Mommy, what does heaven feel like?
Heaven feels like peace all the time, no matter what. Also, you never have to be reminded that you are God's kid, you just know it. You know you belong to God. You never forget.
Can I watch H.R. Puffnstuff?
Maybe later.
I have never minded my kid's questions. If I have an answer, I give it. If I don't, I say, I don't know.
What a beautiful thing that a person can ask a question without being judged. All questions are equal. Heaven and H.R. Puffnstuff have the same value in the exchange.
When a question is just a question, it is a simple exchange of information. No strings. No tests. No expectations. No fear. No right and wrong. Giving and receiving.
Kiddo asks about heaven. I answer. It seems like the kid is receiving, and I am giving. However, I get to think about heaven for a moment instead of the yellowish brown juice that has pooled in the vegetable crisper now that the tomatoes have come off the vine. I have to consider heaven to be able to answer. What a lovely gift that turned out to be today.
A few minutes later, kiddo opined,
Heaven is behind the clouds. Do they eat dessert there?
Yes, while watching H.R. Puffnstuff.
Good, I like Witchie-Poo.
September 18, 2008
September 16, 2008
Trip the Dog Shit Fantastic
Today I stepped in dog shit. I came to this realization after I saw it on my living room carpet. I just stood there with eyes rolled up into the back of my head. I hate dog shit; ergo, I don't have a dog.
I had planned to meditate and then head to the gym. Instead I meditated on dog shit and carpet. This mantra was followed by - we need a wood floor, who can live like this, I hate this house, etc., ad infinitum. The thinking continued this way, a giant, negative run-on sentence to hell - all the way to the gym.
I can only assume that I am experiencing some sort of karmic payback for all the times that our former dog got loose and spread his love throughout the neighborhood. He was a very small, quick dog. He would make a break for it whenever I opened the front door.
Hopefully, after today's installment, I have burned off this bad dog shit karma so I can get back to being spiritual.
I had planned to meditate and then head to the gym. Instead I meditated on dog shit and carpet. This mantra was followed by - we need a wood floor, who can live like this, I hate this house, etc., ad infinitum. The thinking continued this way, a giant, negative run-on sentence to hell - all the way to the gym.
I can only assume that I am experiencing some sort of karmic payback for all the times that our former dog got loose and spread his love throughout the neighborhood. He was a very small, quick dog. He would make a break for it whenever I opened the front door.
Hopefully, after today's installment, I have burned off this bad dog shit karma so I can get back to being spiritual.
September 11, 2008
Putting the Fun in Fungi
The doctor said it straight. If you want to get rid of these infections, you have to stop eating sugar. You can choose molasses, maple syrup, or honey, but even that is really too close to sugar.
She continued, I am putting you on a major course of antifungal treatment. We can kill the yeast, but if you keep feeding it sugar, we'll never get anywhere.
This is not news. I have been dealing with imbalances and infections since I was 2. It's just that after 29 or so years of guilt- and shame-filled restricting and overeating, I was really enjoying having all of the food groups on the table. I was sort of hoping for a pass.
Nope.
Typically, when I get news of this type, I try to do everything perfect, black or white. Please the doctor. Get her approval by being the model patient. Send in my entry form for Ms. American Patient. My answer would have been, Fine, no sugar ever. But when I go to the white or dark side, I start to Show Out, loudly. It's just not peaceful.
There has to be another way.
So I asked her. What are my options? This won't work if I feel deprived. That's when she threw me the molasses bone. She said, I usually have my patients work with dieticians who take a hard line with them so I don't have to.
Been there, done that.
I called my dietician. She is no food Nazi. She is meeting me next week with a macrobiotic cookbook. I might not be able to eat sugar, but I will eat dessert, dammit.
I choose to believe that this situation is workable. I am not sure exactly how. I did find some sugar-free, vegan cookies tonight. My kid liked them. So did I.
I started taking the medicine. I can tell it's working because I feel sick and tired. That is, my body feels sick and tired. The real me is soaring.
She continued, I am putting you on a major course of antifungal treatment. We can kill the yeast, but if you keep feeding it sugar, we'll never get anywhere.
This is not news. I have been dealing with imbalances and infections since I was 2. It's just that after 29 or so years of guilt- and shame-filled restricting and overeating, I was really enjoying having all of the food groups on the table. I was sort of hoping for a pass.
Nope.
Typically, when I get news of this type, I try to do everything perfect, black or white. Please the doctor. Get her approval by being the model patient. Send in my entry form for Ms. American Patient. My answer would have been, Fine, no sugar ever. But when I go to the white or dark side, I start to Show Out, loudly. It's just not peaceful.
There has to be another way.
So I asked her. What are my options? This won't work if I feel deprived. That's when she threw me the molasses bone. She said, I usually have my patients work with dieticians who take a hard line with them so I don't have to.
Been there, done that.
I called my dietician. She is no food Nazi. She is meeting me next week with a macrobiotic cookbook. I might not be able to eat sugar, but I will eat dessert, dammit.
I choose to believe that this situation is workable. I am not sure exactly how. I did find some sugar-free, vegan cookies tonight. My kid liked them. So did I.
I started taking the medicine. I can tell it's working because I feel sick and tired. That is, my body feels sick and tired. The real me is soaring.
September 9, 2008
I Drink Tap Water
I have begun a radical new practice. I have begun abstaining from plastic water bottles. I now drink tap water in an aluminum bottle.
My family has gone through at least one case of plastic bottles of water per week for at least a year. The habit started innocently. I'll just have one today. I'm thirsty, and I don't want to drink tap water.
This rationalization didn't really work. Every time I took a bottle out of the case, I felt guilty about contributing to the destruction of the environment - what with all of the resources used to make the bottles. I also felt concerned about loading myself and my family with unknown leaking chemicals.
Rather than change, the rationalization got more aggressive. Screw it, I told myself. I need fluids. I can't wash a bottle every day. Plus, tap water is full of junk too. The fight between the loud, aggressive, selfish, ego-part of me and the small voice that speaks my core values was on, again. The loud voice seemed to be winning.
I would see lots of folks carrying the aluminum bottles. Every time I saw one, a small voice said, other people fill bottles and seem to have reasonably happy lives. Why not you?
Forget it. I can't think about it right now. I'm thirsty, the voice snapped.
The guilt started to take root.
I started noticing countless TV news programs and magazine articles denouncing bottled water. The still, small voice gathered steam. You can do it, it said. You feel so much better when you live according to your principles.
The final straw was an article I read about the nuns who were protesting bottled water because clean, safe water is a basic human right which should not be limited to those who can afford it.
I have been flat broke twice in my life. At age 15, I lost my dad, and he had no life insurance. We made it with a lot of hard work by my mom and outside help such as the local food shelf. Later, in my twenties, I got a chronic illness and couldn't work. Food and shelter were the primary concerns. I would never have survived if I had to buy water too.
Can I afford bottled water? Sure. But, my concern is that if those of us who can afford bottled water just give up the tap entirely and ignore the need to have keep up the safety standards, what is going to happen to the people who can't afford to buy it? Most folks who don't have enough money to buy water, also don't have money to hire a lobbyist to get the water clean and keep it that way. I don't want to live in a country or a world where people have to worry about water in addition to everything else.
The way I see it, drinking tap water is a way of experiencing unity with all the other citizens in my community. It's one area where we are all equal. We all need and deserve clean drinking water.
The ego voice had heard enough. Okay, okay. I'll try it. Get off my back.
I bought aluminum bottles. We wash them and fill them. It's not as big a pain in the neck as I thought it was going to be. I really appreciate not having to engage in the internal battle every time I reach for a drink. Just like everything human, I won't do this perfectly. I'll drink from a plastic bottle again. But just like everything human, progress is what counts, not perfection.
My family has gone through at least one case of plastic bottles of water per week for at least a year. The habit started innocently. I'll just have one today. I'm thirsty, and I don't want to drink tap water.
This rationalization didn't really work. Every time I took a bottle out of the case, I felt guilty about contributing to the destruction of the environment - what with all of the resources used to make the bottles. I also felt concerned about loading myself and my family with unknown leaking chemicals.
Rather than change, the rationalization got more aggressive. Screw it, I told myself. I need fluids. I can't wash a bottle every day. Plus, tap water is full of junk too. The fight between the loud, aggressive, selfish, ego-part of me and the small voice that speaks my core values was on, again. The loud voice seemed to be winning.
I would see lots of folks carrying the aluminum bottles. Every time I saw one, a small voice said, other people fill bottles and seem to have reasonably happy lives. Why not you?
Forget it. I can't think about it right now. I'm thirsty, the voice snapped.
The guilt started to take root.
I started noticing countless TV news programs and magazine articles denouncing bottled water. The still, small voice gathered steam. You can do it, it said. You feel so much better when you live according to your principles.
The final straw was an article I read about the nuns who were protesting bottled water because clean, safe water is a basic human right which should not be limited to those who can afford it.
I have been flat broke twice in my life. At age 15, I lost my dad, and he had no life insurance. We made it with a lot of hard work by my mom and outside help such as the local food shelf. Later, in my twenties, I got a chronic illness and couldn't work. Food and shelter were the primary concerns. I would never have survived if I had to buy water too.
Can I afford bottled water? Sure. But, my concern is that if those of us who can afford bottled water just give up the tap entirely and ignore the need to have keep up the safety standards, what is going to happen to the people who can't afford to buy it? Most folks who don't have enough money to buy water, also don't have money to hire a lobbyist to get the water clean and keep it that way. I don't want to live in a country or a world where people have to worry about water in addition to everything else.
The way I see it, drinking tap water is a way of experiencing unity with all the other citizens in my community. It's one area where we are all equal. We all need and deserve clean drinking water.
The ego voice had heard enough. Okay, okay. I'll try it. Get off my back.
I bought aluminum bottles. We wash them and fill them. It's not as big a pain in the neck as I thought it was going to be. I really appreciate not having to engage in the internal battle every time I reach for a drink. Just like everything human, I won't do this perfectly. I'll drink from a plastic bottle again. But just like everything human, progress is what counts, not perfection.
September 8, 2008
Be Yourself, Just Not Right Now.
"Noooo, no vacations," shrieked my child. Until this summer, when we said were going on vacation, what we really meant was, we have a family obligation. We had never taken a summer break that was not centered around a wedding or a funeral. For a 4-year-old, these kind of vacations are tough. There are almost no other children. All a 3 foot tall, 4-year-old can see is an endless series of backsides. Would you like to stare at butts for hours?
Further, it's easy for me to see why a kid would find it challenging to mingle with relatively unfamiliar relatives. They expect hugs. Some want kids to act like little adults. Many expect immediate answers to probing questions. How old are you? What grade are you in? What's your favorite color? Do you like cake?
I get it. "Wait, we're not taking a vacation," I said, "we're taking a trip." Between the lovely wedding of our dear niece and the funeral of my step-brother, our family went on our first trip. We went to family camp. Not our family camp. Lots of other families camp.
The first day, I was pumped - a real Minnesota vacation with a lake for swimming, water-skiing, tubing, and jet skiing. They would have putt-putt golf, a giant slip 'n slide, and inflatable obstacle course. We could do crafts, eat ice cream on the beach, visit the Judy Garland museum and sing goofy camp songs.
I expected the kiddo to be quiet and maybe hide behind me for the first day or so. After all, the butt-wearing, question-asking adults were strangers to all of us. I suppose the pressure was high.
We tried to redirect. Would you like to play putt-putt golf? Would you like to go swimming?
I didn't expect to hear the kid shout through tears, "I will never go to the craft barn - EVER."
I confess. I might as well have said to her, Be yourself, just not right now.
It's true. I wanted to be liked. I wanted to fit in, right away. I wanted the kiddo to feel comfortable right away or at least suck it up for the team.
I prayed to accept and not make excuses or justify my child's behavior. I didn't do this perfectly.
Over the next few days of intense and tiring camp experience, the kids who acted perfectly were starting to show out more and more. Show out is a term that my friend, a preacher's wife from Valdosta, Georgia, used to describe my behavior when I raised hell with the cooks at eating disorder treatment because they overcooked the mixed vegetables. (I was having a bad day at the psychiatric hospital, and the vegetables were mushy.) She said, "I just knew you were gonna show out." To show out is to show your true colors as being out of control, obnoxious.
The kids would show out and the parents would cringe. Over and over, parents looked at me in the same helpless way I had looked at them when our kid showed out. Then they looked at their kids as if they could say, "How could you act this way in front of this stranger? You are making me look bad."
I began to snort with perverse delight each time I observed the Show Out ritual. I felt at home with everybody. Also, each incident affirmed my theory of the unspoken family camp motto. Be yourself, just not right now.
Truly, real kids scream No!, don't want to share, don't like radishes, and don't want to wait their turn. They change their minds, throw sand, and say they hate their siblings.
Real teen boys dive from the very top of the gigantic inflatable slide while the real teen girls giggle. Showing out is a major turn-on for teenagers.
What's more, none of them want to talk to adults, even the ones who think they are cool. I tried to bring them out by telling them, "When I was your age and my parents were my current age, 38, I thought they were old. But I am here to tell you that I am not old." They smiled and continued to treat me like one of them, Mrs. So-in-so.
Most parents I know want their kids to be themselves. They don't want to squash the spirit of their children or shame them for being kids. They want them to be free to express themselves, to be themselves, just right now.
Further, it's easy for me to see why a kid would find it challenging to mingle with relatively unfamiliar relatives. They expect hugs. Some want kids to act like little adults. Many expect immediate answers to probing questions. How old are you? What grade are you in? What's your favorite color? Do you like cake?
I get it. "Wait, we're not taking a vacation," I said, "we're taking a trip." Between the lovely wedding of our dear niece and the funeral of my step-brother, our family went on our first trip. We went to family camp. Not our family camp. Lots of other families camp.
The first day, I was pumped - a real Minnesota vacation with a lake for swimming, water-skiing, tubing, and jet skiing. They would have putt-putt golf, a giant slip 'n slide, and inflatable obstacle course. We could do crafts, eat ice cream on the beach, visit the Judy Garland museum and sing goofy camp songs.
I expected the kiddo to be quiet and maybe hide behind me for the first day or so. After all, the butt-wearing, question-asking adults were strangers to all of us. I suppose the pressure was high.
We tried to redirect. Would you like to play putt-putt golf? Would you like to go swimming?
I didn't expect to hear the kid shout through tears, "I will never go to the craft barn - EVER."
I confess. I might as well have said to her, Be yourself, just not right now.
It's true. I wanted to be liked. I wanted to fit in, right away. I wanted the kiddo to feel comfortable right away or at least suck it up for the team.
I prayed to accept and not make excuses or justify my child's behavior. I didn't do this perfectly.
Over the next few days of intense and tiring camp experience, the kids who acted perfectly were starting to show out more and more. Show out is a term that my friend, a preacher's wife from Valdosta, Georgia, used to describe my behavior when I raised hell with the cooks at eating disorder treatment because they overcooked the mixed vegetables. (I was having a bad day at the psychiatric hospital, and the vegetables were mushy.) She said, "I just knew you were gonna show out." To show out is to show your true colors as being out of control, obnoxious.
The kids would show out and the parents would cringe. Over and over, parents looked at me in the same helpless way I had looked at them when our kid showed out. Then they looked at their kids as if they could say, "How could you act this way in front of this stranger? You are making me look bad."
I began to snort with perverse delight each time I observed the Show Out ritual. I felt at home with everybody. Also, each incident affirmed my theory of the unspoken family camp motto. Be yourself, just not right now.
Truly, real kids scream No!, don't want to share, don't like radishes, and don't want to wait their turn. They change their minds, throw sand, and say they hate their siblings.
Real teen boys dive from the very top of the gigantic inflatable slide while the real teen girls giggle. Showing out is a major turn-on for teenagers.
What's more, none of them want to talk to adults, even the ones who think they are cool. I tried to bring them out by telling them, "When I was your age and my parents were my current age, 38, I thought they were old. But I am here to tell you that I am not old." They smiled and continued to treat me like one of them, Mrs. So-in-so.
Most parents I know want their kids to be themselves. They don't want to squash the spirit of their children or shame them for being kids. They want them to be free to express themselves, to be themselves, just right now.
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