tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78508276065745023472024-03-12T21:48:21.691-07:00In Search of SpiritOne Soul's Journey
Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-4881115583017983912015-06-29T01:56:00.000-07:002015-06-29T01:56:29.078-07:00London Calling<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's Monday morning and I'm sitting in our new flat in Islington, London, wrapping my head around the fact that we're for the next 5 weeks. Sirens blaring from my open window, I view the bustle of the week's start as a bystander. It might be the first Monday in over a year that I haven't rushed to an appointment or scrambled to email a customer (although I did reach out this morning to a few). I get to jump off the hamster wheel of my working life and wander around the cage a bit with my kiddie hamsters as a tourist! This pause is a GIFT that I plan to embrace with all of my heart.<br />
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We checked into St. Mark's apartments yesterday, and had dinner down the street in a local pub. It all feels very normal and right. The apartment is smaller than we expected, but we're nestling into it.<br />
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Tim is working in the City with the Tower of London in his window's view. He's experiencing a professional bliss, probably pinching himself and wondering how LIFE brought him back to this wonderful city after he'd first fallen in love with it back in 1986. Bea is a bit overwhelmed with how we're going to spend our days. Frankie is champing at the bit to run every corner of the city. Josie's mind is still in the US, noticing more WiFi spots than British landmarks.<br />
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Time here will transform us all.<br />
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Today? Camden Markets, signing up for a local gym, grabbing an Evening Standard at the Tube to get the local feel of what's happening around here, and drinking it all in.<br />
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<br />Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-25420619146782127522014-01-05T14:09:00.002-08:002014-01-09T10:08:39.393-08:00George<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">George, my dear neighbor, lay stiff in the
hospital bed, the crisp sheet tightened just under his chin. Barbara says he
looks much better than hours before when he was gasping for air, his mouth wide
open, his body in distress. He’d had a stroke. I’d say an unexpected stroke,
but when do we expect a stroke? His stroke came in the morning hours of a
Tuesday just a couple of days after what Barbara describes as one of the best
weekends they’d ever had together. Museum visits. Dinners out. Temple service.
Friends galore. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Barbara and I sit on the couch-turned-bed in the
hospital room staring at George, waiting for that moment when she would have to
say goodbye to her husband of sixty-five years. We both know the moment is
inevitable, but prefer to postpone it as long as possible. “What do I do with
all the firewood that George put on our back porch? There is so much! I truly don’t
know what he was thinking.”’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Let’s not worry about that now,” I hold her
hand. “I’m sure it’ll be put to good use.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“His jewelry equipment!” she cries out. “It’s
very valuable. I don’t know what to do with it.” Barbara bows her head. I could
feel grief pressing around her frail frame like a vice. Just weeks from
celebrating her ninetieth birthday, I cannot imagine her surviving its painful
grip. It comes in waves, she says. For brief glimpses, she sits erect and
eager, and is chatty. And then, without warning, she folds into me, first with
her head and then collapsed shoulders until she is small like a child in my
embrace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“We don’t have to think about that now,” I
stroke her back. “I’m sure your friend, Bill, can help you with that.” She talked
about their close friend who owns a jewelry store in town, one of the many
people who would miss George terribly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“The Christmas cards!” Barbara yelps. “They’re
halfway done. Every year, I would sign my name and hand the card over to
George. He would then write something personal and sign his name. The pile is
halfway finished. What do I do about the cards?” Her watery eyes burrowed within
her small face stare at me, pleading for answers. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The triviality of the wood,
the jewelry equipment and the cards occupy Barbara enough to distract her from that
moment in time. I prefer the talk of wood, jewelry and cards because I could
actually do something about those things. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I circumvent that moment in time
right alongside Barbara. “You can wait and decide later what to do," I offer. "Lots
of people are sending their Christmas cards later and later. Some people even
send them as Valentine’s cards.” My blabbering only leads us back to the
inevitable. George and Barbara were lovers like no other. George would have
celebrated Valentine’s Day with some poignant acknowledgement of their love. He
might have fashioned her a ring from a quarter. Or perhaps he’d leave her a tender poem on a napkin, a token she’d
carry in her pocket and share with me, most certainly. Or they’d stroll down
Craigmoor Road, a path they’d traveled as a couple, holding hands, every day
for the seventeen years we have lived across the street from them. And on
February 14, the skip in their step just a bit bouncier because it would be a
day where they’d have an excuse to celebrate their love even more. Not that
they ever needed one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mentioning Valentine’s Day invites the sadness
back into the room. We both turn to look at George. The social worker walks
in. She had just talked to Tricia, Barbara's daughter-in-law. Tricia is planning to head over to Barbara's house to meet her there. Isn't that great? The hint to move the process along falls like a lead balloon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"I don't want to leave this room," she says.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"I know," I respond and pat her knee.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Because I know what it means when I leave this room."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Yes," I say. "I understand."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The pressure to say goodbye mounting, Barbara
shouts out from the couch-turned-bed, "Why can't I come with you, George?" Barbara asks him in the same way she would have asked to go to the store. "I want to come with you! Please don't leave me here alone!" I feel tears welling up from my insides. I
could sob right there, but stop myself, choosing instead to posture as something solid
to support Barbara. She turns to me again, her eyes looking for a reprieve from
the pain. “Do you know how he died?” she asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“From a stroke?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“No,” she explains. “How he died here in this
room.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I shrug my shoulders, still gulping back the
salty waters that pool at the back of my throat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I was sound asleep and woke up startled,” she begins
the story. “I don’t know what came over me, but I woke up thinking, ‘I need to
kiss George. I need to kiss George.’ So I walked over to his bed where he was
breathing very heavily. It sounded like his chest hurt. I took his face into my
hands and gave him a big kiss. My George! I love you, George!” Barbara stops to
blow her nose. I long to have a tissue of my own.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“After I kissed him, I stood back,” she
continues. “Then he took a big gasp of air, the biggest of the night, and just
died. Right then and right there after the kiss, he died. His chest stopped
moving. He was gone.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As sad as the story is that she is telling me, I sit thinking how
perfect a death that was for George who in life would have had it no other way.
Kissing Barbara. He would take her kiss with him always. That would be the only
way for him to die, with her kiss on his lips. I drift in thought, imagining
that sacred moment when Barbara’s kiss spurred George into the ocean of
reality, the space of eternal love. I feel blessed to have witnessed their
love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The social worker returns to the room and
encourages Barbara to get her coat. This gentle push is just the nudge Barbara
needs to stand up and walk over to George. I suggest that I go and get the car,
pull it out to the front, but the social worker asks me to stay with Barbara.
She might need someone there when she says goodbye. But being there in their sacred
space feels intrusive and awkward, like someone farting in church or watching
home movies of a couple’s lovemaking. Wrong. The social worker smiles at me,
assuring me that I need to stay so I do. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I glance away, hugging my coat, as
Barbara stands over George. “I wish I could go with you,” she sniffles. Then Barbara is quiet as she reaches over and kisses George's physical face one last time. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-26558935316970952672013-11-27T05:14:00.001-08:002013-11-27T05:44:11.054-08:00The Running Bear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The day’s weather is predicted to be dreary at best today. Rainy. Cold. The fallen leaves have left our trees barren, and are still blowing around in the air, sticking to the cars and the road. It’s dark when we wake up. It’s dark when we eat dinner. It’s darker than ever just because the sun is journeying towards winter solstice - that time when light is most scarce. The house is a bit chillier than usual and we find ourselves scrambling for that winter gear that’s locked up in an attic or basement bin. “Where are those warm gloves my mom bought me last year?”</div>
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Our lips are chapping and people around us are beginning to sniffle with colds. The holidays are rushing towards us like a flood, carrying debris of cookies and cakes and pies and all things loaded with sugar and fat. We eat more than usual and want nothing more than to stay in our cozy beds like hibernating bears.</div>
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But we’re not bears and we don’t want to fatten up during these next few months! So, what’s the solution?</div>
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<b>GET OUTSIDE AND GO FOR A RUN!</b></div>
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Winter running might seem daunting at first. Looking out the window, you might picture yourself being soaked to the bone, cold, slipping on the wet leaves or snow. And all of the above can happen and has happened to a few of us. But there are benefits to a winter run that far outweigh any of those imagined pitfalls.</div>
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A winter run is exhilarating. Being outside in the elements when everything inside of you screams, “Just lay here on the couch in this warm living room with the clicker and that bowl of popcorn!” is an indescribable feeling. You stand there thinking at first that you’re nuts, but realize quickly how easy and refreshing a winter run can be. It really is just a matter of getting out there.</div>
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So, rather than succumb to the lazy voices in your head, and millions of years of hardwiring that is telling you to fatten up during the cold months, take these tips and give your winter a new mindset. Let that drive to feel good and get out there come from something on the inside. Don’t be deterred by anything on the outside. See the weather as irrelevant.</div>
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Read the following tips on cold weather exercise and revamp your holiday wish list accordingly:</div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">1.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Layer up. Wear clothes that can be loosened or removed to regulate temperature. For your innermost layer, choose synthetic clothing that will whisk the perspiration away from your skin.</span></div>
<div class="yiv1898222404MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-family: garamond, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">2.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Shield your extremities. Winter shoes should have more traction. Pus, make room for warm socks. Try thin, synthetic layers underneath heavier gloves. Minimize heat loss by wearing a wind-resistant cap. Protect ears with earmuffs or thick headband.</span></div>
<div class="yiv1898222404MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-family: garamond, 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">3.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Hydrate. Even in the cold, your body loses moisture as it humidifies the cold air you inhale.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">4.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span><b style="font-size: 12pt;">Just get out there. That is by far the most challenging part of a winter run.</b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /><b>Be the running bear!</b></span></div>
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<span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1385557848201_2266" style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /><i id="yui_3_7_2_1_1385557848201_2265">Tips adapted from Consumer Reports on Health Vol. 23 Num. 12</i></span></div>
Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-8176012722882244972013-10-17T01:31:00.002-07:002013-10-17T04:00:33.526-07:00A Happy Birthday<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Today is my birthday so I’m treating myself to
writing in the early hours about it. It’s 3:15 AM. Coffee is brewed. It’s dark
everywhere in the house except for the glow of my laptop. I hear the fan
whirring upstairs, a trick we used to muffle sounds that could potentially wake
the sleeping baby. Seventeen years of whirring later, the girls still like their
white noise makers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I think of the time that has passed, I picture
someone flipping through a small day calendar at a fury’s pace. Days blur into
months and years. I’m 48 years old. Seriously? That adds up to a lot of hours
on earth and when I grapple with how I spent that time, I get a pang of
anxiety.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Has it been wasted? Have I loved enough? Have I
accomplished what I set out to do? Do I even know, yet, what that was supposed
to be?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The quiet of the morning forces a pause. There’s no
calendar. No worries. No place to be. Just stillness. I can give thanks in this
place. Here, I don’t have to peruse my mind and obsess on the rough spots in my
life or try to focus on all that is good. Here, I just sit and feel thankful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Every bruise is just as wonderful as every smile. As
I get older, I appreciate the rougher moments and see them like a roaring river
after a storm. The fallen branches litter its bank as the waters gush, my heart
that stone being tossed around. I bump along not even realizing how smooth
those rough waters have made me. People who know me know when I tossed in that
river. People who don’t will wonder. That’s life, isn’t it? We can’t know every
detail. But I will say that what we should know is that everyone gets tossed
about. It’s part of the journey. I’m also starting to believe that no matter
how much we have endured in life, the endings are all happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The good news for me on this day is that I realize
I am still writing my life’s story. I can still make choices.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Some promises I want to keep:</span><br />
<div style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: -24pt;">1. Accept I have hot flashes AND braces and it’s OK.</span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: -24pt;">2. Don't take friends for granted, ever.</span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: -24pt;">3. Encourage those aching knees as they walk down the stairs, remembering
they've walked me to many places in my life.</span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: -24pt;">4. Take risks in the creative realm because no one really cares.</span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: -24pt;">5. Dive into my heart even if it hurts.</span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: -24pt;">6. Eat to nourish, but never say no to chocolate.</span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: -24pt;">7. Say thank-you more than please.</span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: -24pt;">8. Notice light as it dances around the world.</span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: -24pt;">9. Remember sexy comes from the inside.</span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-indent: -24pt;">10. Love.
Love. Love. Especially those who have to put up with me on a daily basis.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: -24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Finally... Smile no matter what because all endings are happy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>"The wrong in the world continues to exist just because people talk only of their ideals, and do not strive to put them into practice. If actions took the place of words, the world's misery would very soon be changed into comfort."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>'Abdu'l-Baha</i></span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-33170404285504876722013-05-22T14:59:00.001-07:002013-05-22T15:50:40.169-07:00It's Just A Face (or is it?)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Life busted my face, the one the world sees. Well, not
“life,” actually, but an oral surgeon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Either way, how can I not see that as a metaphor?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These last four weeks, watching my face transform from
bruised and swollen to pale and thin from a life of pudding, I see so much more
than a face. I see never-ending change with no idea how it will end.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A face is a funny thing. It is what we present to the world.
We are humans with many facets, many sides. Our physical face is what we
project into the world as who we are. It smiles. It cries. It contorts with pain. It expresses all of the emotion we have inside of us. It also holds the eyes that reach deep into our souls, telling our stories.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And mine is changing beyond my control. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although the changes I am noticing are jarring and
unrecognizable to me because I’ve grown comfortable over the years with the
only face I’ve ever known, I walk with faith through
this thorny path of change knowing, on some level, that the face I show the
world will be different in six months. How different? I don't know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How can I not see this as a metaphor?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Right now, I still resemble Underdog’s girlfriend, Polly
Purebred, with a swollen upper lip. As I brush with Colgate, the gappy teeth,
punctuated with a darkened dead front tooth, smiles back at me. The stitches
lining my entire jawbone sag into my not-so-pearly whites like a bad sewing job,
and I scrub, hoping infection doesn’t set in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The face I show the world is changing – literally -- and,
with this change, I imagine I might show a new face -- figuratively -- as well. Perhaps a new side of me, more vulnerable or authentic, will surface.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having one’s face disfigured and texting grotesque pictures to
friends is vulnerable. There were a lot of “yucks and pity,” which might not be
the response we’d like from showing our face to the world, but that's what happened. Many people thought Tim had abused me. Some people asked if I’d gotten a boob job and was distracting the
world with this “jaw surgery” (more than a few!). Some quipped that they
wouldn’t have had the guts to go out “looking like that” and even suggested in
a joking way that I “cover up”. The structural change in my face rendered even Maybelline powerless.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I continue to lisp everywhere I go, trying to enunciate
words that used to flow out with ease, and I cannot chew until June 10, which
means slurping soups anytime I do go out. Of course, my face is still swollen
and numb so the soup, more often than not, spills onto my morphing face and I
don’t even know it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So how has the physical change in my face changed me?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know yet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But how can I not see this as a metaphor? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-80091644410023778142013-05-08T03:39:00.002-07:002013-05-08T08:45:53.285-07:00When Food Isn't Fun Anymore<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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Diet books are nothing new. They’ve been littering our
bookshelves forever and, even though they’re all glitzed with
different titles, they all end up giving us the same broader-stroked message, “Just
stop what you’ve been doing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know it’s not that simple. Having practiced nutrition for
over twenty years, I am intimate with the complexities of the simple human need
to eat, but I’ve had the forced experience of “stopping what I’m doing” these
past couple of weeks and am now asking a new question. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What if we took the pleasure and fun out of food?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before you pounce on me, let me explain. I was diagnosed
with maxillary hypoplasia a couple of years back (fancy word for tiny upper
jaw) and finally took the plunge to surgically correct it. As a result, I
cannot put my teeth together for six weeks while the broken upper palate bone
heals. My food intake is now limited to what can be tossed down the gullet
effortlessly – creamed soups, puddings, mashed potatoes, and shakes. I am a
crunchy girl at heart, detesting the bland, white and mushy food world. I
prefer the textured world of salads, vegetables, fruits, nuts, and seeds. Anything with crunch! I am
now imprisoned in pudding hell, but can’t help but try to find a silver lining.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What is it?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, for one, I’m being forced to evaluate what life is
like when you take pleasure and fun out of food. It’s not the same for me as it
would be for others because I prefer salads to ice cream, but pleasure has been
ripped away from my eating experience. It’s no fun cooking a beautiful meal for
my family and then sitting down to slurp my bowl of soup. This new reality brings
me back to my original question.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What if we all took the pleasure and fun out of food? Even
for an imaginary moment. How would that change your life?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t panic. No one is going to actually do it. Let’s just
examine the concept and the basic equation of eating.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eating =
Necessity + Pleasure</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We must eat to live, no? Necessity is eating to survive and
choosing those foods that will enhance survival. Necessity is food for fuel.
But we also enjoy eating food, which is a good thing. It gives us the drive to
eat. If the pleasure component is missing completely, we might not be compelled
to eat and we would risk malnutrition. In summary, we need both necessity and
pleasure, but in balance. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can assure you that we’re collectively out of balance,
which is a big culprit in our plight with obesity and obesity-related diseases.
Our scales have tipped to pleasure (and it shows), but it’s not really our
fault. After all, we are wired to get pleasure from food. It’s human, natural
and wonderful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, food addiction is at an all-time high because the
dopamine-releasing ability of food is at an all-time high. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Scientists are discovering that our human brains reach a
bliss point, which is when our brain’s pleasure centers get bombarded and
stimulated, when we eat foods with a triple threat power of sugar, fat and salt
combined. We can all picture the salted caramel flavors flooding our markets
and giving us that sublime eye-roll to the backs of our heads. It’s instantaneous
pleasure. Chocolate-covered bacon, anyone? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t think for a second that “food” manufacturers (do I
have to call Cap’n Crunch “food”?) are not fully aware of food’s addictive
powers. They’re jacking up our food every day. Even Bolthouse (sorry guys),
which produces “healthy” juices, has a salted caramel flavor now. When I asked
the booth guy at the food show why they went in that direction, with added sweet
and salt, he explained, “It’s a healthier alternative to Starbucks.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is cocaine a healthier alternative to crack?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA-ZTSPbnXnWNVUVVo8USy2-yqiIBBZUvwNqTRlqv4utonLTVyMoC_guMcURnAz2qkwQexWd91CpRiInj9t4hO1DWwsGyRiP9ViN5Drat98UmSC4zImuHlhKLbJDTfR8dZCrewORaTnBnL/s1600/large_junkfood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA-ZTSPbnXnWNVUVVo8USy2-yqiIBBZUvwNqTRlqv4utonLTVyMoC_guMcURnAz2qkwQexWd91CpRiInj9t4hO1DWwsGyRiP9ViN5Drat98UmSC4zImuHlhKLbJDTfR8dZCrewORaTnBnL/s320/large_junkfood.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can rant. And I will. But I’ll stop now and leave you with
the original question.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What if we took the pleasure and fun out of food?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First off. Most food companies would go out of business
because most of the food we buy is for pleasure, not necessity. Just troll the
aisles and most of what we eat isn’t even food anymore by the time it goes into
a box on a grocery market shelf. We eat it because it tastes good and our
brains sing with pleasure. Is it really enhancing our survival? No. It’s
probably killing us, but we still buy it because it is the pleasure part of the
equation driving us to eat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is there anything we can do to reverse it? Food addiction is
serious. In addition to obesity and obesity-related diseases, it can lead to a
slew of mental health problems because our brain chemicals go whacky when we
eat for pleasure. It starts a vicious cycle of highs and lows that begin to
drive our eating behaviors. Skittles are just sugar-coated crack. Pretty and
colorful and blissful sugar-coated crack.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps America could start a national twelve-step program.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hi, my name is America, and I’m a food addict.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Admitting it might be the first step.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now -- where is that salted caramel pudding?<br />
<br />
(Photo robbed from www.meghaneatslocal.com)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-22862419886092168072013-04-22T11:03:00.003-07:002013-04-22T11:04:25.710-07:00So Long, Crunchy Friend<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZHkOOn5kXQhPUEX00wb1F76-oCPuqsDmWjA9qW3mx4BVGljTn4Ew9hEOct4jCa9ToFSSLShjGFolP9gKRS4sU0_CnIOo23Rc2Eb1HM8s58HmScPjrJIA44G76t1jsS0nQUqzYF2WZrNwD/s1600/Lettuce+garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZHkOOn5kXQhPUEX00wb1F76-oCPuqsDmWjA9qW3mx4BVGljTn4Ew9hEOct4jCa9ToFSSLShjGFolP9gKRS4sU0_CnIOo23Rc2Eb1HM8s58HmScPjrJIA44G76t1jsS0nQUqzYF2WZrNwD/s200/Lettuce+garden.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear Lettuce,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You have been such a dear, always there for me. I will miss
you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s only going to be six weeks, but I wanted to make sure I
told you how I felt before saying goodbye. Honestly, the thought of living
without you for six weeks is unbearable. I have perused my pantry and fridge, and
felt no emotional tug with anything but you. There you sit in my crisper, so cool
and versatile. Just looking at you, knowing you will not be in my life, brings
a sadness I can’t explain. I’m not sure living without you can make me appreciate you any more than I do now because I am so grateful for all you have
done for me, Lettuce. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will miss you mostly as the foundation of my salads,
something I eat every single day. Did I tell you how wonderful you are? I can
dress you with a wide variety of flavors, nuts, seeds and crunch. I can take
you anywhere – to a holiday gathering, a mourning friend or a picnic. You’re
wonderful for my digestion, keeping me regular and healthy. You’re the perfect
balance of crunch and water and you give me so many rich nutrients right
from the ground.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Please know you will be the first I run to when I can chew
again.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Forever in health and crunch,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-86502450670521288532013-03-06T14:27:00.000-08:002013-03-06T15:02:30.983-08:00Why French Women Don’t Get Fat, But The American Women Who Go To France Do <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmGwf7NvALteylSq9UVHnZaC302EYy_U3xP7V5WSjeBBipQMT01bLk-Ee91n6Mu6LlzV5CJC8Yvzp3JX2WPd85dWTlUrMqD1l9pyjpAXByY5cyWSHdhRqn91T4aysOwdngWipHDWuRU8qW/s1600/Deliciousness-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmGwf7NvALteylSq9UVHnZaC302EYy_U3xP7V5WSjeBBipQMT01bLk-Ee91n6Mu6LlzV5CJC8Yvzp3JX2WPd85dWTlUrMqD1l9pyjpAXByY5cyWSHdhRqn91T4aysOwdngWipHDWuRU8qW/s320/Deliciousness-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
OK, I’ll just speak for myself here. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why do I get fat every time I go to France? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We know you French women, as a stereotype, are so “plus petite”
(and you are) so I ask myself, "Why do I plump up every time I spend more than an hour there?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lived in France many years ago and just returned from a
five-day sojourn in Paris. Thank God it was only five days! After two, I could
feel the familiar lull take over. It goes something like this. “Baguettes and
croissants must not be fattening. They’re everywhere and the French women are
so thin!” Or maybe it sounds like this. “A crepe here and there won’t kill me.
Look at those tiny French women!” Or this. “Butter is real food, not like all
those processed trans fat spreads over in America. Can’t be bad. Slather it on!
Better yet, carve out a piece the size of a slice of cheddar cheese and wrap
that baguette around it!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I spent my year abroad in France (a long, long time
ago), I gained about twenty pounds. The “year-abroad twenty” was far more
shocking than the freshman fifteen. Now in midlife, I only needed five days to
gain five pounds. One whiff of the
boulangerie and this healthy eating, gym-going, regimented mom of three let the
epicure inside of me take over. Taste, pleasure, sensation and enjoyment became
the rules of the food game. “Healthy” was implied, right? After all, the food
is all real and magnificent and, as we have already established, the French
women are doing something right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But what happens when you put a typical super-sized thinking
American into a culture of deliciousness? Five pounds in five days. That’s what
happens.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t come out looking French. I come out an even fatter
American because I brought my over-sized, “may I have a third café au lait?”
mindset with me to the land of small delicacies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In England, we could order the “big white Americano” coffee.
They sympathize with our gross perceptions of food. In France, the demitasse
should suffice. But, of course, it didn’t. I needed three to get my eyes open. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, OK, French women. I get it. I know you're all thin and mysterious about it. But I also know that when you're sauntering around your beautiful Paris, you're not drooling at the fromagerie windows or dreaming about the pain du chocolat you'll be having the next morning. I know you have perspective and balance about your food. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe someday I will learn to drink from a smaller glass.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know that's what you do. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-9730165370073460732012-12-23T07:35:00.003-08:002013-09-17T06:18:20.483-07:00Dear Newtown<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaNC284UcmSWVrJgd-v8jUluPyzrTI0msXtcgLnLaanCk4l7Jl8JjwmizZRzWbmXHCec7eRomxyhHPilzMMxE-Re0Ed0O_bGHrorZxzyyEjVd3Z0gVaPCqtj4n2fNOy414MsTpQs3DdeBJ/s1600/IMG_7925.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaNC284UcmSWVrJgd-v8jUluPyzrTI0msXtcgLnLaanCk4l7Jl8JjwmizZRzWbmXHCec7eRomxyhHPilzMMxE-Re0Ed0O_bGHrorZxzyyEjVd3Z0gVaPCqtj4n2fNOy414MsTpQs3DdeBJ/s320/IMG_7925.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To the people of Newtown,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday I had the privilege of joining runners from
Roxbury who came together at the suggestion of Brian Vanderheiden to visit your
town for a brief moment and pay our respects. He also wished to raise money from the run to benefit the Sandy Hook Elementary School Fund.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many of us are confused about how we can help
you. We have been asked to contribute money to a number of organizations
working with outreach. We have been asked to make snowflakes for the school so
the sweet and amazing children torn up by what happened in their school can
return to a winter wonderland. (By the way, there will not be enough trees in
the world to supply the outpouring of snowflakes coming your way.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These are
concrete ways you have given us to show our love and support to you, Newtown.
Thank you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I’m so sorry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As you know, those of us not living in your beautiful town
torn up by this horrific violence and left in its wake with impenetrable grief
are so desperate to show our love and support. We understand you’ve been
deluged by the media that has, too often, seen your town as more of an opportunistic
story line than a town filled with real people experiencing real sorrow. The
last thing anyone wants to do is contribute to your pain that has now come in
the form of traffic frustration and an overflow of teddy bears now polluting
your area (over 100,00 teddy bears arriving to a town of less than 30,000 people). We have read Sandy Scheibel Schill’s plea on Patch to
please help by staying away. I think we can all relate to your need for privacy
and quiet during this most unimaginably painful time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Understanding that need, when Roxbury Races began organizing
a memorial run into Newtown to quietly pay our respects, I balked. A number of us here in West Hartford wrestled with the
invasive aspect of coming to your town. Some thought it might provide an
uplifting moment for all of you. Others felt it inappropriate. Potentially, even our feelings about how
to help your town could become divisive and the opposite of helpful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After Newtown officials approved the journey and after
talking with friends in Newtown, I decided to join the Roxbury runners who
assured me our imprint would be insignificant, but the gesture very positive.
We were instructed to park out of town and to enter only a small area very
quietly. Thankfully, our runners carried little more than their racing and
aching hearts into your town and I say thankfully because when I arrived at the
memorial in the center of Sandy Hook, I was horrified. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stood before the piles of cards and flowers and stuffed
animals and notes – some inappropriately political – and my gut reaction was to
flee. As we crossed the street towards the memorial as a group, we immediately
clogged the four-way intersection where the state trooper stood repeating
himself, “Please move to the side. Traffic needs to come through. Please move
to the side.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Standing with my daughter, I held her hand and cried. How
unfair and brutal to have people streaming into your town, wanting to “do
something” and then showing up with messages of their own pain, their own
struggle with what has happened to your town. For a moment, I was ashamed for
having contributed to this ongoing frustration. I thought about the over $5,000 Brian had received in donations, which ameliorated my feelings of helplessness, but money cannot bring your loved ones back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked across the street, desperate to become invisible at
that moment, and saw my husband waving me back out of town, “Let’s go!” he
yelled. “It’s not right that we’re here.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pulled my daughter’s hand and, without strolling by the
hordes of sentiments in the forms of broken-stemmed flowers and teddy bears
muddied by time and weather, we left the scene and met our friends, John and
Margo, in the Demitasse Café. There, I was immediately struck by the generosity
of the restaurant owners who insisted on giving us our coffees free of charge,
apparently only charging the media. It felt counter-intuitive and, actually,
wrong to have you, Newtown, treating ME to coffee when I was there for you. All
that did was reinforce in me this sense that your town is that special. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After sitting with John and Margo, I felt blessed to have
come to your town even for a moment. You are special, Newtown. I heard the story about how during Friday’s moment of silence,
28 – not 26 – bells tolled throughout the town. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This made me cry because it is inspiring to see how a town responds to such tragedy. You inspire me every day. The unthinkable has happened in your
town and you are moving through it with grace. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are all waking up each
morning, still, with that perpetual ache in our hearts knowing it is but a speck compared to
the enormous pain you are walking around with. In spite of that, you are not only walking around, but showing the world your generosity and spirit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You are inspiring all of us with your strength, Newtown.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I only met John and Margo for the first time yesterday,
although we’ve been “friends” for a while. I will never forget being in your
town and hugging two of your loving townspeople who took the time to lift me from the pain you're all suffering. That seems to be who you are, Newtown. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am here for you. I will knit scarves and cut
snowflakes and pray. And I will stay away until I am invited back in a helpful way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our hearts are bound forever.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-57730957977161997182012-12-15T07:32:00.002-08:002012-12-15T07:35:26.785-08:00Finding the Light in Dark Times<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just a day ago, I was staring up at the sky in the middle of
the night, hoping to see a shooting star during the Geminides meteor shower. As
if the sky held some kind of power to lift me from the quagmire of my everyday.
As if that shooting star could pull me from the doldrums and into Life’s Mystery that is magical and open to possibility. I stared and didn’t see one.
Twice, I sat out on my deck in the middle of the dark night and waited.
Nothing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then when I least expected it, on a run with friends, a
star fell right in front of us and we all screamed with excitement. It was a
joyous moment. A gift.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was about 4 hours before I would read about the Newtown
shooting. I contemplated the word “shooting” and felt sad and ashamed by the
folly of my quest to see a "shooting" star. Such a tragic turn of events darkened
everything and even the stars felt silly and lost their light.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today I am wrestling with the concept of darkness all over again. How could
something like this happen? No one’s mind can wrap around such a senseless act
of violence perpetrated against our most innocent. Debilitated by sadness and
rage, I am scouring my soul for some light. Instead, I sit in the wake of the
wreckage of one man’s insane moment and feel only the pain of the families who
lost loved ones and just cry and cry. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_tc0HWg9v-H_IHK7S5MHdPLhnd0pGdQpbY7RurMUkp1ythyphenhyphentuJMkDG_eegnr-Tc3SLUOiRV5oV93rpY2CEgmbu7dQ4hiQSQF26LBzakqgZk_xLrenbvowu7LMn73qhVeromcLV3TlZpz/s1600/IMG_0997.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_tc0HWg9v-H_IHK7S5MHdPLhnd0pGdQpbY7RurMUkp1ythyphenhyphentuJMkDG_eegnr-Tc3SLUOiRV5oV93rpY2CEgmbu7dQ4hiQSQF26LBzakqgZk_xLrenbvowu7LMn73qhVeromcLV3TlZpz/s200/IMG_0997.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suppose in these dark moments, I still look for the stars
that fall unexpectedly out of the sky. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For me, the stars are the people and their stories. In dark
times like this, I cling to stories of people helping other people and suppose
that it is here where I find that flicker of light. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is the teacher heroically protecting and loving her
students, kissing them and telling each one that she loved them, fearing those
would be the last words they heard. The light is the state trooper, my brother-in-law, who was a first responder who helped the survivors and heroically helped young children exit the school. The light is friends hugging other friends
and opening up their hearts, crying with honesty, pretense gone forever. The
light is the awe I feel reading Facebook messages back and forth from a couple
in Newtown to their friends in Uganda. This couple gives so much of their time
helping people in a country torn up by violence and war. On this day, the
Ugandan friends are sending heaven prayers for their Newtown friends torn up by
violence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 11.0pt .5in; text-autospace: none; text-indent: -.5in;">
<b><span style="color: #2d4486; font-family: "Lucida Grande"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";"> <a href="https://www.facebook.com/okello.sheikh"><span style="color: #2d4486;">Okello
Sheikh</span></a></span></b><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Lucida Grande"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";"> We in uganda we appreciate
ur effort towords the sitation stil we are togather with u in prayer </span><span style="color: #6d6d6d; font-family: "Lucida Grande"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">.</span><span style="color: #2d4486; font-family: "Lucida Grande"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/margowoodall19"><span style="color: #262626; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="color: #2d4486; font-family: "Lucida Grande"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Lucida Grande"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";"> </span><span style="color: #2d4486; font-family: "Lucida Grande"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";"> </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: "Lucida Grande"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";"> <a href="https://www.facebook.com/margowoodall19"><b><span style="color: #2d4486; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Margo Deselin
Woodall</span></b></a> Thank you, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/okello.sheikh"><span style="color: #2d4486; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Okello Sheikh</span></a>. You know
more than most people in the world what this kind of suffering is like. We
appreciate your thoughts and prayers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The light is my children asking how we can help the Newtown families. It is the witnessing of people organizing community events so
that we can do what comes most naturally for us during these dark times –
gather and hold each other up with a hope we can’t see, but collectively desire
desperately. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So maybe I am staring up again at a dark sky. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And maybe that unexpected light is the human spirit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s keep that flicker alive for the sake of our Newtown
friends.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-7984587549553980642012-11-18T17:27:00.000-08:002012-11-21T05:14:44.755-08:00Raising Money & Other Things<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How much for the Barbies?” a woman hunched over with age
asked as she picked up the plastic doll, fiddling with its hair. Our first
customer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know,” I said. “A dollar?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll give you fifty cents.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Great,” I replied. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We held the tag sale with the dual purpose of cleaning out
our basement and raising money for Hurricane Sandy victims so the concept of haggling
didn’t play into either scenario. I’d take what people offered. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you have any Barbies with long sleeves?” she asked as
she tugged on the doll’s dress.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked at the dolls lined up on the blanket, so relieved
they had any clothes on, remembering how the girls loved to bring them into the
bathtub. Naked Barbie indelibly marked on their little girl brains. My thoughts veered to Valeria Lukyanova, the human Barbie who splattered the news all week.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I reminded the woman that Barbie wasn’t known for her
modesty. “It’s not like they have Burka Barbie or anything,” I joked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The woman looked up at me, “Don’t laugh,” she said. “There’s
a market for it, you know.” I stopped and considered the market for Burka
Barbie. Sounded more like an oxymoron than anything that would end up on the
shelves at Toys R Us, but surely Muslim women are curvy and attractive
underneath their layers so why not?? Maybe there is a market for it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We must have a coat for her somewhere,” I said. "I mean, the woman must get cold."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Josie and I rifled through the toy bins and found a white
one with a leopard fur lapel. “Would that do?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh yes! Perfect,” she said as she grabbed the coat from us
and yanked it onto the naked doll. “Do you have anything else?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sure enough, we did. We found a nice Western style shirt and
a pink sweater. “I’m buying these dolls for an Orthodox Jewish family,” she
explained. “This is why I need them to have their arms covered.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pictured Burka Barbie next to the Orthdox Jewish Barbie on
the shelf. Thoughts drifted to Israel and Hamas fighting. Before I got lost in the warring stereotyping of Muslims and Jews, I went back to outfitting
the “blonde bimbo”. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After about fifteen minutes, the woman left with a nice bag
of modestly dressed Barbies and we earned about $5.00 for Hurricane Sandy
victims. Josie, Frankie and I high-fived one another. This might be fun.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSUIZoe8bkd3xZLHf-DlrxTyVhaRNbIyhUNMzbQqcPGLt_aiAulNxPd95XHamc-2KYedzzHqDdzO558l1el7AegXebhJvxtCOAZvvGzMQLxRJ9VOqf5CYPKrFG008jUEoUedCSsgtrtwlO/s1600/IMG_7586.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSUIZoe8bkd3xZLHf-DlrxTyVhaRNbIyhUNMzbQqcPGLt_aiAulNxPd95XHamc-2KYedzzHqDdzO558l1el7AegXebhJvxtCOAZvvGzMQLxRJ9VOqf5CYPKrFG008jUEoUedCSsgtrtwlO/s200/IMG_7586.JPG" width="200" /></a>Our next customer was a minister at a church in Hartford. He
saw the tag sale sign and came looking to get toys for his church. He works primarily with people who had been drug-addicted and were getting
a new start in life. The toys would be for the children of these people. We
encouraged him to just take whatever he thought people could use. And he did.
We were happy to see the Madeline dollhouse that the girls had loved over the
years find a new home even though I felt a pang in my heart as he carted it
away. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man smiled and waved as he left, “The Lord rewardeth
those who give. God bless you all.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“God bless you, too,” we shouted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our loot dwindling and only $5 in the coffers, we waited for
our next customers. A neighbor visited, looking for books for her boys. I had no idea our children’s book library was so gender-biased! Where were all those
DK books, the ones with the dinosaurs that my girls never opened?? After taking the only non-girl-centric books we had, she donated $10.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During the post-lunch lull, I sat amidst all the stuff:
furniture we’d collected over the years, household items we’d never used;
games; toys; junk.<br />
<br />
It looked like our house had vomited onto our front lawn. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Setting up for the tag sale that morning, Bea couldn’t get away from the house fast
enough. She was mortified. “See ya, Mom! Off to the football game!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tim, too, struggled with the idea of a tag sale, preferring
instead to just toss everything in a dumpster. I said, “Who cares what people
think? If people want the stuff, they can take it. If not, we’ll dump it. At
least I’ll know we tried.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tag sales are strange. You do feel a bit exposed as people
you don’t know come to your house and look through your junk for their
treasure. But I had no idea how beautifully strange this tag sale would be.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was the man who bought the three stuffed animals for
his cats. Said they fight and hiss at each other too much. He was hoping the
stuffed dogs would distract them because he gets so annoyed by their fighting.
I told him that only the television stops my kids from hissing at each other. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He explained that he saw the tag sale sign on his way home from
bringing his neighbor to work, which he says he’s been stuck doing now for four
years and doesn’t know why. “Every day, I bring her to work.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know, but I do.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then there was the family who just moved here from Kansas. Mom
and three boys. So lovely. Her oldest played soccer with the kids on our front
lawn for about 30 minutes. Nate was his name. Loved meeting them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cannot forget when the beat-up van with one duct tape window
pulled up and out popped a smallish, Spanish-speaking man with a bright smile.
After an abundance of misunderstanding, I remembered him as the same man who
had taken a bike we’d put out onto the curb a few years ago. It was so nice to
see him again. He loved the bike with the baby seat on it. Then he said he gave
it to his neighbor who also enjoyed it. At least, that’s what I thought he
said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked around and decided to take the metal furniture. I
think he was going to sell it for metal scrap. Again, I wasn’t sure. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He asked, “How much?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I explained about it being a donation. He
tossed all the change he had in his pocket into our donation jar and loaded up
his van with the furniture.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, of course, I will not forget the guy who bought our
gold mirror. He asked if I could please get it to reflect back to him someone who
wasn’t ugly or old. He joked about how people said he looked like Tyrone Power. "I tell them Tryone Power is dead! And then they say to me, ‘You look dead!'"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Disappointed that when he looks in the mirror he has no idea
who’s looking back at him, he asked me to change the glass. We laughed and he
handed me $5 for the mirror. He also prayed over our house and for those living
inside of it and for Israel to win the war.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the end, this tag sale raised about $82 for the Hurricane
Sandy victims, but more importantly, it raised a level of awareness in my
family that people in general are very curious and wonderful.<br />
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-48873607874470841792012-10-22T17:12:00.002-07:002012-10-23T05:14:20.763-07:00Halloween Is A Dumb Holiday!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxNXaKYQbVSaWTGu3wMkNprT4ZlA-qvWPRBxJ3YFy8wFw9DYh5BclGwEExys2HYBfhyE__yX2hyphenhyphenwAmmQtlLliKh6gNf6ecDmrYFIMtM5H9E7VzkTf9Sot_ycM3woBogDUZ4I-D6TmoCbPl/s1600/halloween.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxNXaKYQbVSaWTGu3wMkNprT4ZlA-qvWPRBxJ3YFy8wFw9DYh5BclGwEExys2HYBfhyE__yX2hyphenhyphenwAmmQtlLliKh6gNf6ecDmrYFIMtM5H9E7VzkTf9Sot_ycM3woBogDUZ4I-D6TmoCbPl/s200/halloween.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Someone has to say it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or am I just jaded and angry because I have lost my little girls
to Teenager Halloween? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never really liked Halloween. It was always tradition so I
went along with tradition. But now that the kids are getting older, Halloween is
intolerable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I admit having enjoyed sewing their toddler costumes and
watching my girls glow under the light of the carved pumpkin we’d gutted for
decoration and seeds. I even bought the Halloween accoutrements; my favorite being
the witch’s hand bowl that will grab yours as you dig in for your treat. Yes,
those were good times except for the Halloween hangovers filled with
exhaustion, sore throats and runny noses, all biological consequences of
deluging your body with sugar.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today, sugar is the least of my worries. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’d think I would be upset about our material world gone crazy
obsessive about making money to the point of convincing people we must now string
orange lights around our houses. A
commercial nightmare, Target has eight aisles filled with sugar and Chinese
plastic. Also, who is splaying their bushes with that white cotton? One might assume that Halloween stuff,
having quadrupled its volume of sales in a year (don't quote me on that), is what’s irritating me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that’s not it. People can string lights. That’s fine. I’m a capitalist
sympathizer. No worries. What does bug me though is when I walk through the
store and see young moms tossing bags of candy into their carts and reaching
for the fairy costume as their daughters beg for the purple one. It is then
that my heart breaks. I want to pull those moms aside and say, “Enjoy this
while you can! Take lots of pictures! Hold your babies at night!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stand there and want to yell, “Yeah, you just wait. That
Little Mermaid grows a rack and – overnight – turns into iParty’s sex object.
Your cute little kitties become all grown-up and fodder for gawking men.
What was sweet and pumpkin just turns all slutty and scary.” I want to scream
in the middle of Target. “You just wait!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Long gone are the simple hayrides where we curled up under a
blanket with a full moon overhead, and a possible sheeted ghost flying from the
tree branches. In Teenager Halloween, it is a full-blown chainsaw massacre with
the damsel’s boobs hanging out of her frightened chest as she traipses across
the theme park donning her fishnets. Now she holds a knife dripping with fake
blood repeating to herself, “I didn’t mean to kill her.” She follows your
babies onto the roller coaster with her eyes glazed over, “I didn’t mean to
kill her.” She’s probably got a “handle” of vodka stashed in her car. “I didn’t
mean to kill her.” This is Teenager Halloween.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I shudder and go to my happy place where they are still begging
to dress up like Hermione from Harry Potter and visit Grandma. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lately, I’m lost looking at pictures of the Halloweens I thought
I hated. I miss those days. At dinner, I beg the girls to carve the pumpkin
with me. <i>No time. Too much homework</i>. I ask if I can sew something. <i>Nah, I’ll
just grab something at iParty</i>. Do you want to go buy candy with me? Silence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sure, Mom. I’ll go with you. You’re not buying pencils this
year, are you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, I’ll get all the chocolate you want,” I say.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll take the Halloween hangover.<br />
<br />
<i>(Photo credit: Lifted from Google images)</i></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-254031501926660492012-08-31T12:39:00.001-07:002012-08-31T12:47:22.344-07:00<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Nourishing Our
Children with Good Food Messages<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0CNy1sQtJWmKy_hYAKWXpM-jv2qkhUH_2WwqSrARE5O5UjC3izrbVuWlhdWp9jZPvR4Q56innDyjGm-A_5cveIbnYDtizI7e1o98dD1Q0xbs9TUQiXTGc2B7racrw8jwCXlZpvbOAWa9W/s1600/IMG_4294.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0CNy1sQtJWmKy_hYAKWXpM-jv2qkhUH_2WwqSrARE5O5UjC3izrbVuWlhdWp9jZPvR4Q56innDyjGm-A_5cveIbnYDtizI7e1o98dD1Q0xbs9TUQiXTGc2B7racrw8jwCXlZpvbOAWa9W/s200/IMG_4294.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
School is back in session and the kids are gearing up to
learn. As parents, let’s take this as an opportunity to learn something, too.
Let’s think about we’re teaching our children about health, nutrition and body
image. Our children will reflect back to us what we teach them and I’m here to
say that it’s not always good.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The childhood obesity rates have been slowly rising and
public health experts have officially pushed the panic button. A world strewn
with processed foods is now being condemned and shamed – and, possibly, taxed.
The pendulum of eating fast foods and gaining weight is shifting towards being
“healthy” and everyone is desperately trying to define what that means exactly.
As we scramble to reverse the obesity trend, too many mixed messages are being
impressed onto our children’s minds. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everyone seems confused, but, for children, we must pay
particular attention to these messages. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My daughter was informed that it’s OK to bring a corn muffin
to school as a snack, but not a small bag of potato chips. Kids are now
starting to talk about food like they’re experts, regurgitating the latest
nutrition factoid they hear at home or on the news. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Corn is fine because it’s a vegetable, doofus,” says one of
the kids at school.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But my mommy says corn muffins are like cake and cake is
fattening,” says the other child. “And my mommy is always trying to lose
weight.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s bad enough that the Twinkie-taxing people are fighting
with the food libertarians in the adult world, but now we’ve got a whole
generation of kids confused about what to put into their bodies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The implications? For the fearful child, a serious eating
disorder could be lurking in her future. There are new ones popping up every
day with kids being afraid to eat now. Food is “fattening” or “bad for me” or
“dangerous”. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We have a generation of children in need of nourishing words
about food – not confusing and negative ones. This means focusing on the whole
and unprocessed foods, putting them at the center of our kids’ lives and
teaching them where food comes from, how it grows, its strengthening values.
However, it also means allowing them to enjoy foods that might be processed or
“fattening” so as not to instill fear at such a young age.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our goal should be to empower our children with knowledge
and discernment, not to scare them or teach them to be judgmental towards
others who like to eat six cupcakes for lunch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, it seems the corn muffin ingredients look an awful
lot like what we see here on the Betty Crocker cake mix,” we could say. “I
suppose potato chips could be considered a vegetable like the corn muffin
because potatoes are a vegetable, too, no?” These words might be a good place
to start.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then it is important to empower them. “What do you think?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rather than have the kids fighting over the virtues of a
corn muffin or the potato chips, just have your child toss the apple in the
backpack. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most importantly, teach them to think for themselves.
Empower them with knowledge and the ability to discern the crazy messages being
tossed around.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This might mean doing it for ourselves first.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-66412895047890867542012-06-29T19:06:00.003-07:002012-06-29T19:10:22.864-07:00A Midlife Tween<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-vq-aj1cTXD8R_o2OtL1HUbox1Q1tvfLmik9Xo5lobXJ0aOv0q-a5sJ1wUZSUOP5z60Y4cgAQbl87comnSp9J2Ht1mHZP3e_QpbDL_9_EqtwDmnS0t22KSSQPYeQt5oJ7n9qfeD6H0bu0/s1600/IMG_0078.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-vq-aj1cTXD8R_o2OtL1HUbox1Q1tvfLmik9Xo5lobXJ0aOv0q-a5sJ1wUZSUOP5z60Y4cgAQbl87comnSp9J2Ht1mHZP3e_QpbDL_9_EqtwDmnS0t22KSSQPYeQt5oJ7n9qfeD6H0bu0/s200/IMG_0078.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
They say midlife is a second adolescence. I don't know -- something about unresolved emotional issues resurfacing at this special time of life. Perhaps it's watching your children go through their stuff that just shakes up your own deep-seated debris. Or we've got this new chance to make it all right again? Or perhaps it's hitting that other side of the bell curve of life. We're born. We travel up to our peak age, which is probably around 35, and then we start going downhill until we're aged and in diapers again.<br />
<br />
If I had to put myself on that spectrum, I would be just sliding down on that other side where I do seem to mirror adolescence. My teeth are all crooked again. I seem to be having emotional growth spurts. I'm revisiting feelings where I look in the mirror as my body changes and I say, "Who's that?" All not unlike adolescence.<br />
<br />
It's a time of change and it's an important one.<br />
<br />
So, symbolic of this midlife time, I decided to embrace (literally) this change of life time and get my teeth fixed. Broken molars from mismatched jawbones run in my family and I wanted to avoid a dental catastrophe in five years so I took the plunge.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_H6tXdgzg_cXKw8MlLkDh4muljcLkpbti62zSm16BUO3mCNVZ3YwjkKUB04wqrWnelXyr2BjkJ_DgQ6FkoMbiowlUbWDTbqmJp4qnaFwRCwwo4TXMN-9Knp5M583Bhxb5A2JYLTPwRI0c/s1600/IMG_0079.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_H6tXdgzg_cXKw8MlLkDh4muljcLkpbti62zSm16BUO3mCNVZ3YwjkKUB04wqrWnelXyr2BjkJ_DgQ6FkoMbiowlUbWDTbqmJp4qnaFwRCwwo4TXMN-9Knp5M583Bhxb5A2JYLTPwRI0c/s320/IMG_0079.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
And now I look like an adolescent girl with crow's feet!<br />
<br />
In six months, I'll have my jaw broken and re-aligned so that I can finally chew and talk without pain.<br />
<br />
Sexy I might not look, but as a wise woman of midlife, I understand more and more that sexy is less about how we look and more about how I feel.<br />
<br />
I am very grateful to Dr. Elena-Lee Ritoli, a high school friend, actually, who is helping put my Humpty Dumpty teeth back together again. I didn't realize how BAD they were until she put these things on my teeth. Whoa.<br />
<br />
I get the feeling I am going to find a lot of spirit in middle age and beyond.<br />
<br />
<br />Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-8513854780270465182012-05-23T10:28:00.000-07:002012-05-23T18:23:17.985-07:00The Wrong Direction<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpMi-W2ni7Z1xE57mkVE1I3hI9scL6T-_8ZQZambYYJLkGruRPqt2fiTcfcOBUBA-GD9hpplHMnmiTw71jV6nIGE6dSZCfjUAy86mKZTrTzKx3PeomY-qvtArrbwuFoSN6fnAVuC5fYS8T/s1600/IMG_2572.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpMi-W2ni7Z1xE57mkVE1I3hI9scL6T-_8ZQZambYYJLkGruRPqt2fiTcfcOBUBA-GD9hpplHMnmiTw71jV6nIGE6dSZCfjUAy86mKZTrTzKx3PeomY-qvtArrbwuFoSN6fnAVuC5fYS8T/s200/IMG_2572.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">One Direction started their US tour
at Mohegan Sun last night. Two of my three girls had tickets to attend,
thanks to a friend whose name shall remain a secret. You see? Only the spoiled
and privileged were able to get tickets to this concert. You either had to know
someone or be willing to plunk down (at one point) $900 per ticket. That’s how
crazy people were for this show and I probably should have known that that
craziness would have set the precedent for a nutty night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">It all started with Josie, Frankie
and their cousin, Abby, all dressed in their homemade t-shirts ready to go. We
go to Bea’s Hall-Conard (town rivals) lax game first. I glance over and see the girls, sitting in the bleachers, so excited for their evening with Zayn,
Harry, Niall, Liam and Louis, each girl with their boy’s name scribbled in
fabric paint on the back of their t-shirt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">Tim arrives to the tied game and we
watch as Hall pulls ahead at the tail end of the second half. At some point, we
decide to take two cars down to Mohegan. I declare that I will “follow him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">As we're leaving the game, excitement
building, the clock ticking, I get nabbed by the police for "rolling
through the stop sign" at the 3-way there. Shaken, I blame Tim whom I am "following". He has pulled over to the side right in front of me, waiting, probably laughing at me
for getting a ticket. I tell the officer that I am sorry, that I was following my husband, that we are trying to get to a concert. The police officer says, "Yeah, well, HE rolled
right through it, too." And then he calls for back up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">I listen as the officer screeches to the other officer in total disgust, "Yeah, they're husband and wife, on their way to a concert!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">So, now Tim and I are sitting on the
side of the road, feeling like criminals, with all the Hall and Conard parents driving by. We each have a flashing police car behind us and we're getting tickets. Parents are waving as
they're driving by. Yes, can you imagine?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">Then Tim calls me. My first thought
is that my blue tooth was stolen out of the Target parking lot a month ago and
I haven’t replaced it, yet, so please don’t call me. Or, if I put you on speaker,
please don’t say anything inappropriate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">"I can't believe he gave me a
ticket. I wouldn't have gotten ticket if I hadn't waited for you." Yes,
that's true. But, sweet husband waited for me and got nailed as well. $260
later, we are joking that in all of marriage history, this probably has never
happened before. Humiliated and mad we're paying town of West Hartford $260, we
try to joke about it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">With traffic congestion, timing, the
rain ... we BARELY get the girls there by the 7:30 start, but we do. They have
to throw the posters away that they spent an entire Saturday evening making and
they walk in. Bea, who has given her ticket to her cousin (who believes one of
the band boys might be her soul mate), and her friend, Morgan, come to dinner
with Tim and me. We try to make it fun for her, compensating for her
sacrificial gesture for her cousin, but the whole time, she is saying,
"So, when are we going to find a way to get into this concert??" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">HUH? I thought you were OK being the
big-girl sacrificing cousin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">"Really?? They’re sold out. You
saw the crazy mob by the sales booth. You really want to try??"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">"Definitely. Let's just
see."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">"But there's no way," I
start to say. As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I think of my friend,
Lizzy, so positive all the time, who told me that afternoon that she would ask
the universe to send tickets so that Bea and her friend could go after having
made such a nice sacrifice for her cousin. "Sally, I will ask that the
universe just send you tickets out of nowhere!" She is too cute. Trying
to keep Lizzy’s optimism, we leave the restaurant and stroll over to the lobby
area.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">The crowd had dwindled. A few hopeful
souls were mingling around waiting to hear if there are any tickets left.
Suddenly, there are piercing screams coming form 5 girls, crying, because they
just got the last tickets. So happy for them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">We walk around to the other side.
There's a guy there holding two tickets. "Do you want these?" He
looks right at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">"Excuse me?" I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">A bit scruffy looking, he looks more
like a tired dad than a drug dealer. "Yeah, I upgraded my daughter's seats
and I have these tickets. I paid $55 each, but you can have them for $50 for
both of them. Thing is... you need to get my bag that I left in the
arena."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">Well, Mother Theresa herself could
approach Tim and he wouldn't trust her. Jesus could appear with His hand held
out and Tim would question His motivation. Tim doesn't buy this guy's story.
"No, I don't think we're interested."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">Bea and I are both aghast.
"What?? I'm interested."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">"Seriously, I'm legit. True
story. It's just that I don't want to go back in there and have them validate
the ticket again if I'm not going to stay. I'm serious." To me, he looks
very sincere, like a guy who dragged his desperate girls down to the arena. He
looks exhausted, as if he'd been up all night trying to give his kids an
experience to remember. "You don't have to pay me until they're in."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">I say, "YES!" He hands Bea
his "claim ticket," she comes out with his bag filled with ONE
DIRECTION paraphernalia, they walk into the arena, I hand him the $50 and it's
done. GREAT! Now all kids are in there. Fun for them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">The deafening screams from inside the
arena could be heard throughout the entire casino. Who is this band? People
everywhere are asking. Literally thousands of histrionic girls ages 12-15
emotionally gushing for these British boys. I start to giggle because I think
of Lizzy. This man, literally, came out of nowhere so I smile thinking of the
God wink that we sometimes get. Tim smiles, too. We both reflect for a bit too
long -- standing in the lobby -- how he trusts no one. He joked that it was his
New Britain upbringing. :) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">We walk around the smoke-filled venue
watching zombies in front of slot machines, feeling the collective addictive
pain of humanity. It really is sad to watch people zoned out in front of the
slots.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">Then the concert ends. The parents --
who have all, it seems, given their tickets they SHOULD be using to chaperone
these young girls, to other young girls -- are all waiting in a crowd with
bated breath for their little ones to come out. We're right in there trying to
find the girls. Of course, Bea comes out responsibly with Morgan. She's
exhausted from the game. She hasn't showered. Her stomach is gurgling from a mix of Mohegan buffet food.
"Corn muffins and spring rolls don't really digest well together,"
she says. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">"You're fine. Look for your
sisters!" I yell at her over the crowd of frantic parents.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">Suddenly, the mass of young girls
pours out, some crying, some screaming, everyone on a phone trying to connect
with their parents. I look. I wait. I watch. No Josie. No Frankie. No Abby. I
text and call Josie. No response. I start to panic. We wait still.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">After 30 minutes, the crowd has all
exited. We are standing alone, waiting. No Josie, Frankie or Abby. The phone
rings. It's Josie. "We're lost," she screams into the phone. "I
can't tell where we are."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">We find security and they point us to
another exit on the other side of the arena. We tell her, "Stay right
there. We'll come to you."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">Tim, Morgan, Bea and I are now
sprinting through the casino, looking for the other entrance. At this point, we
don't care that Bea and Morgan aren't of the legal age for gambling as we run
by the black jack tables. As we turn the corner, we see 3 exhausted girls
slumped against the wall, weary from all the excitement. I pull Josie up and
hug her. "Mom it was awesome, but I'm so thirsty and I can't hear
anything."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">Frankie says, "Am I talking too
loud? I can't hear myself."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">They are deaf now, and dehydrated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">Tired and sore, we make our way
through the crowds towards the parking garage and Josie stops. "Mom!"
she yells as she's patting down her shorts and jacket. "Mom, I can't find
your camera." I gave her my tiny Elph to bring into the concert.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">Bea wails, "NO!! I feel sick and
I smell. I just want to go home."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">Tim says, "I'll wait here with
them. Go back with Josie to see if you can find it." Of course you’ll wait
there and send me off and running in my too-tight shoes, strangling my feet
from walking around the casino all night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">So we do. We sprint back through the
masses of people, weaving in and out. I feel my blistered feet yelling through
the too-tight shoes. I have Josie's neon pink sweatshirt in sight as she is
determined to find this camera. As I'm running, a woman knocks my cell phone
right out of my hand and it smashes to the ground, the cover, split in two,
flies off under the stampede of shoes. I scramble to the floor and find my
phone, but don’t bother looking for the protective cover now smashed by the
crowds. I pick it up and see Josie's pink blur getting further away in the
distance. I follow her with my eyes. She is running towards the spot at which
they were sitting. I watch as she bends down and lifts up her arm holding the
camera in her hand. It was still sitting right on the spot where she was sitting. Emotional catastrophe averted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">We run back to where Tim, Bea,
Morgan, Frankie and Abby are, Bea rolling her eyes, but relieved to see Josie
holding the camera and we head towards the parking garage… behind what feels
like a mass exodus of exhausted and starving cattle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">As we moo our way to the elevator, I
suggest the stairs. Worse than the elevator, we choose to wait for the lift to
the fourth floor. My feet are thanking me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">Another half an hour in concert traffic
and we’re finally cruising along the highway -- Tim driving Abby home to
Southington with Josie and Frankie, me heading to West Hartford with Bea and
Morgan. I get home around midnight. The phone rings at 12:30. It's Tim. I yell, “Where
are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">Tim says, “Are you sitting down?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">I sit down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">“I just got a speeding ticket for
going 63 in a 45. $206.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">I just start to laugh. An exhausted,
kind of maniacal laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style'; font-size: 13pt;">Then I think, “Universe, STOP SENDING
THE TICKETS!!”</span></div>Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-3183964550781351052012-03-08T03:19:00.019-08:002012-03-08T12:22:48.894-08:00A Time to be FatThere is a time to be fat. Yes, fat does not mean bad. <br />
<br />
Being a fat baby does not make you destined for Weight Watchers as an adult. My fatter babies were calmer and, generally, more satiated, sleeping longer hours at a stretch. So please don’t anyone freak out about their cherub-looking infants. When you’re cleaning the dirt that gets trapped inside the rolls on those luscious legs, it’s all good.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWH-LkqXI6exx4h4Gmr1J12jo5fYpQ-QJIrQ0kThXAxb2QSey1BiaSeba7oCe7FVaj7AfQz2kunKze61jMSMKE7_-qaOAKXh1Q5D3tP8aTOO0JbkfVyGsoPl75DwTOlkBC0i3UhheNjPmG/s1600/baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWH-LkqXI6exx4h4Gmr1J12jo5fYpQ-QJIrQ0kThXAxb2QSey1BiaSeba7oCe7FVaj7AfQz2kunKze61jMSMKE7_-qaOAKXh1Q5D3tP8aTOO0JbkfVyGsoPl75DwTOlkBC0i3UhheNjPmG/s200/baby.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
Here’s another time when being fat is good. Right after you’ve had a baby. Hey, Hollywood, guess what? Our goddess bodies are here for a reason and here it is. Our babies need our goddess bodies. Why? Because having that extra layer of fat is helping us do what only goddesses can do. Make milk. Yes, we have this extraordinary capacity to manufacture food for the helpless infant, desperately dependent on what we can provide. If you’re fortunate enough to have this personal experience of breastfeeding a baby, you understand the inextricable link and connection between you and your little one. She is dependent on you to give her everything she needs. Comfort, connection and food. I don’t know about you, but nestling with a bony mommy doesn’t conjure up cozy images for me. Soft and round are God’s gift to women. The babies – and the world – could use a little more soft.<br />
<br />
If a woman only takes a month to get her pre-pregnancy body back, rather than look at how remarkable she is, I feel sad inside. All that time she’s spending in the gym might be better spent letting that baby nestle. Don’t get me wrong. Mom needs time, too, and we’re all better mommies if we get our workouts in, but so soon? Let the worry about getting your body back to tip-top shape go for that snap-of-a-finger time. Babies are only helpless and dependent on us for 18-25 years. ☺ <br />
<br />
Seriously though. They’re only tiny once. Let them enjoy your gift of soft and round, which scientists have proven, is their building block for trust and security throughout their lives. <br />
<br />
This is not to the exclusion of men who also provide that warm and loving affection to our babies, but sorry guys -- only our boobs make milk.<br />
<br />
Another time to be fat, which most middle-aged women resist, is middle-age. Ironically, our bodies are making a last-ditch effort to store what we need so that, as we enter into our elder years, we have reserves. It’s a survival tactic of the human life cycle. Most of us resist it with ferocity, dieting, joining the gym, even signing up for our first marathon (love that!). However you respond to what seems like inevitable weight gain in your 40s and 50s, know that nature is just trying to prepare you for growing old. When the body ages, it grows more susceptible to disease and decay. Nature just wants to protect you by preserving what you got now, even storing more for tougher times. Picture all those cans of food and water bottles in the basement. Save now for a later time. The later time is old age.<br />
<br />
OK. None of this is an excuse to eat Oreos while laying on the couch with your baby in the crook of your arm or to prevent you from soaking with sweat at the gym when you’re 55. We all know that too much fat is just too much. We need a balance. <br />
<br />
This is just a reminder to be gentle with yourself.<br />
<br />
As the culture continues to wage its war on obesity, with its arsenal of strategies to lose weight, let’s not put a fear of fat into our children’s minds. <br />
<br />
Fat has a purpose.<br />
<br />
(Very happy to see this, too. <a href="http://www.retailwire.com/blog-post/3b1cb88b-b49b-40cb-8b13-05511a68b667/mannequins-put-on-some-weight">http://www.retailwire.com/blog-post/3b1cb88b-b49b-40cb-8b13-05511a68b667/mannequins-put-on-some-weight</a>)<br />
<br />
Baby photo lifted from Google (www.tattoozz123.blogspot.com).Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-42441024934898912602012-01-01T18:12:00.000-08:002012-01-01T18:16:58.638-08:00A New Year Living Each Moment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM420XuBufT2Kei0WbY8mOWXnw97zFc3Ao28rt3MFdVstO50JGsZIOPOgP6IgJFl24WFkiNW8ldnfQZnegPsQ8aTKMhhrBJIm4LcNftCoPT0MIZzpNq6XOVTq_6hrhx3g04-M96iILRoym/s1600/IMG_9939.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM420XuBufT2Kei0WbY8mOWXnw97zFc3Ao28rt3MFdVstO50JGsZIOPOgP6IgJFl24WFkiNW8ldnfQZnegPsQ8aTKMhhrBJIm4LcNftCoPT0MIZzpNq6XOVTq_6hrhx3g04-M96iILRoym/s200/IMG_9939.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<b>These are not my words, but they are words that inspire me. My resolution is to resolve to be human.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
From The Four Agreements, by Miguel Ruiz.<br />
<br />
Be Impeccable with Your Word<br />
<br />
Speak with integrity. Say only what you mean. Avoid using the word to speak against yourself or to gossip about others. Use the power of your word in the direction of truth and love.<br />
<br />
Impeccable means “without sin” and a sin is something you do or believe that goes against yourself. It means not speaking against yourself, to yourself or to others. It means not rejecting yourself. To be impeccable means to take responsibility for yourself, to not participate in “the blame game.”<br />
<br />
Regarding the word, the rules of “action-reaction” apply. What you put out energetically will return to you. Proper use of the word creates proper use of energy, putting out love and gratitude perpetuates the same in the universe. The converse is also true. <br />
<br />
Impeccability starts at home. Be impeccable with yourself and that will reflect in your life and your relationships with others. This agreement can help change thousands of other agreements, especially ones that create fear instead of love.<br />
<br />
<br />
Don't Take Anything Personally<br />
<br />
Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won't be the victim of needless suffering.<br />
<br />
We take things personally when we agree with what others have said. If we didn't agree, the things that others say would not affect us emotionally. If we did not care about what others think about us, their words or behavior could not affect us.<br />
<br />
Even if someone yells at you, gossips about you, harms you or yours, it still is not about you! Their actions and words are based on what they believe in their personal dream. <br />
<br />
Our personal “Book of Law” and belief system makes us feel safe. When people have beliefs that are different from our own, we get scared, defend ourselves, and impose our point of view on others. If someone gets angry with us it is because our belief system is challenging their belief system and they get scared. They need to defend their point of view. Why become angry, create conflict, and expend energy arguing when you are aware of this?<br />
<br />
<br />
Don't Make Assumptions<br />
<br />
Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want. Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness, and drama. With just this one agreement, you can completely transform your life.<br />
<br />
When we make assumptions it is because we believe we know what others are thinking and feeling. We believe we know their point of view, their dream. We forget that our beliefs are just our point of view based on our belief system and personal experiences and have nothing to do with what others think and feel. <br />
<br />
We make the assumption that everybody judges us, abuses us, victimizes us, and blames us the way we do ourselves. As a result we reject ourselves before others have the chance to reject us. When we think this way, it becomes difficult to be ourselves in the world.<br />
<br />
Take action and be clear to others about what you want or do not want; do not gossip and make assumptions about things others tell you. Respect other points of view and avoid arguing just to be right. Respect yourself and be honest with yourself. Stop expecting the people around you to know what is in your head.<br />
These are not my words, but words that inspire me. From The Four Agreements.<br />
<br />
<br />
Always Do Your Best<br />
<br />
Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick. Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgment, self-abuse, and regret.<br />
<br />
Doing your best means enjoying the action without expecting a reward. The pleasure comes from doing what you like in life and having fun, not from how much you get paid. Enjoy the path traveled and the destination will take care of itself.<br />
<br />
Living in the moment and releasing the past helps us to do the best we can in the moment. It allows us to be fully alive right now, enjoying what is present, not worrying about the past or the future.<br />
<br />
Have patience with yourself. Take action. Practice forgiveness. If you do your best always, transformation will happen as a matter of course.Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-38761773580404472202011-11-11T08:31:00.000-08:002011-11-11T13:12:42.410-08:00Occupy My Heart<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMxPyVOS9Jx3L9BCiYXgmsWuKLa5cThMW4LJBDcbVuzeve-_Jx_lIDbKqH8TUm2srYOWFY8InPnIQ7DrazI-fMK5Z64TyLw7-ZEx4-_7eim-wW-twX_UIshjzWf02CN2cZEu8huhAGveGq/s1600/IMG_9350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMxPyVOS9Jx3L9BCiYXgmsWuKLa5cThMW4LJBDcbVuzeve-_Jx_lIDbKqH8TUm2srYOWFY8InPnIQ7DrazI-fMK5Z64TyLw7-ZEx4-_7eim-wW-twX_UIshjzWf02CN2cZEu8huhAGveGq/s400/IMG_9350.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Nothing like becoming a total “have not” for 8 days to get me thinking about Occupy Wall Street. A couple of weeks ago, Storm Alfred blew through CT and dumped wet snow on our leaf-laden trees, leaving them no choice but to snap under the weight and smash everything in its descent down – including power lines (my neighbor's house is somewhere under those 3 fallen trees in the above picture). With only 4% of people in my relatively well-to-do town with electrical power, I did not lose sight of the irony of being in the 96%. Nor did I pretend it didn’t absolutely stink. In terms of OWS, I’m already in the 99%, but it hit closer to home when my shower, heat, cooking capacity and general comfort were pulled out from beneath my feet. <br />
<br />
When projections were made about restoring 99% of people back to power by the end of the week, we all joked about desperately wanting to be in the 99%. It all depends on who has and who has not.<br />
<br />
Shivering in the house with my three girls and dog staring at me, breath visible in the frigid air, I quickly became a “have not.”<br />
<br />
My best friend, Lizzy, who lives an hour away, offered us her warm home. A “have,” by virtue of Alfred’s mood to zip through the center of the state and spare the coastline, she was toasty warm with all amenities available. I began fantasizing about doing laundry and booting up my computer to send an email. She appreciated my situation even more because Irene took her power away back in August and she took refuge at her stepson’s house. She had been a “have not” and valued the open doors of the “have” in her family. Tables turned, she was joyful to be a “have” and be generous.<br />
<br />
Through text, I learned that most of my family in CT, except for my mother, were in the “have not” category. Had one of our homes had power, the entire family would have camped out there. This was the presumption. Looking back, I appreciate the close-knit feeling in the family system. "Mi casa su case" is a way of life in some families and the one I married into definitely shares that value. But, at that point, no one had power so we jumped in the car and drove to Lizzy’s for a few days (Mom had just come back from being away for 2 weeks and I didn't want to bug her. Remember, the dog is with us now).<br />
<br />
At Lizzy's, every moment was spent in gratitude. “Be generous in prosperity and thankful in adversity” is a quote I reach for quite often. I was definitely thankful.<br />
<br />
After a few days with no power, Tim started saying, “Wouldn’t it be great if we had power? We could have a big party and host all the people with no power.” Suddenly, being a “have not” left us with thoughts of what it would be like to be a “have.” Sometimes I notice people do this with the lottery. “If I won the lottery, I’d give everyone a thousand dollars!” It’s fun to imagine being a “have” when you’re a “have not.”<br />
<br />
But I also know that generosity is an issue of the heart, not of the wallet. Some of the most generous people I know have little spare change. Whatever small amount they have, though, is yours if you need it. <br />
<br />
After 8 days of inconvenience (I won’t call it struggle because, seriously, compared to the rest of the world, how much of a real struggle was being without modern amenities?), our power was returned. We became a “have.” Of course, we were joyous and thrilled, jumping up and down, screaming with excitement. Until we then realized that 51% of the town was still cold.<br />
<br />
We pulled our resources together and made some phone calls, inviting our “have nots” to our status of “have,” trying to become the generous in a prosperous situation, knowing that being a “have” comes with an obligation to be sure others are taken care of. Some people took us up on our offer. Others had made previous plans, but all in all, either someone was giving or receiving during this trying time. Very few people just stayed to themselves.<br />
<br />
Why?<br />
<br />
Because it is inhumane to sit in a warm, lit home and look across the street and be content knowing your neighbor is cold and without light. We were pushed out of our comfort zone and appreciated how the “have nots” were feeling at night in the dark, cold homes. <br />
<br />
Now, I ask myself, why don’t I see the injustice every day?<br />
<br />
If I have, I must give.<br />
It’s that simple.Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-34299455481204908372011-10-12T06:30:00.000-07:002011-10-12T07:20:41.102-07:00One More Unsolicited Perspective on OWS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8jLJlnIQkgWAx71HKiUZPN7btTvM3yYwSCm40Qg7eulLbbTbajm6LuY5KQhAyO1H5UvYP3LPo5nwB936jEO2oxiCSIlaU0NlCMYXw7FFHsfBshtVqswpXut_P1pnnia5ntDn5qv_xEgYU/s1600/IMG_9080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8jLJlnIQkgWAx71HKiUZPN7btTvM3yYwSCm40Qg7eulLbbTbajm6LuY5KQhAyO1H5UvYP3LPo5nwB936jEO2oxiCSIlaU0NlCMYXw7FFHsfBshtVqswpXut_P1pnnia5ntDn5qv_xEgYU/s400/IMG_9080.JPG" /></a></div><br />
I’m not politically minded. A staunch independent, I run from the divisiveness that is partisan politics. Too often, I avoid any discussion of politics because most people narrowly define each other based on political views, which leaves us all split up on different sides of a fence. Half the country, it seems, watches Fox News. The other half, MSNBC. Let’s face it. There is no such thing as unbiased. We’re all bias. I’m just going to fight bias except when it leans towards compassion for one another. Otherwise, there’s that fence again and that gets us nowhere.<br />
<br />
That said, I decided to ignore what the various media pundits were telling me about Occupy Wall Street and went down there to check it out for myself. My husband, Tim, a huge fan of Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park, London, expected some lively conversation. My children, all of the impressionable ages of 15, 13 and 10, were going because Mom said they needed to learn “independent investigation of truth.” <br />
<br />
“Don’t listen to other people. Just check it out for yourself!”<br />
<br />
We arrived mid-day. Not a cloud in the sky, I picked up my pace as we neared Zuccotti Park. I heard drums, which lifted my expectation. The first person I witnessed wore a shirt that read, “I love you.” Pants rolled up and no shoes on, he swayed while he waved his sign that read, “I stand for compassion.” I considered yelling, “I LOVE YOU, TOO,” but stopped myself. The music could have been from any corner in New York City. Wild sounds echoing off the sidewalk and into a park we weren’t sure was even a park. I looked over at Tim who was walking into the area as if walking on hot coals. His discomfort was palpable. If we must politically pigeonhole Tim, he’s been a member of both major parties and is now a registered independent with right-of-center leanings. The Economist magazine is his chief news source.<br />
<br />
Throngs of people flooded the area. Sleeping bags, every color of the rainbow, lined the park. As we made our way through the crowd, we realized many people were still in their sleeping bags.<br />
<br />
“Mommy, people are sleeping here,” one of my girls said as we stepped over someone, forging our own path through the park. <br />
<br />
As I looked around, I realized there really was nowhere to step, no direction. People were laying in their bags, camped out in random places, piles of pamphlets and handouts propped near them. There seemed to be no one path or direction.<br />
<br />
While wandering for a clear path, a sense of aimlessness hit me. It was not complete anarchy because the crowd was peaceful and respectful, but there was no clear direction or purpose. I considered that most people without jobs feel exactly that way – aimless and without direction. Lost. Without hope. Disenfranchised. We all know the feeling when hope takes a vacation. Unemployment, unexpected death of a loved one. As I looked around, I saw this same sense in the eyes of everyone there. Hope on vacation.<br />
<br />
We forged ahead, trying not to step on anyone. My husband, less sensitive, blazed right through the medical area, which was cordoned off with tape. I dared not tread in an area that said, “Medical area only” so I found myself stuck in a space surrounded by sleeping bodies and a medical area where a woman was giving massages. Tim waved us to follow him, but the man politely asked us not to step through the medical area. So we found another way over the sleeping bodies. <br />
<br />
As we made our way over to Tim, one of my girls yelled, “What is that smell?” People sat at a card table rolling something that smelled like good ole cannibas. <br />
<br />
“That’s pot,” I told her. “If we breathe deep, maybe we’ll all get stoned.” Well trained, they all covered their mouths with their shirts.<br />
<br />
We found Tim finally. “Why didn’t you just follow me?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“Because the guy said not to pass through the medical area.”<br />
<br />
“He can’t tell you where to go. It’s a public park.” This restriction, along with the sign that hailed Karl Marx as some kind of savior, seemed to have incited Tim to a point where I worried for the next protester in his path. “I’m disappointed. This is it?” he said as we all stood and looked around at a pretty mellow crew of people. <br />
<br />
Al Sharpton sat surrounded by people eager to hear his wisdom. The music kept a steady beat filling the area with a sense of commonality, even though a single message was unclear.<br />
<br />
My girls definitely got the message that 1% of Americans seem to have most of the money and that the rest aren’t too happy with that. Daddy gave them a quick lesson in economics, capitalism and government, suggesting that the protesters really should be in Washington DC and not on Wall Street. I suggested that maybe the protest was less against capitalism than "unbridled capitalism." These words raised Tim's eyebrows. What is the role of government in bridling the capital? Isn't that why we're all fighting in the first place? <br />
<br />
All that aside, on a fundamental level, I thought the protest was about much more than taxing the rich. It felt like a movement by people who stopped believing in the ethos of what our country has prided itself on for years. Freedom. It felt like disillusionment, discontentedness and despair. It felt more like a rallying cry for someone to please just step up and give them hope. Hope in something.<br />
<br />
I saw destitution. <br />
<br />
One woman held up a sign, “College-educated and working three jobs. OWS is my only hope.” Seriously? This protest is your only hope? Now, that tells me we're in bad shape if this protest is this woman's only hope.<br />
<br />
Taking away the fence of political debate, what I witnessed on Occupy Wall Street were people who are coming together with a common purpose. <br />
<br />
These are all people desperate to find something they lost along the way...<br />
<br />
hope.Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-60256969174661796482011-09-01T07:51:00.000-07:002011-09-01T16:46:43.482-07:00Toss the Scale<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgshWiPAuOsAm8ougeA30hdB_mgyAweSD9JHsKX-F5kmRYz9BBNp44JcKLMBfa_BgYoRLuv78gAtuQIhEb2R9bMmnIQMH8xRAK5RgNnzxz0UnFlVC7EusfMmErrEPXBdeNzcvn2GB9Ao4sQ/s1600/scale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="182" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgshWiPAuOsAm8ougeA30hdB_mgyAweSD9JHsKX-F5kmRYz9BBNp44JcKLMBfa_BgYoRLuv78gAtuQIhEb2R9bMmnIQMH8xRAK5RgNnzxz0UnFlVC7EusfMmErrEPXBdeNzcvn2GB9Ao4sQ/s200/scale.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I hate the scale. <br />
<br />
Some people live by the scale number. It defines them each day as they step gingerly on the box. Not me. I feel like a sack of potatoes in the produce department at the grocery store when I’m faced with the scale. Flung onto it, I feel helpless while the nurse, like the shopper, seeks my poundage. I don’t want my poundage. What use is it to me? I feel good. I don’t need a number to define me. <br />
<br />
If I had a say, I’d choose a non-relationship with the scale, something akin to the relationship I have with mold. Not interested. <br />
<br />
However, the nurse insists each year that I acquaint myself with the contraption that I have, through anthropomorphosis, turned into something with wicked intent.<br />
<br />
I was weighed yesterday. This is what set these wheels of opinions about the scale in motion. The scale is not my friend. A friend would whisper a ridiculously low number into my ear because she knows that’s what I’d want to hear. Not the scale. The scale gives a cold number. A fact. A measurement that is somehow a reflection of me in some way. A friend would turn the mirror just so or lie to me. Not the scale. Doesn’t the scale care? I’m tempted to say it is this way because the scale is a just a machine with no feelings, but I’m beginning to think it would look more like Chuckie if it actually came to life. <br />
<br />
My bones are dense. My muscles, thick. But I feel great, so what do I care what the scale says? Getting off the scale, I watch as the nurse scribbles my number down. I want to pontificate about "skinny fat people" because it’s true. A lot of people look really good on paper, but they’re muscle to fat ratio stinks. They look great in those True Religion jeans, but are at a higher risk for heart disease than someone with more muscle mass or junk, if you know what I'm sayin'.<br />
<br />
I’m tempted to care. I’m tempted to let that number take me prisoner, but I watch it float away without letting it grip me with its limited definition.<br />
<br />
What I’m about to preach is controversial, downright medically irresponsible, but it must be said. <br />
<br />
Scale numbers don’t matter.<br />
<br />
There, I said it and I feel so much better. <br />
<br />
Yeah, I get the whole obesity scare and how scale numbers seem to be climbing into dangerous heights. I also get that people use the scale to monitor their weight so that they can keep it in a “healthy range.” I get all that. I live it. I put people on scales regularly and watch their faces glow or fall, depending on that number. I watch people record that number on their dutiful paper and then let that number determine whether or not the rest of their day will be bright or filled with panic and gray. <br />
<br />
I witness shoulders slump if the number is off by a pound or two. Even if someone has a “good week,” Chuckie, the scale, might tell them otherwise. They might come into the room feeling great and get off the scale feeling shamed and falling short of who they need to be. The scale has great power; too much power. We wage war with this number or hide it for fear others will judge us. Perhaps we are the ones too harshly judging ourselves by it.<br />
<br />
Insidious, that number seeps into our minds and taunts us. It tries to define us in a narrow way. We’ve gone so far as to insert that number into a new measurement called the BMI, which is just as meaningless as the scale number. <br />
<br />
None of these measurements capture our essence or preciousness of being. All they do is diminish us to a medical record or a weight chart, which the science of the day has used to take so many people captive. “See this number? It says that you’re mildly obese.”<br />
<br />
“But I’m an artist and mother of two.”<br />
<br />
“A mildly obese artist and mother of two.”<br />
<br />
Today our weight obsession has leaked into new space and we’re all at risk of much more than dying of obesity-related diseases. Our children are at risk of much more than living shorter lives than their parents.<br />
<br />
We’re at risk of losing the concept of seeing the body for what it is. A temple. A vehicle. An outer form that carries our inner beings. Our bodies are not the all of us. If we nurture our inner beings, our bodies will follow suit, not the other way around.<br />
<br />
I would like to propose a toast. A toast to saying goodbye to limited ways of looking at ourselves. Instead of lifting wine glasses, let us all lift on high our scales. Instead of clinking them together, let us collectively toss them into an abyss.<br />
Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-47946628380770021272011-07-28T02:03:00.001-07:002011-07-28T03:06:17.007-07:00Who Is She?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGlEFocUMk1_CG8v6lXkUcr12S3BTHE5fxK0fAGLC9dbWwcF5hE_M8r0VFWQwzidgsBRQxaOURwxGgRICjQ_BjZzwuZPGs8I8fJXaq2jryZK2JLJAQ5RfzWyedaiqIgj7rquZfySt8SY4E/s1600/IMG_7688.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGlEFocUMk1_CG8v6lXkUcr12S3BTHE5fxK0fAGLC9dbWwcF5hE_M8r0VFWQwzidgsBRQxaOURwxGgRICjQ_BjZzwuZPGs8I8fJXaq2jryZK2JLJAQ5RfzWyedaiqIgj7rquZfySt8SY4E/s400/IMG_7688.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Don't ask my why, but I saw the picture of this woman while walking through the Vatican Museum, and now I am obsessed. Her face, among many in the famous painting by Raphael, The School of Athens, I zoomed right in on. Barely focusing on the tour guide's narrative through my whisperer ear piece, I stared into her eyes. Who is she? Why does she captivate me in this way? I snapped a picture of her, forgetting to take in the entire canvas of beauty, and we made our way out of the room. I caught a tidbit about how the "recent movie" had made this "heretic" famous. Her name? Well, with a heavy Italian accent, I could swear the guide said, "Ipstatia" or something like that. Now, after coming home and finding I am still preoccupied with this woman, I have learned her name is Hypatia.<br />
<br />
Why do such things grip us unexpectedly? <br />
<br />
Who is Hypatia? Who is the historical figure? Better yet, who is the woman modeling for Raphael?<br />
<br />
To be continued...Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-83176093857438310072011-07-09T02:55:00.000-07:002011-07-09T03:00:32.875-07:00Expect the Unexpected<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4MAaGyl4oha6uuUBOmgdc5h8d8JLPCPU70NWgprDrvfDGuvvfigwLXhhYO6ik4gJrUHpG-aXHVuIYCsqwsSPgMGY_NwxktfH81HG_Z-1V5pjUNnmRkcBzzfoiAKEUOn2R9nQwBqkTjS1L/s1600/athens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="155" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4MAaGyl4oha6uuUBOmgdc5h8d8JLPCPU70NWgprDrvfDGuvvfigwLXhhYO6ik4gJrUHpG-aXHVuIYCsqwsSPgMGY_NwxktfH81HG_Z-1V5pjUNnmRkcBzzfoiAKEUOn2R9nQwBqkTjS1L/s200/athens.jpg" /></a></div>It’s been two weeks since my mom dropped a happy bomb. “Hey, how ‘bout we take a cruise around the Mediterranean on July 17th?” Staring at a calendar filled with summer activity, I held the phone and went mute. A cruise around the Mediterranean. The words didn’t register. Words alien to my world of dirty laundry and kids’ schedules, I thought again about what she said. A cruise around the Mediterranean. <br />
<br />
Still, nothing was getting through.<br />
<br />
She kept talking. “You said you wanted to do something like that with me. It’s now or never. I’m not getting any younger, you know.” <br />
<br />
Time’s hourglass sand appeared in my mind, slipping into a big mound at the bottom with my mother’s name on it. She’s 81, but Fate can take her either way. Half her people died of sudden, massive heart attacks (one while playing cards). The other half could have advanced science if they had enrolled in longevity studies. <br />
<br />
I counted the days on the calendar. “But that’s only three weeks from now.”<br />
<br />
“Can we do it? I see a great deal here on a trip that takes us from Rome to Sicily to Athens to Ephesus to Crete.”<br />
<br />
I paused. “Well, Bea has a field hockey camp and I see dentist appointment for July 19.” I stuttered as I floated between whimsy and responsibility. “Mom, that would be amazing!” I yelled. “But I just can’t wrap around it right now. It’s overwhelming. Can I get back to you?”<br />
<br />
“Talk it over with everyone and call me back. If we do this, I gotta book it now.”<br />
<br />
Doesn’t the Bible say somewhere, “Ask and you shall receive?”<br />
<br />
Well, I did ask for this. About six months ago, I had asked my mother if she would consider taking my children overseas on some kind of educational trip. “Dock it from my inheritance, if I have one,” I said, feeling cheeky. I suggested Israel. She said they were too young. She suggested London/Paris. I thought that’d be great. We talked about this in a way a little girl would talk about wanting to grow up and be Hannah Montana. I never really thought we’d actually do it. <br />
<br />
My mom loves to travel. She was in Egypt days before its people decided to oust Mubarak for good. She’ll be cruising along the Panama Canal with her friend, Alice, in October. “Come on, Mom,” I had said. “Would you consider going somewhere with us?” <br />
<br />
Now it was happening.<br />
<br />
“If it’s meant to be, it will be,” my mom said. “Don’t sweat it. Talk it over with your family and call me back.”<br />
<br />
“If it’s meant to be, it will be.” Such a cliché, but so true. What if we all lived our lives that way? What if we let go and realized that we weren’t really in the driver’s seat, but Someone Else was? What if we really accepted that? What if, rather than live by the world of checking off our to-do lists, we adopted a motto I learned way back when from the Papua New Guinea culture – “Expect the unexpected”? <br />
<br />
What if we truly lived like that? <br />
<br />
Life does take strange turns. Mine is steering me onto a flight to Rome next week with my mom and three girls (Sadly, Tim has to work. ☹).<br />
<br />
I certainly didn’t expect this unexpected twist. <br />
<br />
Perhaps I should have.Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-9044186267358038712011-06-07T10:14:00.000-07:002011-06-07T10:14:09.024-07:00It's Time to Break Up With That CookieYou pine for it, thinking all the time about how good it is and planning your next date. You even have a nice spot where you can go to enjoy your time together. Perhaps you share tea and kind words. Oh, how I love you. You mean so much to me. You taste so good and I look forward to holding you every night. You bring me such pleasure. Tomorrow, I will think of holding you again. You give me something no one else can. My thoughts race with what you give me.<br />
<br />
Then a voice of reason steps in. You realize that cookies or that 4th glass of wine or that bag of potato chips might not be healthy for you. Suddenly, you realize you’re in a bad relationship. But a bad relationship is better than no relationship, right?<br />
<br />
Wrong.<br />
<br />
Think about what that food or drink gives you. Sure, you get that brain rush anticipating the cookie or the wine or the cigarette. You also get the gratification of having thoughts of when you’ll indulge. For me, I can only enjoy the chocolate almonds when all the kids are settled down at night. Otherwise, I don’t enjoy them half as much. Does that mean my body needs chocolate almonds? No, it means my mind is trying to look forward to something, a small indulgence, an escape.<br />
<br />
Our thoughts carry us away into all kinds of places. Thinking about the cookie might be your way of escaping the stress of the day. Thinking about that beer at a Friday happy hour gets a lot of people through the workweek. The thoughts about the food we desire can become obsessive to the point of creating more conflict for you than you need.<br />
<br />
We try hating the cookie because we think that’ll keep us from indulging. “Bad cookie. You ruin me with your sugars and I can never just have one of you.” But we know that hating something is as just as bad as obsessing about it. It’s the flip side of the same coin. No matter how you slice it, it’s a bad relationship. The roller coaster of emotion goes up and down, up and down. So what to do?<br />
<br />
It’s time to get off the ride. It’s time to break it off with that cookie.<br />
<br />
So, how do you break up with a cookie?<br />
<br />
1. Cold Turkey<br />
<br />
Well, first step is some time off. You need to know that you can live without it. Whatever it is that’s obsessing your mind is just something obsessing your mind. You really don’t need it or thoughts of it. All it does is leave you with a hangover or an extra love handle. Of course, some people can have perfectly normal relationships with their cookies and wine. Remember, this instruction is for those who are in an obsessive, self-destructive relationship with food.<br />
<br />
You can live without him.<br />
<br />
You heard me. It’s so cliché, but true. Spend time finding yourself again. What was life like before the thoughts of the cookie took over, before all you could think about was emptying that wine bottle after work? What was life like before the thoughts of food invaded your every day? We were all kids once. We can all go back to a time when life was a little more carefree and simple. Go back there in your mind. Find a spot in time where you were free of worry. Whenever your mind wants to latch on to the idea of that cookie or bottle of wine, let it take you to a time when your mind was free and clear.<br />
<br />
You don’t have to be harsh and throw the cookies into the garbage, swearing at them, although you can. You can just say, “I don’t need you right now. I need some time alone.” And toss the stuff. It’s very liberating and empowering to realize that you actually don’t need the cookie.<br />
<br />
2. Find New Friends<br />
<br />
When you lose something, you’ll go through a period of mourning and will need lots of support. Call a real friend to get you through the rough time or make some new food friends that are better for you. I know they’re not as exciting as the cookie, but this is about getting you emotionally stable. Don’t fool yourself into thinking the cookie did anything good for you. That’s your brain’s way of looking for excitement, something to latch onto, something to keep you from being quiet with yourself. You might need a little break from the excitement, too. What goes up must come down. The down isn’t worth the up. We can all get a little addicted to that brain rush that comes from life’s exciting offers, but make sure you keep them healthy for you!<br />
<br />
Your new friends might include nature, writing, exercising, a night out with real people.<br />
<br />
3. Figure Out What Attracted You to the Cookie in the First Place<br />
<br />
Was it the promise that it would give you something you didn’t have? What is your life missing? What might you need to change in your life? Usually, we distract ourselves with mind-numbing behaviors because we’re running away from something else. We don’t want to accept some truth that lurks within us. Perhaps you need to call your mother and have that difficult conversation or find that new job you know will change your life and perspective. Going to the cookie is just another way of going away from your truth. Find your truth and sit with it. Remember, whatever it is – it might not be pretty, but it’s real and worth dealing with in the long run.<br />
<br />
4. See the Cookie in a New Light<br />
<br />
You need to realize you don’t need the cookie. Once you do that, your relationship will take on a whole new meaning. Perhaps you’ll see her at a party and smile. “I remember you. I remember how I went nuts about you, how you drove me and my thoughts crazy. I’m so different now. I don’t need you anymore.”<br />
<br />
Then if you enjoy the cookie or not – no big deal. The cookie doesn’t own your life anymore. <br />
<br />
You are finally free.Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-19822535880350960362011-05-23T11:38:00.000-07:002011-05-23T13:17:57.717-07:00Should Ronald McDonald Be Sentenced To Death?OK, so there are groups of people who want to lynch Ronald McDonald. I get it. He’s the wolf in sheep’s clothing, trying to lure children into fast food bliss. We certainly know the eventual outcome of a diet with too much McDonalds in it and are in the mode of trying now to protect our children. “Call out these money-sucking advertising thieves so we can get our kids thinking healthy foods again!”<br />
<br />
Well, it’s not that simple.<br />
It’s not that simple ever. <br />
Why? Because Americans need their freedom and messing with Ronald is like messing with George Washington for some people. Also, the rest of the world is hooked.<br />
<br />
I remember being in China in 1995 for a women’s conference. It was a gathering of women from around the globe in an attempt to discuss basic human rights issues. I remember a lot of different encounters and clashes during that conference, but one in particular I will never forget. Outside the conference area were food stations where people could go and get a snack. The portable McDonalds had, by far, the longest line of all the food venues. In the line were women from every part of the world, regaled in African dress, veiled, colorful. <br />
<br />
Circling the area was a group of American women with signs protesting McDonalds' very existence at the conference. They viewed it as a symbol of American repression and capitalism that had strangled the world with its sick fast food clutches. The American women were angry, shouting, “Down with McDonalds!”<br />
<br />
I watched from a distance, curious about the scene.<br />
<br />
One African woman finally stepped out of line and said, “Lady, if I want to eat a hamburger, I’m going to eat a hamburger. Get out of my face!”<br />
<br />
She wasn’t small. Not that that matters except that she was determined, and overpowered the tiny protestor.<br />
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My point in all this is that people need their right to choose. If we start taking it away, there will be a revolt.<br />
<br />
Whether Ronald is here tomorrow or not does not rile my patriotic heart. What does is getting my children educated enough to choose their food well, whether companies push their junk with ads or not.<br />
<br />
The power is ours. <br />
Plus, who knows? Maybe Ronald will symbolize some healthier foods in a couple of generations. Ronald becomes a vegetarian in 2022?<br />
<br />
Ronald is 48 years old this year. If he wants to stay healthy in the minds of those trying to put him in the old folks' home, the least he can do is up his fiber.Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850827606574502347.post-63472183102690546902011-05-13T17:01:00.000-07:002011-05-14T02:59:11.167-07:00Crazy Mom MomentWe all have them, you know -- the crazy mom moments. So, if you're a mother, don't act like they don't happen to you. I'm not proud of them, but they happen. <br />
<br />
Now I catch myself trapped in hindsight, head bowed in shame. Blog confession might temper the guilt. Or maybe I'll just be wracked with the memory and never get relief. <br />
<br />
It all started the morning I looked at the calendar and decided none of it made any sense. Three children in three different places at the same time (you know how this goes). But, with carpools, I could manage. And one would be late for a game, which coach said was OK. <br />
<br />
Then one of my daughters gets a text and decides that she wants to skip practice and go to a friend's birthday party, a friend who has just been released from the hospital after an emergency appendectomy. How could I say no? "Sure, you can miss practice. I'll let the coach and the people I carpool with know."<br />
<br />
That change happened with ease.<br />
<br />
Then my husband chimed in. "Oh, I forgot to tell you that I have to go to a dinner tonight."<br />
<br />
In the mind of the mommy master, he is not eating dinner out. He is picking up one daughter from practice and, now, making sure the other one gets home from the birthday party.<br />
<br />
"Oh no. Well, that stinks. I'll have to figure something out." My first reaction was forgiving. My second, not so much. After stewing a bit about untangling the mess, I said, "It would have been nice to know this before this morning!" Then I murmured the words "selfish" and "narcissistic" and dropped it because what's the point?<br />
<br />
Off to work and then home to pick up the daughter going to the birthday party. She gets in the car, "Mom, can we go to Big Y to buy Elinor an ice cream cake?" Again, appendectomy.<br />
<br />
"Sure, I don't see why not, but I still don't know how you'll get home tonight. I won't be home until 8:00."<br />
<br />
"Don't worry. I'll get a ride from someone," she says.<br />
<br />
We go to Big Y for the cake. I manage to produce some kind of dinner. I drop one daughter at her friend's and then go get the youngest for her lax game in Somers. Of course, she's late in getting out of her choir practice because the concert is in less than a week, so we start the journey to Somers, already short on time, twenty minutes late. She changes in the car and eats her Subway. A dish is clinking in the back. <br />
<br />
"What's that?"<br />
<br />
"Oh, Josie left her chili bowl in here from last night," she says.<br />
<br />
GROSS! We're eating our dinners in the car! This is what I hate about lax season!<br />
<br />
I look ahead, cars lined up for an eternity, crawling down the street. Ahhh...rush hour.<br />
<br />
I watch the car clock like I do a horserace had I bet my entire year's salary. Thirty minutes until game start and we're 45 minutes away. I had scribbled directions on a paper and suddenly noticed they lacked the detail I intended to add with a Mapquest search. All I have now are the basic directions from a coach's email. Hmmm... that should be OK. I-91 to 190. A right turn on South Road. Simple enough.<br />
<br />
We chat a little. How was your day? I watch the clock. I breathe deeply. That doesn't really help because Cigna traffic has amassed. Ten minutes have passed and I haven't left West Hartford. Breathing deeply only makes me cough.<br />
<br />
Finally, I jump on I-91 with only three near miss accidents, none of them my fault, of course.<br />
<br />
"We've got fifteen minutes until the game starts!" I look back and Frankie is slumped in the backseat. I look down and see a cooler filled with cut watermelon and oranges. Even though I was assigned oranges, I loaded up on watermelon, too. Never hurts to go the extra mile. The soft cooler bulges. I imagine the fruit getting soggy in the plastic bags with the sun beating through the window. For some reason, I hit the gas.<br />
<br />
Finally, exit 47E. Phew. Five minutes until the game starts. "Frankie, you might make it!" I pull off the exit and take a right onto 190, just as my instructions tell me to do. The traffic is worse here. I creep along the road. Clock reads Game Time. I try to maneuver through traffic. We move a little. I curse under my breath. Patient daughter sits in the backseat without saying a word. Her biggest fear is that Mom will have an accident. She assumes I will. <br />
<br />
"It's no big deal if I don't get there, Mom. Coach Ann already knows I'll be late."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, yeah," I say as I swerve into another lane.<br />
<br />
The fruit is disintegrating. Oh no! What if we don't make the game? I paid $20 for fruit that's going to go bad. Now I am obsessing on the fruit. <br />
<br />
My directions say that I'll be on 190 for several miles before South Road. I have lost track of mileage only knowing that I've been in traffic for a long time. As I approach a light, I see "South Road" to my right. "We're here!" I yell.<br />
<br />
I take a right and expect to see the field right there. That's what it says on the directions. Take a right and the field is right there. I look. No field. "Frankie, do you see a field anywhere?"<br />
<br />
"No, Mom." By now, she is in a trance after an already long day.<br />
<br />
I cruise down South Road where all I see is grass. Some small houses. Maybe if I go a little further. Nope. Just a funeral home to the left. No field. Wait a minute. There's a field. "No, Mom, those are baseball players." By now, the clock is ticking away. The game has started. I panic and call a friend. He tells me to get to an intersection and he'll figure out where I am.<br />
<br />
I sit at the corner of Beech and South, waiting for direction. His computer is rebooting. We make small talk. After ten minutes of confusion, he apologizes and says, "I have to go to a concert."<br />
<br />
Great. I pull back onto South and stop on the side of the road to catch pedestrians. "Hey, do you know where Firehouse Field is?" I yell at two high-schoolers wearing Fermi shirts (HELLO!). They look at each other and scratch their heads. Desperate, I pull into the funeral home parking lot and ask mourners if they had any idea where Firehouse Field was. "No, we're from Vermont." Dressed in black, they apologize. Head bowed in shame, I realize what I just did. This is a low point in my life's career.<br />
<br />
"I'm really sorry for your loss," I said, embarrassed and humiliated that I would do something so embarrassing and humiliating. Did that knock sense into me? Did that stop me from barreling out of the parking lot? No. I am fixated on getting to this game. I call my middle daughter whose gotten a ride home from her dad who picked her up before his dinner. :) She can't figure out the lax website and suggested I go to a gas station.<br />
<br />
I finally find one. Of course, the barely English-speaking man had NO IDEA where Firehouse Field was. I walked out and proclaimed, "I am going to kill myself! I am going to kill myself right out here in front of your gas station!" I'm sure he wasn't clear as to whether he should laugh or call 911. <br />
<br />
Then I accost a woman getting into her car at the gas station. "Please help me," I say as I tap on her window. She opens the window. "I can't find Firehouse Field."<br />
<br />
"Firehouse Field?" I have no idea where that might be." I sigh with exasperation with no higher self in existence. Who does this? Who carries on about getting to a lax game? Apparently, I do. Feeling defeated, I walk back to my car prepared to drive home with a cooler full of cut fruit and a very disappointed little girl. The woman calls out, "Hey, what town is it in?"<br />
<br />
I turn around. "Somers," I say, as if obvious. "Aren't we in Somers?"<br />
<br />
"No, this is Enfield. Somers is about 2 miles further down." She points east.<br />
<br />
What an arse I am.<br />
<br />
We got there right before half-time. Frankie played most of the second half. The girls got their lax behinds kicked real bad, but they enjoyed every succulent slice of watermelon and wedge of orange.<br />
<br />
I think I should invest in a GPS.<br />
Fermi, by the way, is the high school in Enfield. Duh.Sally Wallace Lynchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04416666684689806410noreply@blogger.com0