The Wrong Direction

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.

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.

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.”

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. 

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!"

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?

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.

"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. 

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??"

HUH? I thought you were OK being the big-girl sacrificing cousin.

"Really?? They’re sold out. You saw the crazy mob by the sales booth. You really want to try??"

"Definitely. Let's just see."

"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.

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.

We walk around to the other side. There's a guy there holding two tickets. "Do you want these?" He looks right at me.

"Excuse me?" I say.

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."

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."

Bea and I are both aghast. "What?? I'm interested."

"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."

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.

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. :)

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.

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. 

"You're fine. Look for your sisters!" I yell at her over the crowd of frantic parents.

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.

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."

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."

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."

Frankie says, "Am I talking too loud? I can't hear myself."

They are deaf now, and dehydrated.

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.

Bea wails, "NO!! I feel sick and I smell. I just want to go home."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?”

Tim says, “Are you sitting down?”

I sit down.

“I just got a speeding ticket for going 63 in a 45. $206.”

I just start to laugh. An exhausted, kind of maniacal laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. 

Then I think, “Universe, STOP SENDING THE TICKETS!!”

A Time to be Fat

There is a time to be fat. Yes, fat does not mean bad.

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.

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.

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. ☺

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.

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.

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.

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.

This is just a reminder to be gentle with yourself.

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.

Fat has a purpose.

(Very happy to see this, too. http://www.retailwire.com/blog-post/3b1cb88b-b49b-40cb-8b13-05511a68b667/mannequins-put-on-some-weight)

Baby photo lifted from Google (www.tattoozz123.blogspot.com).

A New Year Living Each Moment

These are not my words, but they are words that inspire me. My resolution is to resolve to be human.


From The Four Agreements, by Miguel Ruiz.

Be Impeccable with Your Word

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.

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.”

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.

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.


Don't Take Anything Personally

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.

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.

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.

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?


Don't Make Assumptions

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.

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.

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.

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.
These are not my words, but words that inspire me. From The Four Agreements.


Always Do Your Best

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.

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.

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.

Have patience with yourself. Take action. Practice forgiveness. If you do your best always, transformation will happen as a matter of course.

Occupy My Heart

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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).

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

Why?

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.

Now, I ask myself, why don’t I see the injustice every day?

If I have, I must give.
It’s that simple.

One More Unsolicited Perspective on OWS

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.

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.”

“Don’t listen to other people. Just check it out for yourself!”

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.

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.

“Mommy, people are sleeping here,” one of my girls said as we stepped over someone, forging our own path through the park.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

We found Tim finally. “Why didn’t you just follow me?” he asked.

“Because the guy said not to pass through the medical area.”

“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.

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.

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?

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.

I saw destitution.

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.

Taking away the fence of political debate, what I witnessed on Occupy Wall Street were people who are coming together with a common purpose.

These are all people desperate to find something they lost along the way...

hope.

Toss the Scale

I hate the scale.

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.

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.

However, the nurse insists each year that I acquaint myself with the contraption that I have, through anthropomorphosis, turned into something with wicked intent.

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.

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'.

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.

What I’m about to preach is controversial, downright medically irresponsible, but it must be said.

Scale numbers don’t matter.

There, I said it and I feel so much better.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

“But I’m an artist and mother of two.”

“A mildly obese artist and mother of two.”

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.

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.

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.

Who Is She?

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.

Why do such things grip us unexpectedly?

Who is Hypatia? Who is the historical figure? Better yet, who is the woman modeling for Raphael?

To be continued...