“I’ll have to call you back.”

It was a Friday night, and I was parked at my kitchen table trying to make a 10:00 pm deadline. My freelance writing gig of the moment was composing encyclopedia articles about historical events like World War II, the holocaust, and 9/11. When the phone rang I was in the middle of finishing my last article for the week. I was half way to my minimum word count and still had to edit the article when I answered the phone. It was my friend of four years who I will call Deana. She’d called to vent. And since I had learned how to multitask during my eighteen years of parenting, I cradled the phone to my ear as I typed on my laptop and I was only semi panicked as Deana began to recount the events of her day. I had about three hours to complete my assignment, but for a tired part-time writer who had already given someone else eight hours out of her day and forty hours out of her week, it felt like I only had thirty minutes to write, polish and submit my work.

But this is what Deana and I did for each other. We took calls from each other at work, in rush hour traffic, and in the middle of grocery shopping. One weekends and holidays we would talk four or five times a day. This is how we took care of each other. Taking Deana’s calls (and her taking mine) had become a routine part of life for both of us. However, the subject of the conversation that Friday night had become a growing problem for me during the preceding months.

Deana and I met at the law firm where we’d both worked. Deana had already been at the firm for ten years when I was hired as a librarian. This was in 2008 at the crushing point of the Great Recession. Deana lost her job during the first round of staff lay-offs three months later. Fortunately she was given a few months of severance pay and later she qualified for unemployment. She also received financial support from her mother. Deana made the most of being unemployed for two years by returning to school and completing her bachelor’s degree.

On the surface, Deana appeared to have everything under control. She even initiated the loan modification process with her mortgage company. But every conversation I had with Deana revealed more of the crack that was expanding beneath the surface of her life. I learned that Deana continued to spend money as if she were working a full-time job. I heard about every sale and every item she purchased for herself and her then three-year-old son. When I found myself adjusting my budget to go out to the movies and dinner with Deana more often than our previous once a quarter outing, I pumped the brakes and made myself unavailable. When Deana would call and start talking about some new thing she was considering buying, like a gym membership when she had just purchased an elliptical a few weeks prior, I began to question her about her spending habits.

Friendship is delicate. It is different from any other relationship most people experience in their lifetimes. We tend to push family relations to the breaking point; but friendships are voluntary and even though many of us claim to have a desire for honesty from our closest friends (Deana often said this) when it is truth telling time, honesty can break the delicate ties that bind.

Two or three months before my last call with Deana, I began to feel overwhelmed by the enormity of her financial situation. As a single mother of a son who had just started college, I was dealing with my own financial challenges. It became difficult to listen to Deana rage about her stalled loan modification and brag about the new pair of shoes she’d just purchased. Deana has a lot of friends, but I got the impression that she was selective about what she shared with each of us. Until Deana’s final phone call, I had no idea just how bleak things were.

During the call, Deana told me about the break down she’d had earlier in the day while meeting with an account representative from her mortgage company. I typed as she talked. I listened intently as she revealed that the mortgage rep had spent several minutes silently reviewing her file. My typing slowed as Deana relayed the part of the conversation where the mortgage rep asked about her most recent forbearance. I stopped typing when she revealed that the house would go into foreclosure in two weeks. She had mentioned the pending foreclosure a week back, but somehow the exact date had not registered in my head; I thought she had more time. Deana ended her rant by saying, “So, I’m still in limbo,” after reporting that the mortgage rep had promised to contact her at the beginning of the next week to discuss her options.

I had spent the previous three months holding my tongue; at least with Deana. I vented to other friends about her situation to unload some of the burden I felt. Over the years, I had become aware of the frailty of my relationship with Deana because I had become aware of Deana’s personal frailties. In the past, I had taken verbal hits from Deana about my previous marriages and my decision to accept my introverted nature; I took the punches and I learned from them. But on the flip side, when I pushed back, I realized that Deana could dish out criticism with no problem but often choked when she was on the receiving end of critical observations. I kept my silence for two reasons. I was afraid of losing Deana. And I didn’t want my growing anger about her spending and dependence on her mother, even after she found a job, to lead me to hurt her feelings. When you are an adult who is solely responsible for your own household, hearing about a friend being frequently saved by her mother leaves a nasty taste in your mouth.

I was quiet for a while after Deana’s limbo comment. We had discussed her options in case the modification did not happen. Deana had started to look at rental properties during the weeks before the call. But she was dangerously close to the edge and simply needed to make a decision. I took a deep breath and said what was on my heart.

“You wouldn’t be in limbo if you’d just make the decision to leave the house.”  My tone was even, calm. My intent was to help her look honestly at her situation; it was not at all malicious. Deana responded in anger. She said I didn’t understand how she felt because I had never been faced with losing my house. That was true. But I had been divorced twice, so I knew something about starting over. And I knew that was the real fear Deana was struggling with. We went back and forth for a few minutes and then Deana ended the call with, “I’ll have to call you back.”

I haven’t heard from Deana since that call last September. And, no, I haven’t reached out to her. During the last four years, I have shed myself of people—friends, associates, even family members—who I realized I could not be honest with. The old Melissa would have gone out of her way to smooth things over with Deana just so I could continue to hold on to the relationship; but the new, revamped Melissa values honesty and openness in relationships above all else. So, my phone rings less now, but I have regained a lot of my personal time. The friends that remain in my life are as open to honesty—in both directions—as I am. 

The door to my relationship with Deana is firmly closed, now. But a new door has opened leading to more time for my writing and a new template for choosing who I will invite into my life in the future.

-Melissa Brown Levine
www.melissabrownlevine.com

_ “So, you’re an activist now? Wow. And here I am still whoring for corporate America. I don’t see how you do it man. Do you even make enough to live on?”

As Reginald and Marcus settled into a deep exchange, Viva felt herself disappear from the table.

She was beginning to connect the dots of her life; identifying her patterns. What was becoming clear through the circles and swirls, the straight arrows and crooked lines that materialized from her handiwork was a creatively designed, multi-colored, multi-textured victim mentality. Everything hurt Viva’s feelings. Her thin skin absorbed minor insults, small irritations, and the tiniest misunderstandings. Hypersensitivity wasn’t an adequate description of Viva’s talent for sopping up the seepage of emotions from every random person that crossed her path.

And that is just what she was doing as Reginald and Marcus discussed the cholera epidemic in Zimbabwe and of course Mugabe’s stronghold on the country. Their words clashed and circled the issues of the day like the gaggle of pundits Viva tuned into daily as she tried to inform herself about the world. Viva participated in those evening debates, finding it easy to yell at the TV and catapult insults at the well-dressed, highly educated teams sewing opposing rhetoric that populated every news program on cable; but holding her own with the real-life talking heads was a little different.

“Cholera is spreading into South Africa, women are still being brutally assaulted in Darfur. I know you’ve read the story about the Afghani girls who had acid thrown in their faces because they were going to school. At this point in my life man, trying to help somebody is more important than my billable rate.”

“Sure, I hear you, Reginald. I pay attention to the news, too. I understand your passion, but couldn’t you do more as a partner in a firm with high powered contacts and a huge salary? Don’t you feel like you’re cheating the people you are advocating for because you’re really only offering yourself?”

Marcus was interesting. There was an easiness about him that Viva didn’t see in Reginald unless they were both naked. Marcus appeared to have no concerns; he was comfortable in his skin. In fact, there was a peace about him just beneath his highly spirited exterior.

“Look, man, money doesn’t help a woman to know that she can change her social security number once she escapes her abusive husband. Writing a check doesn’t assure a fifteen-year-old boy that he can become a doctor or pro ball player even though his father won’t have anything to do with him. Getting involved and making a connection is what gets people over the hard stuff. Money doesn’t do that.”

Marcus shook his head. “Actually, Reginald, its money that does all of that. None of those programs would exist without funding. I still say you’re cheating them. With the type of money you pull in as a litigator, you could give away half of your salary. Hell, you could give all of your salary away if that made you happy because you could live off of your bonuses alone. Either way it’s more than you’re giving them right now.”

Viva always wondered about people like Marcus. People who believed they had been given permission to run their mouths all over other folks. She knew Reginald would be the gentleman and not make a scene. Viva also knew that if she had been feeling like her usual self she would remain quiet and just blend into the furniture. But Viva was not the same. For months she’d felt as though she’d been sloughing off her long worn shell. She felt a need to speak out more, to say those things that she simply wouldn’t in the past because it was hard enough being who she was without calling extra attention to herself.

“Now, if you’d put this no-money making venture aside and join me and my three colleagues at the firm we’re starting, then you could do something real for the sick children and the battered women and feed the hungry all over the world.”

Maybe she was wrong, but Viva thought she saw Reginald tremble just slightly. She didn’t know exactly how to interpret the involuntary motion, but she guessed that he was pissed and too big of a man to respond accordingly. She also knew that Reginald was finally living his dream after the years of law school and clawing his way up the ladder to partner after being stepped over repeatedly by his grinning, less qualified, less skilled colleagues. The work he was doing was important to him, and Marcus was completely out of line.

“I’m not going back into corporate law, Marcus. I’m done with that.” Reginald brought his wine glass to his lips. After draining it, he got the waiter’s attention and ordered a double shot of Jack. As tough as Reginald was, in his core he was amazingly kind and gentle. He needed to help people, as evidenced by the countless times he’d saved Viva over the years. She’d always thought Reginald was too sweet to have gained acclaim as one of the best attorneys in Georgia.

“Listen, man, we have everything set up. And if you came in with us, we’d be off to a great start.” Reginald quietly accepted his drink from the waiter and started pouring it down his throat without a glance in his friend’s direction. Marcus sat back in his chair and watched Reginald for a full minute before turning to Viva.

“What do you think, Viva? Do you want a man with no money and a bleeding heart, or do you want a powerful game player who can buy you anything and save the world in his spare time?”

Viva, who rarely made full eye contact with strangers, or loved ones for that matter, looked directly at Marcus. She was still and silent for a long time. Then she picked up her freshly filled wine glass and before bringing it to her lips, she answered the man’s question.

“What I want is for you to shut-up so I can enjoy my meal. Better yet, move. This is a date and you weren’t invited.”

I Need to Make Promises: A Novella and Stories is available at Amazon.

-Melissa Brown Levine
www.melissabrownlevine.com

“Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.” – Winston Churchill

Last week I wrote about my son’s struggle with his grades during his first semester in college. His failure to focus on his classwork has resulted in a major obstacle for him as he moves forward on the college track. My son is eighteen and this was the first big mistake of his life. It was a failure to live up to his potential that has the power to change the course of his life in a negative way. But, depending on how he handles himself during the second semester, he could actually benefit from this failure.

When I spoke with my son last Friday, he revealed that he had discussed the issue of his grades with one of his wise and knowledgeable grandfathers. His grandfather responded to my son’s new attempt at being open with the declaration that it would be “almost impossible” for his grandson to return to college in the fall even if he pulls his grades up. Merriam-Webster defines impossible as “incapable of being or of occurring.” I think it is fair to say that was the wrong word to use in this situation. My son is not the first person to blow it during his freshmen year. Plenty of people before him have proved that it is not impossible to complete college after mucking up one semester. Way to cheer on the home team, Dad. The reality is this: If my son truly wants to bring his grades up and eventually graduate, he can make that happen.

Standing tall and solid in my role as the estranged and defiant daughter, I instructed my son to ignore the comment and maybe accidentally, on purpose, miss some of his grandparent’s phone calls for the rest of the semester so that he can stay positive and focused on his mission. Then I told him the most important thing he needed to know: I believe in him.

Failure is often viewed as a dirty word. Fear of failure stops people from even attempting to achieve a goal or a dream. It is certainly true that you cannot fail if you do not try, but what kind of life is that? Theodore Roosevelt said it quite nicely: “Far better is it to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure…than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much, because they live in a gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.” It’s easy to criticize someone who has tried and failed when you spend most of your free time on the couch watching TV in your old, tattered robe, holding a rum and coke in one hand while scratching your ass with the other.

Failure is one of our greatest teachers when we allow it to be. It makes us think more deeply about our behaviors and perceptions. Failure challenges us to change. It forces us to make choices. As a forty-one-year old woman, I have failed a number of times in school, in jobs, and in marriage (twice). As a writer I am intimate with failure. Every rejection letter that make sit to my door step or inbox is very much like being kicked in the gut. But I’m still writing. I know from experience that failure opens the door for second, third, even fourth and fifth chances. We simply have to be willing to try as many times as it takes to achieve our goals.

“Do not fear mistakes. You will know failure. Continue to reach out.” – Benjamin Franklin

Even though my son’s grandfather has spoken defeat over his immediate future, I am doing the opposite. I am claiming victory for my son because of the confidence I heard in his voice on Friday; because of my knowledge of his talents and intelligence. And because I know that failure is our greatest teacher. We learn our biggest lessons when we are faced with adversity. The benefits of failure have the potential to birth amazing rewards as long as we continue to push forward and try our very best.

“Develop success from failures. Discouragement and failure are two of the surest stepping stones to success.” Dale Carnegie, writer

-Melissa Brown Levine
www.melissabrownlevine.com



 

Lately I seem to be surrounded by women who are in the middle of major life changes involving children. They are in their forties, as I am, and are either starting their families, or, like me, managing their newly emptied nests. In the midst of major change, these women—all of us—are trying our best to be in total control of everything that comes with these life transformations. We are “fix-it” women: we believe that we have the power to control and alter every aspect of our lives and those of the people we love. We believe it, that is, until we hit a wall and realize that we actually can’t fix everything. This epiphany can lead to depression, anger and resentment. But I have discovered a solution to this problem. It is not an easy solution and it may take several attempts at mastering the steps before it sticks, but it does offer a release. The answer to the problem is to surrender.

Okay, I know…you think surrender means being a doormat. It doesn’t. It actually takes quite a bit of strength and courage to admit that you are not all powerful and cannot control every aspect of everyone’s life. Not even your own. More often than we like to admit, we have to let go and allow life to work itself out. It sucks, but the alternative is actively resisting change that may simply need to occur, which may result in emotional and physical anguish.

I’m in the process of practicing surrender as I write this post. My eighteen-year-old son has made some decisions that have resulted in unnecessary obstacles being placed on the once pristinely clear path that is his young life. The more I learned about the consequences he is facing as a result of his decisions, the more I suffered with my “fix-it” addiction. The reality is that I have very few tools in my parenting toolbox as a mother of an adult child. I hate that, but it is my reality now. I have to surrender to it. So, after my mid-week cry which led to a head splitting migraine, I worked my way through the following steps of letting go:

Look at the Issue Realistically 
We (meaning those of the “fix-it” clan) have a tendency to exaggerate problems or issues that we cannot control. My first step was to stop looking at the challenges my son is facing as impossible for him to overcome. They are not. The problems may be unnecessary. They were definitely avoidable. But they are not impossible. Taking one giant step out of the hysteria box helped me find the trail that would eventually lead me to calm.

Accept What You Cannot Change  
This is where you have to defy your “fix-it” nature. My son did not take his first semester in college seriously and as a result his grades are in the toilet. He kept his downward spiral to himself, even when I checked in with him regularly and asked how he was managing his classes. I did my part and still felt guilty when the truth finally came out (My big toe got caught on the corner of the hysteria box). But the fact of the matter is that there is nothing I could have done for my son beyond providing the support I offered readily. That’s why kids go to college: To learn how to manage their lives. Not for their mothers to stand over them every night making sure the homework is complete and that they actually studied for the math test coming up on Monday. Part of my journey to surrender was to accept that I have no power to change the decisions that my son made—or will make in the future.

Embrace What You Can Control. Set Your Boundaries. Breathe.  
Once I acknowledged what I could control in this situation (which boiled down to how long I let myself cry and how soon I got up to retrieve the Excedrin® Migraine) I also embraced the fact that, even though I can’t ground him anymore, I can set limits of what I am willing to do for him now that he is making adult decisions. I did that in a two page letter that I sent to him over the weekend. I discovered that making the concrete statement, “You cannot live in my house unless you are in school full-time or working full-time and paying rent,” made me feel less out of control. It made me feel less helpless. And it set a standard: We are both adults and we must now deal with each other in that manner. After I pressed “send” on the email…I just let myself breathe.  It’s hard to cling to old beliefs when you allow yourself to breathe in your new reality.

Flow With It  
After you have taken an honest assessment of the issue, accepted what you cannot control, and identified clear boundaries that you can safely work with all while breathing…surrender settles in. And you must ride it out. It’s not that resistance (i.e. the “fix-it” twitch) won’t rise up in your chest again. It will. But you get to choose whether to pursue resistance or take as many steps away from driving yourself crazy as are necessary.

Repeat.  
I did say that this process wasn’t easy.

Expect to cycle through these steps several times (I already have in just the last few days) until you adjust to the weight and texture of surrender against your skin. The sense of dread will pass—eventually. The fear will transform into a solid respect for the untamable power of the universe. And the peace you gain from finally being able to let something go will make you a better person and hopefully allow the focus of your “fix-it” addiction to work towards finding his or her own way.

-Melissa Brown Levine
www.melissabrownlevine.com

_



 

_ Beginning Monday, January 23, 2012 through Friday, January 27, 2012, my eBook, “I Need to Make Promises” will be available for free on Amazon.com.

-Melissa Brown Levine
www.melissabrownlevine.com

“The Teen Project is a parent to the parentless. Foster kids are left on the street to fend for themselves. I will spend the rest of my life bring them home.”-Lauri Burns, Teen Advocate & Founder of The Teen Project

I learned about The Teen Project when I reviewed the founder’s memoir, “Punished for Purpose.” In the book, Lauri Burns shares her story of childhood abuse which led to addiction and prostitution. Lauri’s story also brings to light the plight of young people—teenagers—who are emancipated from the foster care system at eighteen-years-old with no family, no money, and few opportunities to continue their education. It is an issue that is not often considered: What happens to young people after they age out of the system? It is an issue that has become Lauri’s calling in life.

After she repaired the damage in her own life, Lauri turned her focus to helping teens who were often homeless once they left foster care permanently. She started The Teen Project in 2007 after fostering teens for several years. During the last five years, The Teen Project has purchased a house for homeless teens transitioning out of foster care and developed several outreach programs including an online database for shelters and addiction services, a text messaging system that helps homeless teens and abused women find shelter, as well as a national mentoring service to help organizations across the country improve the services they offer to act risk teens.

I was greatly moved by Lauri’s personal story and have made donations to The Teen Project since I read the book two years ago. This year’s annual donation receipt was accompanied by a beautiful picture of Lauri surrounded by several of the young adults that her organization is helping. Four of them have graduated from college.

The Teen Project is changing the lives of teens and young adults by supplying safe housing, access to shelters and addiction treatment, and opportunities for obtaining higher education. It is an exceptional organization to which I will continue to donate. I hope others will join me.

-Melissa Brown Levine
www.melissabrownlevine.com

“If a man happens to find himself, he has a mansion which he can inhabit with dignity.”-James A. Michener, novelistI have been reading The Tao of Abundance by Laurence G. Boldt for the last few months. I read it in one to two page passages because I find that I need time to digest the teachings. I started to read the book as a battle strategy against my lifelong habit of carrying a sense of lack in my spirit. Reading this book in conjunction with my gratitude practice has opened me up to the abundance that has always existed in my life, but that I overlooked because I had my sights on the future instead of the present. A week ago I came to the part in the book where the author explains the principle of Te. Now, I do not profess to have a full and complete understanding of Taoism. I have purchased another book that goes more in depth on the subject that I will jump into once I complete Boldt’s piece. But what I am learning about Taoism (that we are all one; that we should be more open to spontaneity; that the universe is not against us; and that being open to receiving is as important as giving) speaks to me in a positive way and I want to dive deeper into this spiritual practice. Boldt defines Te as being what you are and following your own nature.  Essentially, Te means you are your authentic self and you do not conform.

The American culture offers a duplicitous take on the matter of nonconformity: We champion individuality while simultaneously stuffing those who act or look differently into specially marked boxes that are pushed as far away from those who are “the same” as possible. But, if nonconformity leads to some form of success (particularly financial) then we praise that person whose differences we first viewed as a threat. Nonconformity is difficult, emotionally draining and very often physically dangerous. But here’s the thing, you can’t be truly happy unless you stand up and become your authentic self.

If you conform and go against your true nature, you lose your dignity. Actually, you give it away, but in exchange for what? According to Boldt what you get in return is not safety or even satisfaction:  “We attempt to find security and approval in conformity. Inevitably, this conformity provokes an inner rebellion. In reaction, we may try to exert coercive or manipulative power over others, or we may resort to self-destructive behaviors (131).” After I read this passage I wrote in the margin the name of a person I know who perfectly fits this description. I have been struggling for a while now to understand that person’s negative behavior and this passage provided clarity. Conforming, abandoning our authentic selves, sacrificing our dignity causes us to act out against ourselves and others.

So, what value is there in conformity? How does setting aside who we are to gain approval from others make us better people? As children, we actively sought approval from our parents, friends, and other authority figures. As adults—to be whole—we must seek approval internally. We have to learn to accept our authentic selves. We have to know what we are willing to sacrifice in order to maintain our dignity. Will you lose something when you make the decision not to conform? Of course. You cannot gain anything until you let go of something. As a young woman, I sacrificed my dignity for love, for a job, and for approval. Now in my forties, I know that there is nothing worth sacrificing my authentic self for. And whatever I lose on this journey to become my true self actually has no value as the author, James A. Michener suggests: “For this is the journey that men and women make, to find themselves. If they fail in this, it doesn’t matter much else what they find.”

-Melissa Brown Levine
www.melissabrownlevine.com

_

 

So, you’ve made it through the first week of the new year. How are you doing with your weight loss resolutions? What did you eat this week? A dry salad? Bland rice cakes? By Friday were you rummaging through the deep freezer trying to find the two pieces of cake you froze for emergency purposes after the leftovers were put away New Year’s Day?

I did not resolve to lose weight this year. In fact, that hasn’t been a goal for me for about three years running. Not because I’m some little bitty thing. I’m not. I’m actually a very solid size 14. Something happened to me three years back and  I don’t know if it was because I was close to turning forty or the fact that I was single for the first time in my adult life, but the desire to go on yet another diet just kind of left me. And I didn’t actually realize, until I was in the middle of cooking a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, that I had not made plans to severely restrict my eating the following week so that I could enjoy the meal I was preparing. The fact of the matter is that I eat well all year and even though my holiday meals do add a little more fat and sugar than I usually cook with, those meals are still relatively healthy. So there was no reason for me to restrict myself to bland, flavorless foods after the last turkey leg had been consumed and all of the cranberry sauce was gone.

Because I do not diet anymore, this week I ate collard greens and black-eyed peas cooked with smoked turkey wings, my son’s yummy first attempt at meatloaf and his buttery mashed potatoes that would make Paula Dean blush. Every meal I had during the holiday season had so much flavor that I found myself eating with my eyes closed. I also found myself eating only to the point of fullness, which meant there was often food left on my plate. I enjoy food so much more now: I celebrate it, I talk about it, and I share it. I don’t overindulge. Food no longer has control over me. It is no longer my enemy.

Now, I’m not suggesting that you should stop your dieting efforts if that is something you need to do to improve your health and your sense of peace with yourself. What I am saying is that in this image conscious society where you can open any women’s magazine and see an ad for lingerie sold by a model built like a twelve -year-old boy right next to an ad for chocolate chip cookies, getting a handle on the way you perceive food can be beneficial to your sanity. Food is something that we need and it is also something that should be enjoyed. Give yourself permission to enjoy it.

Speaking of chocolate chip cookies, my eighteen-year-old son also made his baking debut over his Christmas break from college. After a little back and forth, we decided his contribution to our Christmas dinner (the main course of which was lasagna made with ground turkey and a tossed salad) would be dessert, so we found a simple chocolate chip cookie recipe online.

When on vacation my son and I default to our true night owl nature, which is how we found ourselves up in the dark hours of Christmas morning, me on the couch braiding my hair and my son in the kitchen making cookies. When the cookies were done, I stood in the kitchen and watched him pull them out of the oven. They smelled divine.

“You have to have one,” he said with great anticipation and glee in his voice. He watched my eyes seek out the clock on the stovetop then gently chastised me, “Don’t worry about the time. There are cookies.”

And that’s how I ended up eating a deliciously warm chocolate chip cookie at 1:30 in the morning on Christmas day. Did I eat half a dozen? Nope, just one; more than half of it with my eyes closed because that seems to be the best way for me to focus on the flavor and texture of food that delights me. I never really tasted food when I was dieting because I was so preoccupied with being deprived or how many inches it would add to my waist. Now, I just relax into the love I have for food.

It turns out that for me, when I don’t deny myself something I want or attempt to adhere to some crazy diet restrictions, my body does not allow for overeating. When I feel like ice cream, I eat all I can get into a juice glass. If I have a taste for cake, I’ll buy a slice at a local bakery, eat half and save the other for the next time I want something sweet. And when I’ve had my fill of meat, I will consume rice and vegetables sautéed in olive oil for days until the desire for meat returns. Our bodies determine what we eat. Food is a source of nourishment. It can enhance our sense of happiness and satisfaction. But it is not in control. And it is certainly not the enemy.

As I mentioned earlier, I am not a small woman. I’m curvy which comes from a mix of genes, not starving myself anymore (you can read about my history of eating disorders and body image issues here), exercising four to five days a week, and making healthy food choices. I am not the example of the skinny ideal in America. What I am is a healthy, average size woman who takes good care of herself and who no longer has an adverse relationship with food.

As you embark on the second week of your weight loss resolutions, I challenge you to begin viewing food as a life source that is meant to be enjoyed.

-Melissa Brown Levine
www.melissabrownlevine.com

_

 

_ I have had an active gratitude “practice” since mid-October of this year. It started when I watched an episode of Oprah Winfrey’s Lifeclass. I was moved by a guest who revealed that she kept a wall of writings and images of things she was grateful for in her life. My immediate response was, “I can do that.” And so I did. All it took was a pack of sticky notes, a pen and available wall space in my bedroom. 

The original goal of this ritual was to write down five things I was grateful  for on a daily basis. I decided after the first week that some days five is just too grand a number to reach without eliciting assistance from my incessantly active imagination. Some days I can only come up with one thing to be grateful for, and that may simply be the fact that I am breathing at the moment I write the note. Other days I sit on the edge of my bed believing that it is going to take an act of God to even recover one morsel of gratitude from my day, and I end up with six new sticky notes on my wall.

The picture you see of the wall was taken a few weeks before I sat down to write this post. The notes are farther down the wall now because I have not missed a day of this practice. But I do allow myself room for flexibility. If I have dragged my butt home on a Friday night after a rough week and have no desire to dissect the pieces of the day I am grateful for, I get up on Saturday morning and write my gratitude note for Friday. As you can see from the two individual notes, I date every one, so I don’t get to cheat.

This is an exercise that I attempted to perform earlier in the year in a small notebook that I carry in my purse, but the practice didn’t stick. There is something about seeing the volume of these notes expand and consume the surface space of the wall that I find striking. I fall asleep to this sight and I wake up to it. In between, if I need a reminder of what it is I do have in my life as opposed to what I don’t have, I go in my room and stand in front of the wall.

As a person whose default reaction to most things (good and bad, oddly) was always negative, I can say sincerely that my gratitude practice is changing me. I no longer intuitively reach for the “everything is a disaster, it’s the end of days,” card that I have played all of my life. Now, when things go bad (and, yes, they still do) and my mind tries to slip back into my old doom and gloom way of thinking, I find myself bumping against hope, as if the wall of gratitude in my bedroom has been replicated in my brain and it’s blocking those old, toxic thoughts.

I will continue my gratitude practice in 2012 and beyond.When I run out of wall space, I will paste the notes into a scrapbook and fill the wall up again. I love the idea that something as simple as being grateful has changed my brain and brought contentment to my life. That’s more than enough reason to keep up the practice.

-Melissa Brown Levine
www.melissabrownlevine.com