MY HISTORY WITH BREAD
One of the strongest memories from my childhood is the smell of baking bread. My grandma was a world class bread maker. I remember the shear joy of being at her house and eating a slice of freshly baked bread, just out of the oven, with the butter melting as it was spread on top. Bread is something I want, not just because of how it tastes, but because of how it makes me feel. It is my ultimate comfort food. I have known for a long time that bread is addictive for me. It’s one of those things that keeps me locked into an unhealthy weight. Although I have made some major changes in my attitude towards food that have helped me slowly loose weight, at the rate I am going I will be dead before I lose enough to be at a doctor recommended body size. I’ve spent many years learning to accept and love my body just the way it is, but I also know that part of loving my body involves taking care of it. I finally feel willing to take a good look at what is in the way of wanting to lighten the load of my addictive behavior. Letting go of bread is one possibility. FINDING THE WILLINGNESS TO LET IT GO I know I can’t do this by myself so I asked a friend for advice. She suggested I write a break up letter to bread. Dear Bread, Although you hold a special place in my heart and my mind I think it’s time for us to break up. You have changed from something warm and comforting to a food that drives me crazy. I have tried many ways to make our relationship work. I don’t buy you by the loaf anymore or bring you home, where you call my name from the kitchen while I am watching TV. It’s too tempting to have you within easy reach. I have tried just eating bread when I am out at restaurants, but that makes me cling to the impossible possibility that sometime, somehow, I will be able to have control over my compulsion to empty the entire bread basket. I have futilely consumed a myriad of bread substitutes like crackers and Naan bread, but I still want more. There are not enough Triscuits in the world to satisfy my desire for Sourdough. No, I am better off just making a clean break than staying in this spirit numbing battle. I’m tired of fighting with when, how, and how much I can eat without putting my health in jeopardy. I know I will miss you, but eventually I hope to find the same sense of freedom I have found by eliminating chocolate as a potential food. After years of saying no to chocolate I feel happily distant from its siren call. It doesn’t even seem like something edible anymore. Not that I can take my chocolate avoidance for granted. I am well aware that one taste will set off an explosion in my body that will drive me to seek it out and dive head first into a chocolate stupor. The thought of going there helps give me the ability to stop before I take even a little bite. I would like to feel this freedom around you, bread. You have brought comfort and pleasure into my life but I am ready to set some boundaries and move on. Thanks for the memories, but I want something more. I want to feel comfortable in my body and free from the struggle to feed that part of me that no food can satisfy. Sincerely, Leslie
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GOD AND BLOGGING Normally I would not consider writing about God as a topic for my blog. It’s too personal and too fraught with the possibility of offending someone who has different beliefs and a different perspective than me. But this morning I was writing, just for myself, about about prayer and meditation, two areas where I feel woefully inadequate, and it made me consider actually sharing this. MY IMAGE OF GOD I was brought up in the Lutheran church. In my home town there was a Lutheran church on every corner. There was a Swedish Lutheran Church, and a Norwegian Lutheran church; all of the Scandinavians and northern Europeans had their own Lutheran church. My concept of God was forged in those days, attending Sunday school and going to TAMS (Teenage Missionary Society) meetings with my friends, where we bonded over normal teenage issues and ate tuna casseroles washed down with Kool Aid. There was no talk of hell and brimstone in the Lutheran church. At the front of my church was a beautiful painting of Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane. As a child, I didn’t see the pathos in this scene, I saw a peaceful place and a loving God. In Sunday school we sang “Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world” and looked at pictures of him gathering children of every race around him in a protective embrace. I saw God as loving and protective but he was a distant God, only to be found in church. I did not see God as someone I could turn to for help in dealing with day to day issues. I had to do that for myself, by myself. I did have my twin sister, and we supported each other and shared our problems with each other, but we were limited in our experiences and abilities to deal with the deeper issues of life. TALKING TO GOD As I continued on my path into adulthood I became more and more intrenched as a do-it-yourself woman until I got to the point where I couldn’t do it myself anymore. Through various counseling and support groups I began to open myself up to the possibility of a power outside of myself that was accessible through prayer and mediation. I still struggle with this concept. I am not a poster child for spiritual enlightenment but I have found ways to talk to God. 1. BREATHING This is the closest I get to any kind of meditation. When I find my brain whirling around in restless thoughts and fear, I stop and take some deep breaths. I can feel the stress being released and my mind opening up. This makes it easier to listen to another voice besides the one rattling around in my head. 2. LISTENING I have learned to recognize God’s voice in the people around me. I have heard this called God with skin on. Sometimes it’s the voice of friends and family. Sometimes it’s something I hear someone say in a movie or TV show. Sometimes it’s an inspiration I feel while listening to music. The trick is to recognize it when I hear it. Not everything I hear is the voice of God. I also have competing voices in my head giving me advice. When I have to make a decision, even something as mundane as what I should eat, I hear those voices telling me what to do. I am learning to recognize the voice that wants the best for me, not the one that caters to my obsessions. The more I listen to my positive inner voice and act on it, the stronger it becomes. 3. WRITING I never thought of myself as a writer, but more and more I am turning to writing as a way of clearing and focusing the voices in my head. Writing can be very meditative. There is a point in the process of writing where I move past my intellectual brain and write from my heart. I can actually feel it happen. Often the process of writing will bring up a strong emotional connection. This morning I had that feeling when I was writing about prayer and meditation and the struggle I have with doing them. I have heard that prayer is talking to God and meditation is listening to God. The biblical image of the burning bush conversation with God has never happened to me, but sometimes I get a message by breathing, listening, and writing that can feel like a burning bush. TUXEDO CAT
His name was Kyle. I called him Tuxedo cat. Long before I got my cat Abby, he had been hanging out in my yard, napping under the foliage and pooping in my raised garden beds. This was his territory and he and Abby had a few dust ups over who was in charge. At first they just eyeballed each other through the glass of my screen door, but when Abby managed to escape from my fenced yard she would chase him out from under my car or any other sanctuary he was trying to establish in my yard. Their last fight left Abby with a slash on her nose and a trip to the vet for antibiotics. Kyle would run away when I got anywhere near him. I tried speaking softly to him and moving slowly but he was shy and didn’t trust me. After he and Abby began getting into actual fights I was happy my presence sent him on his way. THE NATURE OF LIFE AND DEATH This week I found Kyle in my yard, or what was left of him. He had been attacked at night, probably by a coyote, and there were some missing parts. I could still identify his black fluffy body with white chest and white paws, but it was painful for me to see how terrible his demise had been. I have never seen anything quite as ghoulish and disturbing happen to an animal I know. I didn’t want to look too closely but I had no choice. I wanted to cover up the poor creature so that he wouldn’t be exposed to the dog walkers and their pets that pass by my house in the morning. This was nature in the raw, the stark reality of survival of the fittest. It’s not something I see every day in my quiet little neighborhood, or anything I ever want to witness again. Now I know up close and personal the reality of coyotes, or whatever predator it was, and the cruel look of what they can do. There have been sightings of a mountain lion in my neighborhood as well, and evidently another cat was killed in a similar way the day after Kyle met his fate. It’s dangerous out there. Nature can be brutal. This issue of the food chain hierarchy and the constant struggle of life and death is one of the many questions I ponder about the nature of nature. It’s why I am having a hard time deciding whether or not to make Abby an indoor cat and also a reminder of the fact that Abby is a predator too. I have been keeping her inside ever since she killed a bird. When I saw Abby with the bird in her mouth, I came face to face with the fact that, despite her furry cuteness, she is as much a predator as the animals I want to protect her from. A BLESSING FOR KYLE I put a notice on the Nextdoor Neighbor website and the woman who lives next door called the animal shelter. They came and picked up the remains. Later Kyle’s owner came by. We had never met before although he lives only a block away. I shared what I knew about the attack. That’s when I heard his name for the first time. Just knowing his real name makes me feel closer to Kyle. He is no longer a random neighborhood cat digging in my freshly amended veggie garden. I know that he was loved by his family. My housemate suggested that we have a little blessing ceremony for him. She lit a bundle of sage and we spread the smoke around the spot where he probably took his last breath. Rest in peace Kyle. |
Leslie Masona woman in search of her post-retirement future Guess what! By subscribing, you get notices about the latest Little Old Lady with Cats posts sent to your mailbox!
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(from an entry posted on 5/1/2015) “I definitely fit some of the characteristics of a little old lady with cats: Retired - check, Single - check, Like to knit - check, Have cats - check. . .I do not want to get stuck in my Little Old Lady persona, however. In fact, this blog is a risk taking experiment in exploring and redefining what I want my retired life to look like.” Categories
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