MAYBE-MIGHT Hill-where I live

I have no idea what I'm doing. I mean, NONE. It has not gotten any clearer as I have gotten older. In fact, it is less clear now, then it was before. Actually, I do not remember it ever being clear "before" either. I always looked on blankly as people would answer those questions like: "What will you be doing 1 year from now, 5 years from now, 10 years from now?"

I remember being really curious as to how some people seemed very certain about what it was they would be doing. They had a confidence in their voice, and a knowing quality. I cannot honestly remember what sort of nonsense came out of my mouth. I remember hoping to get something out of it, and be done as quickly as possible.

I just do not understand predicting the future or planning. It seems that when I do, things become more confused. But it is not a surrendered confusion. It is embroiled with turmoil, and brief moments of "Eureka! I've got it!" then followed by dissolution. I cannot imagine having children. How could I be this uncertain and provide a child with any sort of security? I would not even be able to lie about Santa or mythical snow bunnies. That is why I think it is very funny when people ask me why I don't have kids. duh.

I think routine can be very soothing. You wake up, know just where you are going, what you are going to have for breakfast and at what time. But this does not seem to happen in my life. When it does, I try to grab at it sometimes, and whisper, stay here with me, time. Stay so I know what happens.

But it is the French movie, alas. Perhaps the reason why they irritate me, is because they often end like my life on a regular basis. NO finish, no conclusion. Draw your own. What is it like to live this way? Well, you do see things all the time around you, because you are not on a set course. Ideas, intonations, motivations pop up when the world of "yes" or "no" is maybe. But it makes the practice of one-pointedness necessary so the brain can hold still on something for a moment. I am finding that the only place I can find stillness for a moment, is in the quiet of a spot, a circle that I breathe in and out of. It is not in actions, or in the day, or in what's next. Just that inner tomb that I get to in order to step out of maybe and "what could happen." It is the break in a storm.

The real blonde

I have a dear friend. And he inspires me regularly to thought and ideas. He may think this is not a good thing. But I love anyone who inspires me to break down old thoughts. Also, he is a great storyteller and has a wonderful sense of humor. Yesterday, he told me that I looked ten years younger when I had dyed blonde hair. And I agree, I was very sexy-looking. It was useful when I needed anything at stores. Men working in these stores were instantly helpful. I wasn't blonde for a long time. Just a period of a few months. So why did I give that up? Because I was TIRED of trying to be pretty in that way, didn't feel like spending the money, didn't feel like having chemicals pouring into my brain, didn't ever like it after a week or so, and DON'T CARE IF I LOOK OLDER.

Now does that mean I will purposely make myself look unattractive? No, I enjoy playing with what I call my "skin sack" until it turns into a crumbling mass of bones to be eaten by worms. And I do not find this offensive, either. It is life. Death is life, and the more I tune into this, the more joy I can live with--the less I will spend time thinking about doing things to avoid death like having my face pulled tight so I don't have wrinkles, trying to dress in a way not b/c I enjoy it, but to "fool" people into thinking I am younger. I do not need to entrance all men. Or any men. My husband thinks I am the cat's meow most of the time, except when I am acting like Medusa.

I told my friend, I don't care. I also told him, I am a middle-aged woman and I want to have my hair as it is. Grey. It is not a political statement. I am not a "feminist." I am just me. And I am finding that I have never been happier with myself than at this point, and I am certainly not as young or beautiful or as strong, etc. But what I am, is gaining more an more acceptance of who I am, and this brings wonderful joy. More than my dyed hair. Am I pissy sometimes because I feel "fat," or unsuccessful, or anxious? Duh. But keeping my greys is on the long-term plan before return back to the earth with the worms. And who knows? I might come back a natural blonde.

Ha Ha Ha

I love being entertained. Stupid things. Silly things. Anything that makes me laugh. It feels good. It's like being Lenny from Of Mice and Men. He pets things because it feels good. Well, I enjoy these benefits from laughing. I am not a hard audience. You do not have to be especially clever. You can be witty, although, if you are too erudite, I might miss it. There is nothing I tire of more, than jokes I cannot get.

This always triggers my anxiety when someone starts telling a joke and I begin to think, "You are not going to get it, you numbskull. But the three other people in the room will!" By the time the joke is done, I am busy squeezing my forehead "trying" to get it, which makes me feel a bit constipated and stifled, and then even if I do get it, it is not so enjoyable. It is like being tickled and having someone poke you with a scissors at the same time.

So what is my point? Well, I really don't have one. This is my problem. A friend of mine the other day told me, "You are unfocused." I thought about this for a while, and I saw a giant sign above my head, and I pictured a giant name-tag across my neck. UNFOCUSED. It seemed like a bad thing. I was deemed unfocused because my friend said that I am always on to different ideas. I didn't ask but I wondered, if I had the same theme all the time, would I then be FOCUSED? Perhaps if I just repeat the same phrase over and over, people will laud me and pat me on the back everywhere I walk.."You are FOCUSED," they will say in that very impressed voice that impressed people use. Maybe then I will wear blue jeans instead of old, sloppy exercise clothes all the time and I will wear eye makeup and remove it nightly. And I will not get those goopy things in the corner of my eye the next day.

I thought about this UNFOCUSED as being my potential achilles heel in "life."

But maybe being this supposed UNFOCUSED allows me to see things not so clearly. Which allows me to interpret all sorts of events and causes. Which allows me to analyze and think of other ways to do things, like something brilliant I would like to use for an example, but I can't think of any. I am not really sure about this--whether this is my "problem" in life--being unfocused, not being able to think of clever things. Maybe it's just a bad rap, like being born with six toes.

My "problems" are funny as soon as I see that they are not at all problems, but things I am making a fuss over. I sigh or I groan, or I rant. I like ranting. Not all the time, but depends if it gets me wound up enough. I'm okay when I can find humor in something. Usually it will happen while I'm in the midst of making a drama. Part of me looks and says, you've got to be kidding--that is the stupidest thing ever. And then I start smiling in spite of me.

I guess I like "funny" so much, because then I am not walking around like everything is serious with the straight face and the straight body and the backside that appears to have something lodged up it. And a tight neck. If I am very serious, my neck becomes like steel. I would rather have the floppy Sharpei neck than a tight one. It is a good thing to find yourself funny. Then you can laugh and even if you are unfocused, or have a crooked part, or maybe just don't like Sneetches, (the creatures from Dr. Seuss) life can still be funny.

I would rather be a simpleton and laugh than be up on the latest grim reporting in the paper. Funny is as funny does. And life for me is much more pleasant this way. After all, in a matter of time, I will be a bag of bones. And that's funny.

Going down

I have always hated forward bends. I didn't like them when I was a yoga student going to class religiously every morning. The teachers always shoved me forward and I had perpetually strained hamstrings. And I never bothered to say stop. Only after I was injured.

Today I am doing forward bends. It was actually because I dislike them so much that I got interested last week. It interested me that I had such a vehemence toward them. There are the obvious reasons, which are that people often hunch worse than a humpback whale when doing them and jam their chin or forehead forward to do what I call a "pretend" stretch. Or they dump their bellies like bowls of jello. But it began to intrigue me, as most things do that I find that I dislike. What is unappealing to me, is often very appealing.

So I began to do them and explain how to do them properly. And they began to grow on me. A teeny bit. Then today, I decided to really go to town on them. I was sort of tired after riding my bike. I was quiet and reading, and it just felt right. I took up all the sitting poses that I thought I knew. I began to move forward and engage in reaching without overreaching. But I went much further than usual. And I hung out in myself. And I felt wonderfully anchored and supported. It was like I was in my own cave with the exact amount of pressure to make me feel safe and supported.

When I moved deeper in the pose, I noticed that there was an athleticism to the forward bend of which I was blindly unaware. There is a true strength to extending and releasing, and at the same time, contacting with strength and anchoring. It is a contradiction in form--my newly claimed forward bend. I love contrast. Like hot torso with blankets over me with cool legs poking out of the blanket in the cool of night. And there is wonderful contrast in the forward bend. Move forward and thrust back and earth yourself by sinking. Expand your ribcage like a glorious bird and let the breath course through you while you are bent over your leg. Bowing down but not collapsing. It feels victorious and surrendering at once. It gives me that funny feeling in my throat I get when I feel like I am going to cry.

I think what I liked the least about forward bends is now what I am liking the most. How far to go. This has always been my question--where do I stop? When you let someone push you, and you are the push-ee, it does not feel like your own action initiating from inside you but on the outside. This is what is so wonderful about making contact with our own bodies. You are moving from you, in you, on you. It is like making love to yourself. There is strength in yielding, in surrendering--when it is done with grace and the full sense of personal responsibility. In the forward bend, you are the determinant and the witness and the participant.

I am all over this forward bending like a happy pig in shit.

The ball in the sky

Yes, today was different than yesterday. Everything seemed suspended more, there was a chill in the air, and just a hint of sun. When I was at the end of my walk, I looked up into a grove of trees where they do ropes courses and such, and the sunlight was peeking between them. It shined right in my face so I couldn't see anything while I walked. The light shining on me feels so all-encompassing that I cannot think about what is going to happen next in the list of "to do," or what time it is. I just allow myself to be a person under the tutelage of the sun. There's something about that moment, when the sun shines right in my eyes like that, where everything goes still and I just feel without thinking. I cannot help but close my eyes, not because of the glare, but I feel like melting. My only responsibility is to be a person who lets sun shine on her face. Gift of stillness from a yellow ball in the sky.

What's-its-name

When I was outside walking today, I remembered why I walk. There is something that overcomes me, when I step on soil and twigs, and feel myself surrounded by these great big trees. Some people like wide open spaces. I am very happy to be sandwiched in on the trail by trees. I feel like they are these supernatural Elders watching over me.

Everything in my head seems to leap out of me, and new ideas flood in when I am greeted by so many aspects greeting me. I thought I smelled lavender today. And eucalyptus and fennel. And there was a particular smell of earth and sunlight mixed together. And then there are all the noises while I am walking of slithering things sliding, and other things scurrying under crackling leaves and bushes.

I love walking on all the gravel. I always pick this over cement if I have a choice. I have always loved the feel of gravel under my feet. It almost tickles, and the sound to me is lovely. When I was a runner, it was my absolute favorite thing to run on. Put me on gravel, and I went flying.

When I walk, and my energy is high, like it was today, I feel like I am floating. My body is just moving through the air, and my legs move so swiftly and with such ease that it is like water being poured from a pitcher. It just happens and flows. And then there are the birds I see up in the sky like today. There were these marvelous hawks. I remember getting distracted from the beauty because I wanted to be certain that these birds with the enormous wings were hawks. Not some other bird by a different name. This is so funny to me now that I think of it. I had to make sure in the midst of my enjoyment, that I could "name" them properly.

I thought about how I also wasn't certain that the lavender smell was lavender. And that it was unlikely that it was lavender because I didn't see any of the flowers. It is funny how the urge to name and categorize pops in during a deeply sensing experience. Sometimes I think it is the mind getting nervous and saying, "Hang on, guys. We don't want her to get lost in it, or we'll be steamed noodles!" It sure is funny to notice this preoccupation, though. It is like having an orgasm and wanting to count how many minutes it lasts. Just a funny human thing, I guess.

Thing. This is a good word. I am going to use it more often. Maybe it will allow my brain to feel like noodles more often and smell more lavender in my life. And see more hawks that may not actually BE hawks. "Thing" is not considered good because there are so many adjectives to use. Then one can be specific in their description and exact. But thing means I am not naming, not really explaining. I am just walking and taking it in without knowing. Sometimes it is not necessary to be smart. Not all things need a name. Know what I mean? Hopefully, you are not really listening and are smelling lavender instead.

Can't we all just get along?

What if God is in you and outside of you. What if we are descended from some sort of species and the whole evolution theory is true? It seems like people often tilt one way or the other. I know a person who believes that God is outside you. That God is separate and created everything. I haven't asked her about monkeys and if she thinks we came from that. I knew better and didn't want to get "the look." Although I hear that now it is not monkeys we are directly descended from but something else that swung around on trees.

Then there are the others who think the whole Bearded Guy in the White Caftan thing is ridiculous and that there is only science. And then there are others who believe in Spirit, or Nature. Or nothing until proven exactly.

Well my thoughts on all of this, is why not believe in EVERYTHING. Now this may seem like I am just afflicted with a bad case of the I'll have everything on my burger-itis. And I must admit, back in my sugar eating days, when I went to Dairy Queen, I was the type to get EVERY POSSIBLE CANDY shoved in my frozen soft serve, so there was barely any room for the soft serve at all. Just enough for a nice big stomach ache. So there is a pattern here. But my thought is that it is soothing to think that GOD is inside me. That anything magnificent that exists, is created within me. But I also believe there is magnificence outside of me. And I am up for the possibility that there are spirits and such that create events.

And I believe that science determines the reason for all sorts of actions, such as the explanation for why words are pouring out of me as my fingers dance along on these keys. I don't have to choose. And I don't NEED to choose. But it doesn't make sense, to have ALL of that, you might say. I don't care. As long as I find all sorts of ideas that interest me, what do I care if they don't match. After all, I mix and match all different black clothing, which is not done in some high-fashion circles.

I am wondering if we might not be a bit happier if we spent less time DISproving. The GOD people do not like the EVOLUTION people telling them that there is another way. And the EVOLUTION people think the GOD people are naive, or irrational, or backwards. Now don't get on me for using three nasty adjectives about GOD people, and only one for EVOLUTION people. I do not have a favorite.

I could never choose just one candy. Or just one movie. Or just one book. I like it all.

Can't we all? Just wondering...

Where the Bigness is...

What is bigger than me? I am still perseverating on this idea. Because I notice that much of life seems to bring up quandries, or worry about what I cannot control. I want to know the ending, in a way. Will it be happy? Will I like it? It really boils down to suspension of belief then, for me to find greater peace.

You could say that if I were smarter, or a better planner, that I would not have to worry about these things. I could pick things that were fail-safe, like IBM. Only, maybe that isn't a sure thing either, now. I don't know. It is possible for me to lead a very narrow life, where I am more certain of outcomes, and limit my contact and intimacy with others. Then there are less surprises. Still, surprises, but less. After all, I might be walking and a bird could poop on my head. I can't plan for that.

But the truth is, I don't want to live that safely. I also do not like suffering. I didn't like it when I couldn't walk for two weeks because my heel was bothering me. But I sunk into the notion that there was a larger reason, and it was not mechanical. It passed without tinkering. But at the time, most people said, when they saw me limping, when I had to walk to class, "Oh, you must have plantar fasciatis. I remember thinking, I do not have that. It is somatic--meaning, it is about what is happening in my mind. And in my mind was: worry, fear. Fear to take a wrong step, or a bad step, or to step and regret. Fear that I am not what I might want to be. And I do not know what I want. And I should know. (Should-the most profane of all swear-words, in my book. It belongs in the slammer.) Hence, I couldn't walk. I never believed it was some ailment with a funny name that I cannot spell. It passed eventually and then popped over to the other foot. My mental pains are always moving around in my body and passing as they feel like it.

I am okay with not knowing the reason for all sorts of things. I don't need to understand how it was possible. It does not bother me that I am not certain if I was a monkey first or if God in a gown created me. But I do feel challenged when it comes to accepting what is or will be happening without worry. The things that do not worry me, do not challenge me. This seems stupidly obvious, but when people say, I do not worry, that means, I do not worry about what does not bother me. Find your particular flavor, and you will worry. I want to break this habit. A friend of mine told me the other day that I was too old to change. You could change when you were 20, he said. Well, what the hell good does that do me? I am not 20. Does that mean I should have given up twenty years ago?

No one told me this. And I am glad I do not believe this. Otherwise, I would still be spending half my day exercising, and the other half, eating cookies. Yes, this is a bit of an exaggeration, but I think change is related not to actually DOING anything different, but seeing that realm that is larger than you. When I see this, I do not worry about making a fool of myself. When I step into something larger, I realize I do not have to try so hard. A lot of my life has been spent either convincing myself I am a lazy sloth, or trying so very hard to do something the right way.

I think I need to just do things. I do DO things. But the worrying is extra. I do not want to take a pill for it. I do not want therapy for it. I do not want positive affirmations. All of these things are fine, but I just want to step into that space that is bigger than me. By doing it right NOW. and NOW. And NOW.

Today when I was walking, I stopped down at the bottom of some steep steps, and stared out at the ocean. I stood there watching, unblinking, and soon I noticed this haze. There was a wave of little particles I saw, that sort of looked like raindrops, but it wasn't rain. I noticed a bit of color and thought that it reminded me of an aura. Then I thought, there is probably some scientific explanation like when you don't blink your eyes create this. And after that, I thought. I don't care. It feels like Spirit, like God, like something bigger is around and surrounding me. And it feels good.

I close my eyes and then I could feel this wave around me, like it was enveloping me and then releasing. Enveloping and then releasing. There is a cycle here. I get pulled in because I am alive, enmeshed, involved, and then I release. I want to be alive, not safe. And I want to release. I need to remember to release. That is where the bigness is.

Clearing the WAY

So my latest thought is the following: Sometimes I need to go to something bigger than myself. If I rely on myself, or another person to find the way for me, I am still searching and hungry. I look for the right person, or the right moment, or the song that will make me feel okay, or the weather, or the flatness of my belly, or the ions in the air to line up just right.

But what I have left is still chance, fate, how the world will turn. And I am still wondering, where to find the stable place. How do I find that place in me? Sometimes I sit back, and there is this feeling of worthlessness underneath. And it sounds wonderful to say, "I am all done with that." "I worked through that." But then, there is a moment, and it shows it face. I see it and think, "Oh, THERE you are." It is like an old thing that I thought I removed, and THERE IT IS.

What do I do about this? I know that feeling bad about feeling bad--well, it makes me feel bad. Ignoring feeling bad also makes me feel bad. I could put on a tight smile, let my voice come out differently, "fake it till I make it," but it is still there.

So today, with a friend, we came up with a solution. SHE came up with the solution. She prefaced it very carefully, b/c people, at least in California, tend to get very touchy if you use the G word. You know, GOD. She started to preface, and I said, I believe in everything. You will not offend me. It will offend me MORE if you do not say exactly what you want.

She reminded me, "There is something bigger than you." She described how she saw it. I was nodding my head, interrupting, agreeing, because yes, I see it that way as well. I call it Spirit or the Universe. God works too. But we were both agreeing fervently how well this essence that is larger than both of us is calming, is nurturing and is safe. And then I realized, that my "worthless" arena is the one spot where I have not used my faith in this larger-than-me thing. I use it for which way to walk, for what to eat, for what I feel in the body, for how the words come out. I use it to ask for help, to ask for faith, to help me find gratitude. But never have I really directly used it for letting go this sense of being "wrong" or not fitting, or not measuring up. It was so funny, that everywhere else in my life, it works. If I need tank tops, as I do, I ask THAT WHICH IS LARGER THAN ME to help me find them at the Goodwill. Specifically, I need black ones. It is hilarious, b/c I never saw any, and since I "asked," I see tons and tons of them. Of course, most will not fit my breasts, or are too short, or feel like they are going to cut off my circulation under my arms, or have those stupid bra things inside NOT made for BIG GIRL breasts. But I am finding them, and always smile. I do not want to pay 25 or 30 for a tank top. Or more. I want to pay 3 dollars or 4.

But I never asked to help me find that peace that I am okay. So I tried it. And I will try it now. When I start questioning if what I am doing, the way I am doing, is enough, if it is effective, if it helps people, I will try to go to that BIG SPACE. That is what I will call it. And right now, before I can begin to worry, I feel the BIG SPACE. It wraps around me and holds me, it shields me and supports me. It gives me something I can fall into and feel released and contained at once. There is something larger than me. "Me" can just take a backseat. Something larger. I am full from lots of pot roast made in my slow cooker that I had abandoned. I had faith and picked it up and used it again. I had faith just now and called out to something larger.

And despite the food burps, I am breathing. I am breathing.

CLEARING THE WAY

Finding me

Me again. I am putting out gratitude for my being able to see what is good in front of me. I am thankful for seeing friendship when it is there, real nutrition for the body and soul. Life is about sustenance. And when you begin to clear the cobwebs, you do become brighter and begin to glow b/c you are moving in the direction of happiness. Happiness is what happens. And I am able to look at the old reels of me, in my movie, and see with compassion now and not just judgement.

I did these things because I didn't know. And I will forget and remember again. And forget and remember. This feels like life. But what feels so thrillingly gratifying, is that I am able to uncover the "me' that is there. This is not a perfect me, or a me without bumps on her skin. But it is a me, that continues to watch herself grow in ways she never considered possible. It is a me who speaks without fear, and without cowering. Or she cowers, and then sees that this is not the way.

I always loved movies like Rocky, and anything that had the protagonist working with the odds. I wanted to be that person, and this is part of why I liked exercise so much. I felt like I was working against adversity--BUT THE ADVERSITY was struggling against my own body! Now I see movement as an expression of self, of Spirit, of God. I feel so grateful to have found my way and to re-find and re-find again and again.

---

Shake it like Blubber

I am warning you ahead of time. I am going to talk about Lady Things. If you get squeamish at the idea of this, then don’t read. However, allow me to persuade you for a paragraph. I really don’t see what the big deal is. I am not talking about mangled hands or chopped-up heads. Just tampons. There are no explicit stories or pictures. So while I am prompting you ahead of time, I am saying you are wacked in the head -- if you do not read. Little people learn that boys have penises and girls have vaginas. If you can talk about your phlegm in your throat, or your bad ankle, what’s the difference? Just wondering. Here’s the story:

Saturday, September Something or Other. I am going to Whole Foods. I am looking for this thing called a Diva Cup that will keep me from having to use tampons. Yes, it goes “up there.” Figure it out. I am sorry if you find this embarrassing, as well, but I don’t see how a vagina is any more unmentionable than an index finger. I have one; therefore, I am going to talk about it without weirdness and feeling that I have to blush or lower my voice. I mention this because I had a pause before I wrote, and this annoying prude of a voice inside me went: “Are you SURE you want to bring this topic in here??” Uh, yes. Go away, voice. VAGINA VAGINA VAGINA. Take that, repression. I will wear The Scarlet V.

This cup is supposed to be the solution to tampons, those pesky things that women need every month. I am one of those people who gets nutty about changing tampons often. I change far more often than is necessary. I don’t like the feeling of a wet string from when I pee, I do not like the idea of something old inside me, and I don’t want Toxic Shock Syndrome, and I do not wear pads. I prefer not to feel as though I am wearing a diaper.

Back to the Toxic Shock horror story, I remember being warned about this when I came of age. The worry that I might get something bad if I left a tampon in a minute too long, stuck with me, like the scare tactic that scares boys by telling them they’ll grow hair on their palms if they masturbate. This was not my concern. Toxic Shock? Yes. I worried. I didn't know what it was, even, but I knew it would kill me. It stuck with me. The likelihood of me actually contracting this is probably very rare, but I am not taking my chances. Like the icky puddles on bathroom floors, it bothers me. That meant umpteen boxes every month. And then there is the embarrassing factor of what to do with the tampon thing when you need to get rid of it.

Last week, I had a session with someone at his house, and used the bathroom when I arrived. I removed my not-very-old tampon in order to “re-apply” and when I went to throw it out, after wrapping it obsessively with paper, so there was not even a hint of what it used to be, I looked in at the open garbage can next to the toilet. It was small and delicate. And unlike our bathroom garbage, which is a paper bag, filled with umpteen paper towels, cue tips, etc, this one had NOTHING in it. So basically, if I put the wrapped thing in there, they will KNOW it was me. It was not exactly obscure since I had wrapped it to the size of a small football. This is the kind of shit that makes my anxiety go off.

I had to tell it like it was because I couldn’t leave it in there for his wife to find or him, and for them to think, what a crass guest. (This is why I have free-floating anxiety. Too much time spent on small details.) I told him (of course, it HAD to be a man) that I had “something” to put in the trash, and did not want to put it in the trash, and could I use another COVERED trash can. He smiled, said, “I get it, I get it,” and in it went. I put it in, obviously, but all this could have been avoided. This is why I want the Diva cup.

There were lots of reasons to try it.

So I looked for this cup, which my same friend I mentioned earlier, Carolina, told me about. She knows about all sorts of things and life in general. She is very wise and tells me when I am being an ass or a martyr. Additionally, I like her because her name is close to mine, give or take an “a” instead of an “e.” I went to check the price. Almost forty bucks.

I couldn’t remember how much she said it was on Amazon. She told me all about it the other night when we were discussing periods and mentioned how she loved this Diva Cup. Sometimes she has to yell at me, because I bombard her with questions, elated comments, and explosions of silliness when she is speaking. I have a hard time shutting up at times, when I am excited. I am excited a lot.

The brain bursts things out of it. And I “flirt,” trying to keep her entertained. This is not confined just to men, but anyone I like. So I did not listen. Therefore, I decided I should wait rather than have buyer’s remorse if I found out that it was twice as much at Whole Foods. I would look it up on-line when I had internet access. After that, I walked around and stared at food I wasn’t going to eat.

Burrata caught my eye. Uh oh. The mold factory inside me does not appreciate cheese. So I am avoiding it. But just so you know, it was the one I love, in the yogurt-type container, that tastes like marshmallow fluff. “Wake up, wake up,” my little angel said. The angel I harbor is like the one in cartoons that pops up on the shoulder of the person. I have had this little creature by my side as long as I can remember. It needs to come up often, because I am often tempted to do things that are inadvisable. “You cannot have this,” said the angel. I listened to it. Often, I don’t, but it doesn’t hold grudges, luckily.

I left and walked out to my car. Only food there with sauces. No plain meat. The hot roasted chicken looked good if I could have lifted off six plastic tops and pulled off all the skin and left the meat. Somehow, I am certain this would not be welcome.

I got back in my car and got ready to go somewhere. I had a variety of plans. But I got to staring at the leaves on the trees moving like crazy, while I was sitting in my car. I love sitting in my car. It is nothing fancy, but it is self-contained and makes me feel protected. I love to write in there, too, as I am doing now.

Back to the trees. (Brief ADD break. The image of the car spun me away from the leaves.) The leaves were all blending one into the next. They were shades of green, yellow, orange, and brown. No matter how the tree shook them, they lifted up and down, and let themselves be tossed.

I started thinking about how to let oneself be moved in adversity. When I am feeling anxious or wishful, or wanting, I wonder how I act in contrast to these leaves. They are rooted to the tree. I am rooted to life. I think I often grind down, or hold back, or rush forward. What would I look like if I were a leaf on a tree? Would I rip myself from the tree?

It didn’t seem like a struggle when I looked at the leaves. In fact, it calmed me and I could see a rhythm to the movement. I could enjoy watching from inside my protected covey. It brought me away from my own struggle, and my own life, and I was able to witness.

It was so nice to be able to watch without stepping in it, but it gave me a sense of direction. How to be moved.

It felt like when I watch the sea anemones. I can look at them forever. My husband and I went to the Monterey Aquarium a year or so ago, where they are, and he had to drag me away. It was so beautiful to watch them dancing in the tank. It was a command performance.

This is what it felt like with the trees. It felt like people in action, screaming, loving, playing, and letting themselves be shaken. Sometimes I have people I work with do all these movements, with the intention that by loosening everything from the roots, the body stops doing its tug of war. Then you can let yourself go. Shake like you got tons of blubber and everything can wiggle. And then the energy MOVES.

It excites me and inspires me to move like this when I see the leaves doing it. You can always learn by watching.

My brain calmed, and I watched until I felt the urge to close my eyes. I wasn’t departing from life, but sinking in deeper. I felt filled by watching the moves and seeing that I want this, in the way they allowed themselves to be shaken without trying to hold still. Life will not stay still. So all this filled me up.

I closed my eyes and died a little. While the leaves raged and I lay still. My body sunk and relaxed and everything softened around me. This is as good as shaking blubber. This is how I calm down. This is my medicine. Leaves float and life goes on and I can fit somewhere in between. Learn to wiggle. It’s better than vodka.

Lovely GLOB of Zen Master's stick

I woke up early this morning, and lay in bed feeling this sensation of a star, lighting and exploding inside me. I could see it with my eyes closed. It was golden and kept breaking apart like fireworks, and tiny little gold flecks went everywhere. I was alert in this state of half slumber.

When I do sleep, I am "out." You can blast a TV, throw a party, or shout in my ear, and I will tune you out and continue sleeping. But when I am awake, that's that.

Being awake is the moment I "come to" from drowsing and life is standing naked in front of me wondering how I will clothe it. I often feel like a kid on Christmas morning when my body gets “up.” You would think I would have gotten used to it by now, but I am easily entertained.

There is something delicious to me about the contrast between waking and sleeping. Sleeping means you are out of the world of physical bruises, and in it, life becomes whatever your dreams make it. But your waking life brings the material to the stage. To prove that I can be what I am and that what can be, is possible. This is what makes me so full of excitement upon waking.

But there is a debt to pay in recognition. Waking in this manner entails more than just putting on something to wear and staggering to the bathroom. When I am alert inside in this way, awareness hangs over me, like my eyelids over my eyes. It is immoveable even if I just want to spend my first few minutes picking clumps of old eye makeup out of my eyes and be left alone. It harps on me to see and feel. It nags at me, to live truthfully. I cannot shut it off for long before it blinks at me again. So we are stuck with each other, like two passengers sitting next to each other on a full plane. Me and that pain in the butt, awareness.

I don’t find this to be easy, because I often feel the urge to sidle from what challenges me. I would like to avoid but I see it in front of me, reminding me that I can do better. My friend Carolina, who reminds me of this laziness, as only a true friend does, will call me on it. “STOP BEING LAZY!” she writes in all capital letters. It is so true, that I always laugh when she says it. Usually, she chastises me via email chatting, because we live far away. But it makes me smile because she calls it like it is – I am a sucker for the shortcut.

I love doing it wrong, backwards, opposite to the directions. This is how I ruined my last batch of pemmican, which I am stubbornly eating anyway. I didn’t feel like measuring out equal amounts of fat and meat, so it has two times the amount of fat. I didn’t feel like taking so long to grind it, so I left it in huge chunks. Great if you have wolf teeth—not so good if you don’t. Laziness always has the last laugh because it brings awareness, like your mother noticing the new pimple on your face. Look at what you wrought, it says with a smirk.

I can look for other explanations for my doing things cockeyed. I remember learning something about it relating to my brain being “creative,” or maybe due to the fact that I am left-handed having something to do with it. Whatever the case, there is often the urge for me to make a mix of what might not mix.

I think it is partly the fault of my ADD brain. It is always looking for a reason to stay awake. I do not take medication, so I use all the little ins and outs I can get. Contrary to popular belief, the ADD/HD brain is sleepy. It looks for diversions to wake it up. I may look like a person who drinks Red Bull, but my being is always trying to figure out how to be here, without passing out. Hence it is very compelling to be engaged in life.

Who knows how much of this is personality and how much is funky genes. Regardless, I have a fascination with novelty and emerging occurrences. This is why I am a lover of watching and teaching how to observe sensations. They are always changing. Whenever I observe a reaction or sensation in myself or others—of emotion, or of some new movement in the body, an electric thrill runs through me. I am ALIVE, it shouts. HELLOOOO IN THERE. I feel it pumping inside me like the fireworks I felt this morning.

Awareness reminds me: YOU ARE HERE, with the arrow poking at me, jolting me to alertness. Even my latest issue, a sore heel has me busy observing and tying in the emotional link to the pain and devising new ways to move. I am more interested in exploring it than hurriedly “fixing” it. Everything is a science project.

My life revolves around sensations, because previously, most of it was spent trying solution after solution to stay awake. Now I can sit on my butt for hours and stay awake, thanks to my improved diet. But back when I studied Feldenkrais, a form of movement awareness that often required hours of laying around on the floor and moving slowly, I brought a giant exercise ball to sit on and bounce on to stay awake. Do NOT fall asleep, I heard my voice say. Stay awake.

When I went to conferences for my work with special needs children, I had food and things to drink with me at all times and brought my exercise ball to sit on, as well. DO NOT fall asleep, the voice said, again.

I ate non-stop, and the chewing worked to keep my frontal lobe engaged when I studied for various certifications. Stay awake. I bought funny pens and made humorous notes when at conferences that I went to for work. Anything to stay awake. I stayed up late or exercised madly, just minutes before I had to sit for hours. Or ate pounds of chocolate for the lift.

Back then, there was always a scheme to stay "awake." So it is not a big surprise that I was drawn to meditation. For me, meditation is not about seeming holy and ascetic. It is true, that I don’t fall asleep in these ways anymore, but I also prefer not to walk through life in a waking trance. Meditation is like swimming in cold water. It opens my eyes.

Life is changing faster than you can snap your finger, and when you get this, (and this comes and goes) you know you are swimming in the world of the unknown. This is exciting. So even checking to see what my breathing is doing at the moment is thrilling to me and makes me feel that I am on that proverbial edge of life’s seat. And it makes me awake.

People have elaborate ideas about all the wonderful things meditation will do for them. Suddenly, they will be neat or nice or won’t fart. Well, I am not perfected and do not plan on becoming anything of the sort. This is not the point of my meditation. I am not going for “holy” any time soon, unless it is on a good cashmere sweater that is on sale for this very reason.

Being awake now, means feeling what I am doing. And it means feeling the love and blood coursing through my body. I don’t have a separate container for emotions and body. It is all congealed into one lovely glob for me to watch.

Waking is stumbling into the bathroom, and venturing into the unknown of today. Nothing is more enlivening to me than being awake while awake. The Zen master smacks my awareness with his stick. Whack, whack, it says to me. Come back!

Wake up! YOU ARE HERE.

True Romance: HUMPING A RUMP

The other day, I woke up tired. As usual, I headed for the stairs, since my husband was still sleeping. Legs that felt like they had been weighted with sand bags rebuked me for making them move. I compromised with my body and told it that if it moved left foot in sync with right arm (translated: walking) in order to get down the stairs without falling to my death, there would be no morning exercise, whatsoever.

Before I trotted downstairs, I glanced at the clock on my husband's phone. It was 5:40--this is sleeping late for me. It is like 10 am for regular people. I looked over at him, still wrapped in his blanket like meat stuffed-cabbage. (My writing includes a strict no-vegetarian policy, even with adjectives.)

I felt positively reprieved for all the early mornings that I make him groan. And we are not talking about an erotic groan. It is the pain in the ass of having a wife who wakes up early. Consistently.

Ever since my transition to an all-meat diet, I generally require even less sleep. I like this for two reasons: The first is obvious. I can do much more because I have an additional 5 or more hours tacked on to my day. The second reason may stretch your belief, but stay with me: It is that my early rising stimulates irritation in my husband and releases some of my innate aggression. It is a partial antidote to being civilized and yet, wanting to tear someone’s throat out. The inner turmoil is there whether you acknowledge it or not.

Robert Bly called it the Human Shadow. Jung called it the unconscious. I think of it as the inner animal. It is that part of you that rages when someone cuts you off, or that fantasizes about what folly you wish on someone who you dislike. It is that which induces you to eat with your fingers if no one is watching, and do all sorts of things with your fingers when you don’t have an audience.

Our shadow is kept under wraps in order for us to be deodorant-wearing and law-abiding citizens. But we all need outlets to absorb its reverberations. It was not that long ago that we were clubbing each other over the head, grunting, and rubbing sticks together to make fire.

I am not suggesting that the answer is to revert back to the fossil stage. I like luxuries of our century such as my new high gloss lipstick from Sephora. But I understand that my primal aspect is always lurking. And this is alleviated with habits that couples have which annoy each other. When I wake up at a different time than my husband, or he goes to bed before I do, it reminds us that the environment is not controlled. We may feel disgruntled, or put off, or maybe it is so subtle we don’t notice. But it stimulates our hostility and the disquieting sense that we are alien to comfort. It is a salute to that inner animal in each of us.

There is more to a relationship than love. It contains light and darkness and this is frightening if you see “romance” as a Disney movie. I stopped seeing it the Disney way in my late thirties. There is an unwritten agreement between my husband and I, which I am now realizing. This is what comes on pontificating about waking up early. The “contract” is that not only do I promise to love, respect, and not steal all of his socks (I do, on occasion), but also to engage and stimulate him to release some of his tension from having to be a human who doesn’t get to scratch his privates in public. He is not so annoying as me, so I get a lot of my stimulation elsewhere.

The waking is just one example of what we do for each other. We have a particular script to enact this. He plays like he does not know what is happening, and I play like I am not doing what I am doing—waking him up and initiating a response.

We always make it seem new. It begins when he asks me "what time it is." I act as if I am trying to leave the room quickly, but my shadow will take just a bit more time than necessary. He will pretend not to know that it is early so he can be disgruntled when he hears the “too early” time.

Until this morning, I didn’t realize I was prolonging my exit from the room. He never complained and it was not simply because it didn’t bother him. It’s in the “contract.”

If you do not understand why anyone would need this kind of relief, then perhaps you are one of those individuals with a perpetually sunny disposition. Maybe you get special massages. Or you drink lots of caffeine and pop pills while your liver screams. Life involves degrees of suffering and it is sheer suffering NOT to acknowledge this. Part of this suffering is being forced to quiet your urges and stilling the desire to fly off the handle, so to speak.

There is a story that once when Julia Child mentioned that she had vegetarians coming over for dinner, she had to clarify with, “Not for eating.”

You cannot escape your true nature.

Even the rich have lots of problems. People are often baffled by this, but life pops up regardless of your bank account level. Control all your irritants and then you may resort to slamming phones into people’s heads when the inner animal in the cage begins to rumble.

Bothersome things act as a sort of multi-vitamin against forgetting our animal-nature. People need their aggravation because the wild animal is not welcome in our society and it must creep out covertly. Everyone has their own "hot spot" that makes their blood boil. Maybe for you it's pedophiles, murderers, SUV's, or people who prune their flowers too low. Try being oblivious at a green light when I am driving behind you and you will see my animal emerge.

That is why I write. Otherwise, people start to look very tasty to me. This is where the people close to us have an unacknowledged purpose, in addition to bearing our children, and sharing romantic sunsets with candlelit macaroni and cheese in a bowl. I am not being facetious. Except for the part about the mac and cheese, because you will not catch me eating that shit no matter what.

Lots of people are with others so they have an outlet for their aggression. But they prefer to cover the “smell” with the idea that their love is all rainbows and roses. They will only consider all their wonderful qualities that bind them to their mate. But their union is also cemented by unacknowledged “bad” traits: slobbiness, thoughtlessness, recklessness...lots of "less."

Less is actually more. It gives us space to breathe and stimulates our bloodthirstiness. There is so much lurking around in us, that is pushed away because it is considered ugly, negative, unattractive. There are people who completely deny the existence of their “bad” shadows. What they repress will express itself like a tsunami.

My husband and I work hard to provoke each other with the perfect balance. Like Goldilocks: not too hot, not too cold. Just right. Not very romantic way of looking at things, you say? I think it is. Understanding this motivation means I do not have to act this out unconsciously by waking up my husband. Or doing something worse. My unforced act of waking early is not done to annoy him. But recognizing that part of my delay in leaving the room is intended, and is something I can change.

I don’t need to worry about taking away a habit and his chance for relief. Stress will pop up elsewhere and it is like weight-lifting for the soul if you don’t resist. If the abused and often maligned “stress” vanished, I contend that you would begin to chew at your own fingers and start to crave blood as a means to express the inner turmoil that already exists.

That innate turmoil is why I will feel hostility from a simple act of hearing a spoon clack on someone’s teeth. Let me hear THAT NOISE and my animal wants to let loose and break into pandemonium.

I knew a woman who did not allow her shadow to exist and believed there was only love. She barely ate because she did not believe in food, she bowed every time she saw a person and mumbled yogic sayings to appear holy. She felt guilty about driving a car, she didn’t wear makeup because she did not believe it was dignified to try and “pretty” her outside, and she spared herself the most basic comforts. She did not express her needs because she believed that there was only love. But she ground her pelvis into you every time she would greet you. She was distressed if you took an extra napkin, but she didn’t mind dry-humping this same you when she said hello.

This is what denying the shadow looks like.

Without your stress from your life, you will not go quietly. As the poet Dylan Thomas said, you will rage into the night. You will rage at the person who stops short, or parks long, or smells a little.

It is precious little things that bother us that appease the animal underneath. The insufferable “habit” of another, allows you to more easily endure being a wolf in people’s clothing. It allows you to feel less frustrated that you cannot just hop on the first rump in the distance without inquiring about birth signs.

And when you see as I have, that you stimulate your mate and others, you can choose not to do it. I will still do it in spite of myself. I still wake up early. And my habits that annoy abound. But now I remember to watch my tendencies to drag everything out just a bit longer.

I did not wake my husband this morning when I got up at three. He will have to find another way to feed his animal.

We have to find a way to feed the animal.

Carbs are fine-BUT NOT BY ME

I have a dream...It was that one day I would be able to spend my life doing things without thoughts of food racing through my head. It was that one day, my words that were screaming and leaping inside me, would come without resistance. That they would not be suffocated under layers of confusion.

I noticed back in college that it was hard for me to speak coherently. I couldn't get the words out. It was like being trapped inside a container, and knocking on the container to get out. And then losing this moment of what was happening and venturing into a space where things happened without much recollection. This is what it looks like now from my new perch outside the walls of carb chaos. I am still a champion rambler, and I don't know that this will disappear, but that is okay. It is one of the things that make me annoying.

I am a zealot about what removing poison did for me. It may not be poison for you, but it was hemlock for me. I don't know what it is about my constitution that cannot handle a "regular" diet. But I don't care. I am happy I have found my way of living. I feel like I have my life back.

It was very frustrating being me. I always needed to ask people to help me with directions, with assignments, with how to do things. Even if I listened, I couldn't make sense of it. The words didn't go in and process. This is probably why I have always been a natural working with autistic and special needs children. I understand what it is like to have things seem like a jumble, while people look at you puzzled. Why don't you get it? You don't listen!

I wasn't put in a special class, or told I had low intelligence. Instead, I was considered dizzy, spacey, "doesn't listen." And I believed it. I thought I was lazy, and didn't try hard enough. I wished I could be an accountant, and be able to do all these things.

I remember when I tried to express these things, and the frustration of having learning disabilities, I would get the responses of well-meaning people, parents included, saying things like: That's not true. YOU ARE JUST FINE.

REALLY? Then why did I walk around lost in college simply trying to make up a schedule for classes? How did I get lost going to the same classes and not being able to figure out where they were? Why did I get lost every time I drove, and why was I unable to read a map before last year? Why did I fall asleep after sitting still for more than ten minutes unless I was eating, exercising, moving? Why was every procedure painstaking and impossible?

I had accepted things like this, as just being the way it was. That I had to hope the world would take pity on me me. That people would always need to take care of me because I was not capable of doing it myself. My parents used to say, "Caroline does not live in the real world." This did not feel nice to me. It doesn't feel good not to rely on yourself. First, and this was a long first, I thought I was a dumbshit. I'm sorry. There's no nice way to put it. And my choices reflected this. You are what you eat. Eat shit and that is what you will get.

One day I was walking down to North Beach, on one of the long walks I would do across the city. Exercise was my only haven throughout all of this. That and food. I can't remember what spurred on the thought, while I was walking, but I thought, "You are a piece of shit." In fact, I think I muttered it out loud. I was disgusted with myself. And not 30 seconds later, I stepped in some. It was not kind to my white Converse shoe. I think it was the left one.

I laughed immediately. It hit home that you will get what you think. I was already on my journey of a carbless existence, although I would slide back into sugar again, several times. Addiction is a jealous bitch, and it held on tight to me for a while. But it dawned on me, how cruel I had been to myself.

Now, looking at a vantage point, free of sugar, I find I am not stupid. I had tried to accept that I was "special" in some areas, and confused in others. Now I don't think I am the most conventional individual just because I eat all meat. I am impatient, reckless, impulsive, prone to getting easily excited, but I HAVE A PULSE. I am thinking and writing, and trying and teaching and doing what I always wanted to do.

I have stopped looking at school simply to prove that I can do it. I have my own methods of teaching and learning. But I have the brainpower to back me up. Look, I am sure, and I have seen that there are lots of people out there who can eat cereal, eat a cupcake, have regular food and function just fine. They are brilliant, composed, balanced people. But this is not me. Give me carbs and my brain goes dead and scattered.

I am so happy to have my life back. It is the life I never knew was possible. This is what happens when the lights go on.

Fat rendered to silence

I love my fat. Yes, that is what I said. But I am not talking about the fat on my body, although I understand the benefits of self-acceptance in this realm. When I was forced to take Women's Studies at the University of Michigan, it made me very sleepy. I admit I slept through most of my classes. My brain falls asleep when I am squeezed into a chair for hours without regular movement. But I got extra sleepy in this class. So calm yourself, because this is not an exposition on feminism. I am not going to talk about loving my inner thighs, which never seem to be sufficiently taut and just sit there sullenly, slacking in their business. I will leave them alone, for the time being. What I am going to talk about, is my love for the beautiful white disc of fat I am staring at, recently rendered by me on the stovetop. It started out as a few pounds of fat scraps from my butcher.

They do not believe that I eat the fat, which is free, (no one wants it) and keep asking me what it's for with a "wink-wink" expression, as if I will soon give them a "real answer." Butchers are some of my favorite people now; It is really the only place I enjoy shopping other than The Goodwill. There is a special brand of humor among people who cut and handle dead flesh for a living. It reminds me of my nurse friends' humor. I get along with them swimmingly, because like me, they are often lacking the "screening" button in their speech.

Yesterday, the manager in the meat section looked me up and down, and challenged me to bring in what I eat. "I don't believe you eat it," he said with a big grin. I am not sure if it is because I am skinny, or because no one they know purposely eats fat in this way. I love this sort of friendly banter so I "raised my hand in the game," by telling him and the others that I will bring in my latest breakfast of fried fat, liquid fat and dried meat, for proof and eat it in front of them. At any rate, they happily sent me off and running with my free package of fat. But this was not the end of it.

Getting the fat is just the beginning of a whole process. It is for the purpose of making my meat biscuits or "pemmican." This product takes two ingredients: meat and fat. I like the spareness of ingredients because it calms me to have something simple in life from which to work. (This is why I wear all black. It is not because I am trying to be deep.) There is a whole ritual involved in making my pemmican. I cut up the strips of fat, take out a giant cooking pot and dump them in, turn the pot down low, and continue to check and stir my fat with a level of attentiveness that one gives to a small child. I do not want it to burn or to scorch. I leave the pieces in there to get brown and fry them for eating the next day. Then there is the straining of the fat from the chunks that are left and I pour the liquid into a container. I reheat it once again to remove any condensation from the process that might have added water to the fat. Otherwise, it can spoil.

Then, I wait for it to harden, and the next day, or later that day, I separate the hardened white mass of fat from the orangey jelly beneath. This "jelly" will be used for delicious broth, which turns my meal into pemmican "stew." At the "end" of the process, I feel a bit of nostalgia. It is like finishing a good book. Part of you wants to sustain the deep level of concentration which lifts you out of your usual buzzing state of thoughts, complaints, and ongoing distraction. When the fat is complete, I take my thinly sliced meat out of the dehydrator and pulverize it in my food processor until it is a fine powder. Then I mix in enough rendered fat in liquid form until the pemmican has the consistency of brownie batter. I pour it into bags and leave it to harden and then eat it until it runs out and I need to make more.

One aspect I love in this process, is to run my hands through the fine powdered meat before I mix it with the fat. There is something delicious and sensual about doing this, and I have much greater appreciation for these inherently sensual acts now that I don't derive pleasure from sugar. This reminds me of yet another sensual moment, that I enjoy: I like to grab the edge of the sheets with my feet and get it right between the crease of my toes, and feel the soft, tickling sensation. It is wonderful. I also get this delicious feeling too, from engaging in this whole pemmican-making process with my meat and fat hunks.

There are so many aspects from it which give me pleasure, that I cannot think of them all. It reminds me of those books for children that show a picture of a person doing something, and ask, "How many such and such can you find in this picture?" It is an exercise of pure creativity, to make my fat as useful as possible. I even rub some of it on my lips as moisturizer.

At first, I didn't grasp the global benefit to undergoing the step-by-step process required for pemmican-making. It seemed like a lot of work when I learned about it. But then I began to think about it more and more, until I just felt like trying it. But I still didn't want it to be what I deemed "too much work." Therefore, it annoyed me that there were often hunks of meat attached to the fat the butcher gave me. I would never tell them this and simply take whatever the butcher gives me. I do not expect them to cut it perfectly when I am not paying for it. I had to cut off all the meat myself with our not-so-sharp knife in order to separate it from the fat.

More to do, I thought irritated. But after completing this step several times now, I realize, that my soul craves every part of this activity for the peace it brings. The more I do, the better. The steps followed in this activity allows me to engage in the moment, instead of having my mind running away from itself in its usual mode. It gives me pure focus. Even to exist in a minute of this space is bountiful. And this sates me inside as though I have just been fed something of great sustaining powers before I have even eaten any of the pemmican.

I am sustained when I give my attention fully in making my meat biscuits, and also in my work teaching and doing intuitive readings. This care and interest continues to generate more and more incoming gifts. The process is a wonderful opportunity. I experienced the truth of this yesterday, when I learned that I could embark on yet another process, in the field of my work. I had an idea, and told a friend about a new venture, and she gave me a whole schedule of things to do to make it happen. Right off, I did not like her viable suggestion. It seemed painstaking, laborious, and tiresome. It wasn't exactly what I had envisioned. I rejected her ideas immediately.

This is a person who I love and respect on many levels. But all I could see at the time, when she offered her wisdom, was the way it hindered me and would cause me too much work. To make matters more complicated, I made up a story about her motives for suggesting it. I decided it was because she believed I was not good enough to do it the other way--the way that did not involve as much of a process and that had been my favored approach. The other way was new and untraveled.

Fortunately, I realized later that I was being a jackass and avoiding both the methods and the loving care she was offering. She was actually paying attention to what I said. This is friendship and care. She was offering the "fat" of her knowledge, rather than nodding her head in a stupor, and just throwing out some quick route to shut me up. She was giving me an opportunity to find yet another process with which to nourish myself.

Before you wonder what in the world this has to do with fat, I will explain. I do not use these long-winded analogies to be clever. I am an experiential person, and experiencing is how I learn. Without direct practice, I will spiral once again into that unfocused student falling asleep in Women's Studies. It is in the details of ordinary life that I find self-knowledge and excitement. I did not plan to write about how fat makes me focus, and use everything intended, and about all the other wonderful aspects. I just felt the sensation of joy around the process and began to write. But I realized there was a huge gift inherent in the experience, the more I wrote.

I cannot say enough good things about making pemmican. I get to use every part of my ingredients to create. Nothing goes to waste. It makes me feel nourished and sated. To use all of my meat is to use the meat of substance that my dear friend offered, and to use the care that is being sent to me. It is to receive and welcome every possibility, every bit of my heart, ears, creativity, and senses, while the mind quiets and nothingness burns clean. All of this comes from participating in a process.

This is the gift and the answer. When you burn away what is not wanted by focusing on a task at hand, then you have the chance to experience the wonder of pure nothingness. It is the silence that we often seem to find only in sleep, though it exists in our waking life in the form of various jobs when we focus on them. That is why monks often clean the toilets with a toothbrush. It is not because they are that concerned about the cleanliness of the toilet, but more so with using details to stimulate the cleansing of the mind and the emptying of its reservoir of "gunk," as I call it. The mind is so busy hopping and jumping that it needs tasks to calm it and bring us to "awakeness."

This is the reason I am deeply connected to movement in the body. It is not to look toned, nor is it to show off my flexibility. I am not that flexible. When you bring your awareness to the act of movement in the body, you are once again, "engaged." When you carefully go through each step in making something, or drink up every last drop of love sent your way in a friendship, or spend hours putting something together, you are immersed fully in precious inner quiet and the study of your life through living it.

I could easily buy my pemmican already made. But then I would not receive this amazing gift. I could have ignored my friend's suggestion. I could look at the process of making pemmican as simply a laborious task. But then I would not have the opportunity to receive its wonderful benefits. There is nothing that replicates the process of working through an idea other than working it.

It is not really to get to the "end-goal." Of course, I want the "finished product" in the end. After all, it is delicious. But my focus is ALL about what happens during the "making." It is about what emerges when you put your whole self into an action. Whether it is a kiss, a performance, or cleaning your briefcase out, the gift of awareness is always accessible. And if this gift comes for me in the form of globs of fat--whose transformation to meat biscuits allows me to feel aliveness and silence, then I welcome it with grace and gratitude. It is with this understanding that I continue to sing the song of love for fat, my lovely fat.