June 2020

Gratitude & Surrender

25 Comments / Coping, Courage / By / August 7, 2024

I took a long, loving look at my body today. 

I’d been trying to find something to wear from my summer wardrobe and nothing fit. Like many people I’ve talked to recently, I have what I like to refer to as ‘pandemic’ weight. It’s a thing. That sounds better than saying I’m just too lazy or too tired and everything is just too much. I am acutely aware that I am carelessly eating brownies or rice pudding for comfort and pleasure and I own that choice. I also don’t like how it makes me feel or look and I’ll be having a talk with my disciplined self about that. Later. But as I hung the last dress in the closet, with utter disgust, I realized something else was happening and in that moment I was judging myself entirely on my weight. Entirely.  

I knew better. I’ve done this before. I was desperately in need of a deeper perspective.

As I turned around, I saw my reflection, in bra and panties, fully in the mirror. I stopped and really looked.

At everything. Every perceived flaw, every curve, every dimple of cellulite. I perused my body like a vintage book with dog eared corners and a worn binding, that tells a captivating story and has been deeply loved, and read again and again. I rested my hands against my silky skin and slowly followed the soft curves of my hips, closing my eyes and breathing in the emotions that flooded over me, and with that touch salty tears began to warm my cheeks. I felt the subtle heat of anger rise through me and realized that I had been uncharitable, punishing my body for betraying me, for letting me feel like I was lost at sea. 

For nearly a year I have struggled with excruciating pain from metal implants that were placed in two of my fingers, fraught with the promise of hope, strength and regaining the use of my hands. But my autoimmune illness had different plans and caused rejection of these foreign objects and now, after exhaustive, agonizing complications, and failed attempts to correct the situation, I am going back for my third surgery tomorrow. Definite, permanent, final.

They are removing my index finger. 

A finger that, from the beginning repeatedly blistered, ruptured, blistered again and eventually turned necrotic as it strived to heal. That resistance played out in a symphony of pain for the rest of my body with constant flare-ups and took every ounce of my energy to navigate through. I became acutely aware and in tune with everything that was happening to me. I listened intently because I knew my intuition would tell me what my body needed. Around December I remember experiencing this Knowing. A serene, calm and gentle truth from my core, that I would need to sacrifice this finger. So the whole of me could have respite.

While I found unexpected peace in that, there have also been waves of frustration and grief, and this raging, enormous sense of loss. Another loss. How the fuck did I get here and how was it possible that my hands would never look the same?!?! Never Why Me, but lots and lots of WTF’s! This was all made more difficult by the angst of maneuvering through these Covid-19 restrictions. The waiting was plodding and tenacious. 

I was speaking with a dear friend a few weeks ago who understands my journey with pain because we share that common ground. Especially now, with both of us facing new medical challenges and all the chaos in the world, he said that all we have at this point is “Gratitude and Surrender.” That was quite simply the most breathtakingly beautiful thing he could have uttered. The truth of that resonated to my soul and I knew with everything in me that those beliefs are what have sustained and carried me all these years, even in the face of unyielding pain and uncertainty. 

For me, this experience feels like being caught in the middle of an inhale and an exhale. I was holding my breath, living on the fringes of acceptance and mourning, and waiting. For answers, for clarity, for the doctors. All the while, unknowingly, laying blame on the body that wants more than anything to show up for me. But I can show myself grace now, for not knowing exactly how to navigate this kind of letting go.

I know the reality of this procedure will set in when I see it. I’m losing a part of my body. But I am as prepared as one can be for this. I am processing both the loss and the beauty of it all. 

My bestie back home affirmed me, saying, “And that, my brave friend, is how you’ve approached every loss in your life.” She’s right. That’s kind of my super power! And it made me cry.

So, with resolve and eyes of pure acceptance and unconditional love, I look again at this body of mine, that has sustained me, so many more times than it has betrayed me. I touch it with affection, look past the cellulite on my thighs and see legs that have allowed me to dance, to reach the peak of the Pyramid of Coba in Mexico, to stand and gaze at the beauty of a peaceful pre-dawn lake. Instead of seeing the extra pounds on my round, ample hips and belly, I see a safe shelter for growing my three beautiful daughters as babies in my womb, and feel the tender caress of my lover’s hand against my hip bone. Instead of seeing the jiggle in my arms, I remember all the hugs I have given and received over the years and the warmth of those embraces. My tears of anger turn to compassion as I remember all the freedom, joy and happiness that my beautiful body has let me experience, and losing a finger won’t alter that. I am reminded of the exquisite words that my friend whispered to me last night with tears in his eyes, that no physical loss will ever change who I am. Yes, there is abiding truth in that. And despite everything, I am vibrant, zestful, and surrounded by the most incredibly generous people on the planet. 

I have shared this news with just a few people in my circle, and, of course, telling my children was the most heart wrenching. But they are warriors too and they give me wings. Each friend has responded with encouragement and compassion, crying with me and encompassing me in profound reassurance. One even suggested one helluva Wake…Love that! And last night as we shared a toast with some kindred spirits, saying farewell and onto the next adventure, I felt that affirmation again, that I am much more than the sum of my parts, the size of my thighs or one index finger, and that as I lean into this lovely act of surrender, flowing with these changes in the tide, I am blessed with perspective and showered with unwavering love. 

I have everything in the world to be grateful for. 

George Floyd, A Senseless Sacrifice

3 Comments / Coping / By / June 11, 2020

I grew up on the west coast, mostly in Idaho, safely tucked away in a white environment, where there was little diversity other than religion. We were all aware of the white supremacists up north and we viewed them with disdain. I had Latino friends, knew I wasn’t racist, and was exposed to some black history, those stories always making my heart ache and my eyes well with tears. But I never truly felt the heat of injustice toward others until I moved to NC. The travesties of prejudice are abhorrent and ever present. The only thing I can give my voice to in this moment is the despicable behavior of the people in this country. My country.

I sit on the edge of rage, heartbreak and deep love. 

We have witnessed a murder, for sport. Again. By a white police officer. 

George Floyd. 

A good and decent man who encouraged kids to avoid gun violence. Who was a gentle giant to the woman he dated. Who begged in agony for his mama as the last breath in his body was smothered out of him. 

We are a nation in shock. Wordless. Crying. Sickened. Disgusted. But as a free white female in an ‘equal’ America how much right do I have to speak of this? And yet, how can I not?? 

I will never have to know what it is like to walk through life in uncertainty and fear, always prepared for the worst, keeping my head down, never reaching into my pockets, knowing that there is no reality in which equality is true. Just because I’m white. Not black. 

Even as a woman who is part of the #Metoo movement I will never experience oppression in its rawest, most evil form.  

I have a dear friend who is my roommate and happens to be black. I love him and his tender beautiful heart to pieces. He said, “We find ourselves in the same place. Killed because of the color of our skin instead of treated by the content of our character.” He has had to have conversations with his son because he needs to be prepared. Conversations the rest of us will never experience. 

We can’t make sense of it. Understand it. Because it defies reason. It defies humanity itself. 

As riots continue, sweeping across the country with anger and frustration, manifesting in fires, looting and savagery, people keep saying that we need to begin with love because nothing good ever came from violence. How simplistic. While I can certainly agree with the sentiment that everything should come from a place of love, we cannot allow ourselves to be so naive, surrounded by platitudes that help us sleep at night, yet doing nothing to create change. We have ALL seen that it does not work for everyone. Those whose hearts are filled with hatred, those who choose ignorance and entitlement have no respect or regard for love and DO NOT RECOGNIZE IT. Historically, anyone making a stand for change has had to eventually resort to violence before anyone would sit up and take notice. It was Martin Luther King who said, “A riot is the language of the unheard.” He recognized and “condemned the contingent, intolerable conditions that exist in our society.” That was 1968. He was not a man who advocated violence, or hate. He was a man who came from pure love and made it his life’s mission to teach that to everyone, while pleading for equality. A right we should already share. He was murdered for it. 

Murdered. 

Like George Floyd. 

We can be heartbroken, we can cry a bucket of tears, we can say it’s all too hard to watch. But it will never even begin to add up to what these people, our black brothers and sisters, live with every waking and sleeping moment. I neither condone nor condemn violence or riots. I have no actual idea or cast any judgment on how people are responding to the way they feel right now. I can certainly support the black people that I know, and those they represent and I can look for ways to make a difference. But I can never begin to understand nor do I have the right to assume that I do. My privilege will always be white privilege. No matter what my heart is, it will never be enough to cure this cancerous growth of hatred and prejudice. Never. I can start there with the love in my heart, and the outrage, that can fuel me forward to contribute. 

Of course violence won’t eradicate racism, but neither will prosaic statements of love, prayers and thoughts or standing by and saying nothing. By our silence, we are not neutral, we are complicit. When people are marginalized and dehumanized again and again, while everyone around them is treated with dignity, simply for the color of their skin, we don’t get to pass judgement on how they defend themselves. If peace matters to us then we should add our voice, in peace, with theirs.

I personally know some good and decent police officers, and I’m sure they stand in fear right now. And sorrow. Maybe we all need to. Then step up! Because somewhere along the line, other members of their ‘Blue Boy’s Club’ have stood quietly by while entitled officers who are racist and capable of murder roam the streets with authority and a gun in their holster, arrogant enough to imagine that their white elitist mentality would go unpunished. As it has for decades. It’s wrong. And it’s not going anywhere, until we make it. 

I don’t have answers, and I’m at a loss as to what steps to take next. But you can make damn sure that I am compelled to find out. It will require much more than we are doing now to extinguish the injustice that is still poisoning our society. A society we have helped create. Change will only come when we acknowledge the fact that we have no idea what they’re going through, when we take the lead of those who have lost the most, and listen to them. 

There is so much in the world to be angry about right now, and the choices are dizzying. We are disillusioned, exhausted, disgusted. But we cannot be distracted by the loss of property or the fear. One truth remains and must be fought for. 

A father. A son. A friend. Murdered. Over $20. 

George Floyd.