Happy yoga morning beauties!
I’m trying, as a personal evolution experiment, to notice when I’m avoiding. Maybe the reality of a thing seems too wrong, too awful, too overwhelming. Maybe it seems I can’t make a difference. Maybe it seems the whole world thinks it’s okay. Even so, I think I’ll take a little gander anyway. Something in me knows. Mine as well just give it a go.
I’m not ready to make the change, some say. For me, I no longer want to use that excuse. So, I’m looking: Animal agriculture. We all have some inkling. Don’t we? But, I can’t give up meat, I hear some say. Another says: I can’t give up dairy. But, I can’t…I can’t. I think we owe it to ourselves to at least know what choice we’re really making. We are more than the sum of our indoctrinations and addictions. We are more than what our culture tells us to be. I for one, flunked blind obedience training.
Let’s just see where knowing takes us. Maybe we could make a positive difference here. Maybe with what we choose to eat. Maybe with what we choose to buy. Maybe what we choose to support or participate in.
Maybe we change a little at a time, like embracing Paul McCartney’s Meatless Mondays. Maybe we make a grand leap and go vegan.
Are you willing? Just to see and know? Knowing the truth of a thing–that’s where it all starts.
So, the documentaries I’ve listed below are fascinating, credible sources of information on the unhealthy animal-product based diet we’re accustomed to, and what animal agriculture looks like in the United States.
Fork Over Knives
Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead
Take a look, even if you aren’t ready to change. Just as an act of bravery, as an ethical citizen, on the path of your own evolution. As a human sharing this planet.
Love and Lettuce,
I’ve made a version of Turkish coffee for years.
2 cardamom pods (milled first)
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4-1/3 cup coffee beans coarsely ground (I like French roast)
1 tablespoon coconut sugar
To with frothed rice milk. Serves 2, with a little extra.
Love and lettuce,
Whole foods… “That means no added salt, oil or sugar. Those are not whole foods.” A statement by a local vegan nurse practitioner, given at our local Spring Jumpstart, where the documentary “Plantpure Nation” was shown. Pondering this. Makes sense. And…I feel better, like right-now better. Groovy even.
So, in addition to those listed above, I’m avoiding packaged foods and condiments. I’m reducing grain, avocado, nuts and olives. Looking to lighten my load here. Looking for flight. Energy. Clarity. Focus. Inspiration. I ask a lot, I know. But I’m willing to change in order to possess the dream. Also, I’m going at this easy, scooching a little closer every day, smiling, laughing at my mediocre missteps. It’s all good. It’s only life.
Love and lettuce,
For clarity. For deciding how I want to live my life. For a focused, creative energy flow. For a neat, cozy space, to coax in in the muse!
Love and lettuce,
So, I woke this morning thinking about the “why” of my snacking behavior, which seems rooted in restlessness. Why does this restlessness cause me to continually forage, like my daughter’s caged rodent Gonzo?
Well, I have a psychologist-hypnotherapist friend, who shared with me what the process to overcoming unwanted behaviors looks like. She says usually the behavior is linked to a single experience, a particular moment when something negative happened, and the psyche, brilliant its creative survival strategies, makes some belief about the situation, or creates some way to cope or self-soothe.
I practice yoga and while in asana, sometimes I look around inside my body, for answers to many things, but these past few days, I’ve been contemplating the restless that causes me to snack. A memory came up for me.
So, I DO remember being left alone as a child, which doesn’t seem like a super good idea for a five or six year-old, but it wasn’t all bad. I’ve always been pretty content with my own company, and even at young age, I liked romping around in my imaginary world, AND I liked making my own rules.
Okay, I’m going to level with you. I was scared shitless as a kid. I hate to say that, because I’m not a woe-is-me kind of girl, but if we’re going to overcome–we’ve got to get real, right?
I remember the house, with its steep driveway and its weeping willow, positioned between the lake and the railroad tracks. I was five, maybe six. After the yellow school bus dropped me at the bottom of the driveway, I walked up the gravel drive, with a zip of green in the middle. I swung open the unlocked door, peered into the empty house, and called out in my bravest voice, “I’m home” even though my Mom and brother wouldn’t be home for hours.
“Snack!” That’s it! I will munch the fear away! It didn’t take long though, before the fear crept back into the room, parking its sorry rear-end, right over there, at the periphery of my vision.
Then, when it started to get dark, I thought up a way to make myself feel a little better: I pulled my Mom’s rabbit fur coat off the hanger in her bedroom closet, and I drug it over to the high-backed chair in the dark living room, and I wrapped it’s furry, dusty protection around me. Then, once positioned in the chair, I zipped it up and let the furry hood fall over the top. I thought, if a bad guy comes to the house, I’ll be hidden. Nobody can get me, because all they’ll see is fur. Not a girl.
As an adult, with my hypnotherapist friend, in guided meditation, I saw that child me, sweltering in a den of rabbit fur and upholstery, and across the room…I saw something I’d not noticed before. I saw an un-curtained window, and yellow light shined right into the room, and threw a warm beam onto the green carpet. Funny, now it doesn’t look scary at all! And, the light has a presence. The light feels Divine. I thought in that moment…as I do now: I’ve never been alone.
Never alone. Okay. I’ll do some more yoga and let you know more later…
Love and Lettuce,
Between meal snacking has been the proverbial “bane” of my existence, aka my road to a lean, fit, ‘proud to rock my bikini’ life. There’s a restlessness, which keeps me grabbing a bag of fruit snacks here, tearing into a handful of figs there. This seems to add up to an extra five hundred or so calories a day or say… an unwanted ten pounds on my body. But, honestly its not just the extra weight, or the fact that all that “quality time” in the gym (with my very fit guy) hasn’t netted me the physique I desire–it’s more that I wonder about the restlessness, the need to feed, and the constant groping for another little something.
Our lives show on our bodies, at least that’s what it looks like over here, and though I’ve got some muscle, and I’m able to jog around the disc golf course with ease, and I can keep up with my eleven year-old, like the Little Mermaid–I want more. Okay, it’s not really, MORE. It’s more like, REAL. That thing called peace, self-knowledge and a conscious life. This snacking compulsion of mine appears to be a road in. Into what? I’m not sure. I don’t quite…know.
‘I don’t know.’
I think this simple statement, if plumbed for it’s treasure, has the potential to create an alive, every day happiness, and can be a lucid, conscious, personal little foray into what makes us tick. Let’s sweep away what clutters up our innate joy. The REAL (to me) good life.
So, I’m going to explore this with you for a time. I’ve been wanting to. Let me know what you think.
Cheers lovelies, to questions asked, to noticing, to sharing what we’re learning. To life.
Love and Lettuce,
As I’ve read Caucasia, a novel for a literature class I’m taking, I’ve been struck by how artificially constructed race (or gender) is, and how race is simply a culture-ized idea with no “biological definition” as Micheal Omi puts it. (Racial Formations, Michael Omi) I can see the primitive survival aspect of evolution which required “different” to trigger an instinctive wake-up call to possible danger, but now that we as a society have moved past the caves, spears, clothes made from the skins of animals (sort of) and cave paintings, maybe we as writers can help deconstruct some of this latent fear-of-different, power trip that leads to social and political marginalization, where the dominant culture/race is the only lens or even the primary lens the world is seen through.
As an artist who is a half-Chinese, half-European woman of a certain age, I am aware that “male-white-American” is a limited perspective, one where I seem to come up short, one I bumped up against just yesterday.
So I stopped by for tea, with two, white, male, fifty-something scientists, one a chemist, the other a geologist. They were in the middle of writing up a proposal for a soil remediation project in a Russian sounding place near the Arctic Circle. They welcomed my fresh energy and the chemist, a shaved head, bespectacled guy who peered at me over the top of his glasses, seemed eternally wearing an “oh really” mask, while he simultaneously swaggered, sitting in his rolling office chair, while he plucked away at the laptop’s keyboard.
The chemist shook his head knowingly when I recited the name of my Women’s Studies Lit/Writing class, “Writing Women’s Lives: Strategies for Representation and Histories of Domination” which to be sure is a mouthful. He shook his head, smiling smugly, like he really had the skinny on life, then he made an attempt to be fair minded, saying we’re all different, but followed his platitude with the assessment of women as complicated and meandering, and men as direct.
I made light of this, acknowledging that women are indoctrinated to be subtle and pleasant. I smiled and described an interaction with my partner, where I initially resisted being direct and had to practice just telling my truth, in the mirror no less! Two days later I managed distill my vague, apologetic abstractions down to two concrete requests. Voila! Success! As I spoke to the chemist I began to wonder how much of gender or race is culturally constructed. This guy seemed to see these things as concrete: Men are this way. Women are that way. I am white. You are the other. He was efficient, intelligent, powerful, the one getting things done—to him, what was of true value. I wondered if his position would be different if he were say Black or Chinese? Maybe. He’s still male, which seemed the trump card.
As I sat at the café-style table with my blue-eyed, white-haired geologist friend I was regaled with the Fibonacci sequence, capillary flow, ambient waves and ways scientists protect their formulas and procedures, sometimes with the low tech addition of something like food coloring! It was fascinating, even when the chemist chimed in to our conversation, “I actually get what he’s saying.” Was he insinuating I did not? No, he could not be that blatantly cliche or droll…(put on my elongated-vowel/flat-lipped English accent here). I must have misunderstood.
I found tea with the two, white, male scientists stimulating and thought provoking, on many levels. They are bright, geeky and laugh easily–to me the surest sign of intelligence, and fun. Yet, the whole white-male superiority is so much the bedrock of our culture, for those who live within it, are it–it is invisible. Undeniable. Simply is. To me, as one who lives at its periphery, it seems odd and contrived–a thin as air, wispy idea of power, and likely fabricated by some guy in a religious robe (dress)–or possibly a lab coat.
As a writer, I strive to remain aware of these biases, and explore social, political and cultural nuances, (and maybe even my own defensiveness) which will color my work with either cultural cliche, OR if I spend a little more time, possibly a deeper understanding of the diversity of the human experience, and what shapes it.
Not you typical Love and Lettuce post, lovelies, but one I’m pondering. I think deconstructing our biases on any level can help us evolve and achieve deeper health, whether it be physically, spiritually, emotionally or culturally-politically.
Love and Lettuce,