is interested in at least exploring whether they are interconnected beyond the scope of bad ankle + 2 children in 40’s = tired, cranky, overweight American woman.

In the meantime, I am actively trying to lose weight. The old fashioned way with less calories in than calories out. The carefully observant/annoyingly obsessive way. Which is SOOOOOO not my jam. I have lost 20 pounds over the last two years doing it my casual, incremental way.

But this week, I signed up for the Mayo Clinic Diet for 3 months. Like I PAID for it. I have even visited the website, loaded the App, and am publicly admitting such an effort here. Yesterday was Day 1. I am also dabbling in The Blue Zones Challenge. I bought the book a month ago, and began LOGGING details concurrent with my Mayo plan. I took quizzes from QR codes (the funny square with the hidden data that links your phone to a freaking MIRACLE of SCIENCE); I literally have only understood how these snowflake STARS work in the last 6 months. (This is a raging display of commitment from ADHD-mixed type girl).

I altered my second coffee to contain no added sugar. Yesterday that was IM-possible - I tried, I failed, I carried on. Two more times. Just the way I LOVE it. Because how can one survive a torturous day without a reliable cup or two of COFFEE? I have spent approximately one MILLION dollars at Target and Kowalski’s and Oxendales preparing my fridge and countertop and cabinets for my no sugar-practically no carbs-practically no fat diet. Imagine explaining this to teenage me and her friends (and we were well read and well informed for the times) as we sat around the Lydons’ mammoth kitchen table eating chocolate-chocolate Snackwells and Diet Coke!

I bought four kinds of low fat cheese! I have spent the better part of my 7 year domestic partnership lambasting Derek every time he fails to notice the slightly altered label of anything deemed “low fat” or “no fat.” So I feel like I might owe him an apology, and that makes me think this “program” really should owe me some money or dignity because that costs A LOT.

I CHEATED so hard yesterday when I ate 6 Triscuits and 2 Laughing Cow triangles because I could not make it through the day (I had dinner at 4:30 PM for god’s sake) without some extra carbs and protein.

And I felt satisfied. With myself and, shockingly, with the snack.

I remember living in the Mediterranean, walking all the time, even with the bad feet, untreated mental illnesses, and complex grief I suffered at the time. I remember eating and drinking with sociable others - fresh fruits and vegetables, olives and cheeses and full fat milk, pastries with morning or afternoon coffee, colorful, alcoholic, anti-oxidant libations until late late late . Everywhere we went, we felt safe. All the colors and sounds were fresh, unabashed, young, old, mixed and moving.

I’d like to return to that space with my children, my partner, my friends.

I’d like to be smaller, stronger, and in lesser pain to explore and enjoy that environment, that bounty.

It IS a bounty.

What the body can hold,

what the world can offer,

what joy (and sorrow) can be shared.

Thank you, SomeOne, SomeThing Greater.

Thank You for these 46+ years, these 170+ pounds.

“Every line on your face tells a story someone else knows,” sings Lori McKenna.

“You live long enough, people you love get old.”

No more shine = more shine

Well, it is now December. the last month of 2020.

Eleven months into the global pandemic.

Eight months into economic and social disaster.

Five months after the neighborhood caught fire with anger and grief at inhumane murder of George Floyd.

A month and a half into the public rejection of democratic election results by the President, his legal team, his followers, including hilarious parking garage lady in Michigan. Rudy Giuliani's Star Witness in MI

Joe Biden was elected president on November 3rd, publicly declared president by all major news outlets on November 7th, and he will take the oath of office on January 20, 2021.

It is just over a year since we moved back into our renovated South Minneapolis home.

But, more importantly it is nearly 16 months into the life of my second child.

Devon, Devon, Devon - you make this loop around the sun worthwhile. Your growth from sweetest little gurgler to sitter-upper to crawler to stander-upper to walker to runner-to-the-door so you can go outside with shoes and socks and a jacket is the most special commemoration of this time.

And your big brother, who taught you how to fight with power sticks and swords, readies himself for Santa and his birthday soon after. He proclaims he will grow bigger and stronger at virtually every meal, as long as we dress it in ketchup and promise to turn his movie back on.

That Callan - he will turn 4 years old on Martin Luther King Jr weekend.

Warriors for justice, may you ever be.

Four years since Father Robert died. Three years since Dad died.

Warriors for kindness, may we remember your best moments.

Callan believes he can carry a baby in his tummy someday when he gets “mucho bigger”. Which indicates a growing maturity. Back when I was pregnant with you, little D, Callan would pull up his shirt and declare, “I got a baby in my tummy, too!”

I am in no hurry to disavow him of that belief, enamored as I am with his confidence in his own body, his exuberance and trust in a future of his own choosing.

Today (October) was a lovely snowy day in MN. And I will pause. To sit near a window. To watch the tall spruce tree’s lower branches bow beneath rounded cloak sleeves of snow.

Sometimes I feel like I am a warrior for grieving. And it is not simply my own grieving.

I started this post (August) to celebrate letting go of caring what I look like.

Because in this year of measuring immeasurable time, does it matter if I still wear maternity pants??? Today I believe I will always wear maternity pants.

Does it matter if I wear XL t-shirts for MN sports teams I don’t care about? Today most of the social justice/feminist power tshirts I order arrive too small to feel acceptable…. even for me in this great shake-it-off of caring. [Insert “piggies dancing” from “dancing show”]

Momala Harris [Momala on Mothers' Day] and RBG and Creator Goddess Warrior Queen tributes in blended cotton will dress the slimmer trunk of a friend. But, we are all in this fight together. Our time is coming. Our time is upon us. And the fight is exhausting. Essential, but exhausting.

My body has been riding roughshod in 2020 over any hope of living without pain.

I have not lived a normal-for-me physical existence in eight years. Today, the third surgery is scheduled. For the week before Christmas.

Because my body hurts. Almost all the time. It overreacts to most exercise and normal activities. Pilates and non-weight-bearing yoga are exceptions.

Stairs, laundry, standing, moving through the house unnecessarily for something forgotten or needed - these small acts of daily living cause pain in my back, neck, shoulders, but especially my left ankle. For two days after Thanksgiving I had to rest with my foot elevated because I had been cooking the whole day before. My right hip, right knee, and right ankle have begun to limp from their compensation efforts.

It is time to accept help. To invite risk. To scrape and paste the inside of my left ankle. To recuperate. To stand up. Perhaps to run with my 16 month old by the time he turns two.

My point is this: there is too much faulty debris on the inside of my body, to try and cover it up on the outside with less embarrassing pants. It is not my job right now to try and shine for others. I’d like to make room for whatever deep down shine I still possess.

I know I light up my children’s worlds as they light mine. I know there is more to see, more to feel, even on days when I feel empty, broke down, alone.

Alone together. Together together. Alone alone. Together alone.

Oh 2020, you do what you must do.

And I will do what I must. For me. For my boys.

To protect the shine that remains.

To strengthen the shine that matters.

To grow the light.

No more shine = more shine

Well, it is now December. the last month of 2020.

Eleven months into the global pandemic.

Eight months into economic and social disaster.

Five months after the neighborhood caught fire with anger and grief at inhumane murder of George Floyd.

A month and a half into the public rejection of democratic election results by the President, his legal team, his followers, including hilarious parking garage lady in Michigan. Rudy Giuliani's Star Witness in MI

Joe Biden was elected president on November 3rd, publicly declared president by all major news outlets on November 7th, and he will take the oath of office on January 20, 2021.

It is just over a year since we moved back into our renovated South Minneapolis home.

But, more importantly it is nearly 16 months into the life of my second child.

Devon, Devon, Devon - you make this loop around the sun worthwhile. Your growth from sweetest little gurgler to sitter-upper to crawler to stander-upper to walker to runner-to-the-door so you can go outside with shoes and socks and a jacket is the most special commemoration of this time.

And your big brother, who taught you how to fight with power sticks and swords, readies himself for Santa and his birthday soon after. He proclaims he will grow bigger and stronger at virtually every meal, as long as we dress it in ketchup and promise to turn his movie back on.

That Callan - he will turn 4 years old on Martin Luther King Jr weekend.

Warriors for justice, may you ever be.

Four years since Father Robert died. Three years since Dad died.

Warriors for kindness, may we remember your best moments.

Callan believes he can carry a baby in his tummy someday when he gets “mucho bigger”. Which indicates a growing maturity. Back when I was pregnant with you, little D, Callan would pull up his shirt and declare, “I got a baby in my tummy, too!”

I am in no hurry to disavow him of that belief, enamored as I am with his confidence in his own body, his exuberance and trust in a future of his own choosing.

Today (October) was a lovely snowy day in MN. And I will pause. To sit near a window. To watch the tall spruce tree’s lower branches bow beneath rounded cloak sleeves of snow.

Sometimes I feel like I am a warrior for grieving. And it is not simply my own grieving.

I started this post (August) to celebrate letting go of caring what I look like.

Because in this year of measuring immeasurable time, does it matter if I still wear maternity pants??? Today I believe I will always wear maternity pants.

Does it matter if I wear XL t-shirts for MN sports teams I don’t care about? Today most of the social justice/feminist power tshirts I order arrive too small to feel acceptable…. even for me in this great shake-it-off of caring. [Insert “piggies dancing” from “dancing show”]

Momala Harris [Momala on Mothers' Day] and RBG and Creator Goddess Warrior Queen tributes in blended cotton will dress the slimmer trunk of a friend. But, we are all in this fight together. Our time is coming. Our time is upon us. And the fight is exhausting. Essential, but exhausting.

My body has been riding roughshod in 2020 over any hope of living without pain.

I have not lived a normal-for-me physical existence in eight years. Today, the third surgery is scheduled. For the week before Christmas.

Because my body hurts. Almost all the time. It overreacts to most exercise and normal activities. Pilates and non-weight-bearing yoga are exceptions.

Stairs, laundry, standing, moving through the house unnecessarily for something forgotten or needed - these small acts of daily living cause pain in my back, neck, shoulders, but especially my left ankle. For two days after Thanksgiving I had to rest with my foot elevated because I had been cooking the whole day before. My right hip, right knee, and right ankle have begun to limp from their compensation efforts.

It is time to accept help. To invite risk. To scrape and paste the inside of my left ankle. To recuperate. To stand up. Perhaps to run with my 16 month old by the time he turns two.

My point is this: there is too much faulty debris on the inside of my body, to try and cover it up on the outside with less embarrassing pants. It is not my job right now to try and shine for others. I’d like to make room for whatever deep down shine I still possess.

I know I light up my children’s worlds as they light mine. I know there is more to see, more to feel, even on days when I feel empty, broke down, alone.

Alone together. Together together. Alone alone. Together alone.

Oh 2020, you do what you must do.

And I will do what I must. For me. For my boys.

To protect the shine that remains.

To strengthen the shine that matters.

To grow the light.