Fasting From ... What?

Chaz enjoys better accommodations than most people.


Four days into this fast from flour and You Tube is a real challenge.

I went grocery shopping a couple of nights ago, and it was so weird to blow past the pasta aisle. I nearly picked up a loaf of French bread, but recalled my commitment to fast from flour. Thank God for Ezekiel bread, that amazing sprouted bread that contains no flour.

Last night we had our annual wine tasting fundraiser at the Museum, and my options were severely limited. I couldn't indulge in desserts, little sandwiches, pita bread with hummus, and a host of other delectable edibles from local eateries. Instead, I noshed on oyster bisque, crab dip, and a few other flourless, but cholesterol-laden foods. Come to think of it, I'll bet the bisque contained flour.

Then there was the broccoli and veggie dish from PF Chang's. As I bit into a piece of broccoli, I realized there was chicken in the dish. One Fridays in Lent, Catholics can't eat meat, so the chicken was cast aside.

Now, really ... what's the point of these dietary rules and fasting?

Yes, spiritual discipline is a huge part of it, but all the fasting in the world--from anything-- won't be completely successful unless it helps others in some way. For example, I should tally my estimated savings in flour-based products at the end of Lent and give that amount of money to my church, perhaps to the Haiti Fund where it will benefit people who are the poorest of the poor.

The other day I was reading a Lenten meditation where Jesus spoke of true fasting, fasting that means sheltering the homeless and giving bread to the hungry. There I sat in my four bedroom home, asking myself if I would ever take in a homeless person. My animals live far better than most people in the world.

The next morning, as I sat at a traffic light, I looked over at a man who held a sign that read "Homeless. Will work for Food." I had a few dollars on me. Why couldn't I just roll down my window and give the guy some money? True, he may have wasted it on cigarettes or alcohol, but my intentions would have been good. I avoided eye contact with him and drove away. Echoes of scripture verses popped in my mind, especially the ones saying people have entertained angels without knowing it, or that you're serving God when you reach out to feed and clothe others.

Maybe I have this fasting thing all wrong. Perhaps I don't fully understand it.

But I'll make this vow: I will estimate the money I'm saving on flour products and give it to the Haiti Fund. I may not be on the brink of letting a homeless person share my home, but there is much I can do.

And so this new Lenten journey continues ...

Another Journey and Fasting Begin

Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday.

My Lenten fast begins when I awaken in the morning ... six weeks of no flour and no You Tube.

I'm not kidding.

Last year I fasted from the radio, and I now listen to audiobooks and NPR (with an occasional tuning in to jazz or rock). The previous year I fasted from Starbucks, and I've made few trips there in the past two years. These fasts, these droughts, these deprivations, have weaned me of potentially expensive habits or wastes of time.

I confess that I'm a carb addict. I love bread, pasta, pizza ... and I don't worry about my weight. I'm too active, and I'm not a foodie, so I don't overeat. I am convinced, though, that too much flour just isn't good for the system. This is going to be a real challenge for me. Bye bye, bread. So long, spaghetti. Ta ta, tortillas.

Hello, rice cakes, brown rice, and potatoes (and plenty of fruits and veggies).

Then there's You Tube ... the thing that keeps me on the computer when I should be doing more productive things. Couldn't stay awake for Sean Penn's Oscar speech? Watch it on You Tube. Relive memorable moments of President Obama's historic inauguration. Reclaim your inner child by watching old TV show opening credits. One night I got totally carried away with That Girl, HR Pufnstuf, Petticoat Junction ... well, you get the picture.

My floor didn't get mopped, and an hour of my time was used up (Okay, but it was fun.).

Seriously, though, Lent is a time of fasting. It's an annual journey of examining oneself, of depriving oneself of things that eat into your time and psyche, of giving more of your fasting self to those less fortunate.

It's a time for contemplating God and the Son of God in a deeper way.

I always look forward to this trip. It's like being on an unfamiliar river, filled with a few rapids and unknowns that lie around the bend.

I'm ready for the journey.

Climbing Liquid Mountains

One of my all time favorite quotes is by a woman who lived in darkness: Helen Keller. She said, "Life is either a daring adventure or nothing."

Without going into detail, I am admitting that for the first time in many years ... maybe in my entire life ... I am listening to my heart. The stirrings that continue to stay there, new ones that erupt (or maybe they have lain dormant all these years). I know, beyond doubt, that I'm on the verge of taking risks, of stepping outside my comfort zone.

I'm slowly breaking out of the box.

The other day I saw another Helen Keller quote:

It's wonderful to climb the liquid mountains of the sky. Behind me and before me is God, and I have no fears.

Amen to that.

Playing It Low Key on the Day of Love

Love in Action: The Love of an Uncle!



The official day of love is two days away, and I'm playing it low key.

While flowers, chocolates, and all the usual offerings of the day are great, let's face it: Hallmark, Godiva, and the local florists and eateries are making out pretty well. Oh, and the jewelry stores. Oops ... and Victoria's Secret.

Okay, so the day is good for love and the economy. I really don't mean to be cynical, but I do think it's overrated.

Then, again, if I'm not going to be swept off my feet in some little way on that day, I'd rather not celebrate. Am I contradictory, or what?

I'm choosing to reflect on a few memories and to make this weekend a memorable one.

My fondest Valentine memories? It's a toss up among the various lovely boxes of chocolates and cards my daddy gave me when I was young, the assortment of homemade cards and breakfasts in bed from my sons, and Rhett's gift of a single rose last year (something he purchased before going to school that morning). I still have the dried rose on my dresser.

My most romantic Valentine memory? The gift of a spatula and an original poem titled Within One Bottle of Amour. It's a private memory.

My plans for this Valentine's Day? I'm spending it with my dad. We'll order Chinese food, eat in, watch a movie, and I'll give him a box of sugar-free chocolates. He's nearly eighty-five years old and is incredibly lonely, so we'll hopefully have a fun and light-hearted weekend.

St. Paul captured the essence of love in his first letter to the Corinthians (chapter 13). Leo Buscaglia did a darn good job himself with his classic book Love.

Love is in the air ... in some way ... everyday. Enjoy!

Pet Cemetery ... uh ... Crematorium

Welcome to my wet bar.

It has a faux marble counter, a lovely stainless sink and faucet, one glass shelf filled with an assortment of wine glasses, and a few other wine glasses and a decanter on the counter. The back and side walls are covered in mirrored tiles, and there is a nice white cabinet and two drawers underneath.

Sounds lovely, doesn't it?

I'll share a few things with you.

First, the second glass shelf that used to hold glasses crashed to the floor (with the glasses), oh, around twelve years ago, when Jamie had a temper tantrum and banged the wall behind the bar. Ms. Procrastination here has never replaced it. I vow to do that soon, and I'll take a photo to prove it.

The cabinets are crammed-- and I do mean crammed-- with photo albums, boxes of photos, and sports trophies. I wish I were one of those scrapbooking lovers, because I'd have a hobby for the rest of my life.

The sink? I've lived in my home nearly twenty years, and I can count on two hands, with fingers remaining, the number of times I've turned on the faucet, usually to see if it still works.

And on the alternate weeks when I wipe down this never used feature of my house, I lovingly remember Twitty, our old cat, and Sable, Jamie's ferret, whose cremains rest on the wet bar.

The only "pet" we ever buried was Marvin, Rhett's mouse. Little Rhett and I stood in our backyard on a chilly March night, buried the mouse, made a cross for its grave out of some twigs, and thanked God for his life (Yes, my friends, for a mouse.)

I figure one day the other pets will join the crematorium, and when I'm not clinging to Chaz's urn (the thought makes me cry), I will lovingly dust around the little tins; and maybe ... maybe ... have a glass of wine afterwards.

After all, I do have a lovely wet bar.

Cleaning Out More Than Closets ...

Oh, to be this happy right now ... ( I miss her!)

I've never been one to box myself in, but recently I feel as though I live in a box.

After being sick the past couple of days, I had a really good cry last night, went to sleep, ... and--BAM!-- awakened to feeling like myself again. Acknowledging that my house is empty, my loved ones are scattered, and questioning if I made the right decision in accepting a much more demanding position at work were at the core of that cry.

I've boxed myself in, regarding my emotions, and this vagabond at heart needs to ESCAPE.

A former boss and friend sent an email this evening regarding how her own fear of the economic situation, etc. had boxed her in. She's always been a mentor to me, and I wish we lived closer these days. she's decided to reclaim her old self, who took those leaps of faith.

So ... what do I do? Well, I'd probably move to Texas for a while, if I didn't need to be just a few hours away from my elderly dad.

In the meantime while I'm fully engaged in this major midlife transition (okay, it was a "crisis" last night), I'll do the following:

1. Continue cleaning out the house and making repairs and deciding where I want to be in a few years. Letting go of the home in which I raised my sons will not be easy at all, but the alternative is to be boxed in.

2. Doing the best I can do at work WITHOUT sacrificing my health, recognizing what is beyond my control and what I can do to work smarter and to motivate others.( And still wondering why so many people don't "get" art.)

3. Indulge in a Lenten cleanse. Yes, friends, I've decided to do a candida cleanse during the first month of Lent, which means no chocolate, cheese, wine ... well, just a lot of raw things and herbal concoctions. Deprivation? I have a feeling I'm going to feel great and not really miss the many carbohydrates I eat ... hahaha. I live on carbs. This will be interesting.

Gotta get to work ...

My Roots Run Deep on Groundhog Day

Originally uploaded by free-secret-life@flickr.com


I hear Phil the groundhog saw his shadow today. I think that means several more weeks of winter.

Ugh.

Groundhog Day (starring Bill Murray) is on TV tonight, so I'm going to indulge, as it's one of my favorite flicks and says so much about what we often perceive as the monotony of daily life.

On this annual day of celebration in Pennsylvania (I can't spell the town and I'm too lazy to look it up ... sorry), I always think of my grandmother, my mom's mom, who died two weeks before my birth.

She was born on Groundhog Day back in the late 1800's. She was my last living grandparent, so I grew up with no grandparents.

Most of my cousins called her the "Old Mama." Her name was Lela, and Cherokee blood ran deep in her veins. She was left a young widow in her forties with--are you ready?-- twelve children. Social Security didn't exist, so she grew and sold vegetables, sewed for people, and put her kids to work. My mother, the 11th child, was the first to graduate from high school. My grandmother lived for years on the Bunker twins' farm (as in Chang and Eng, the Siamese twins) near Mt. Airy, NC; and that's where my mother was born. The Old Mama was nearly eighty when she died, and her hair was still long and black, with just a few springs of gray (thank you for those genes, Grandma!).

I am now a grandmother, Shelby Grace's Gigi, and I hope to be around for a long time to love my granddaughter and to tell her stories of her daddy and her silly Uncle Rhett, whom she adores.

And on this day, I admire and love a woman I never knew, one who handed me some nice genes, raised some great kids, and put family above all. She instilled this trait in my own mother, who instilled it in me. She also reared her brood alone, as I have; and I cannot in my wildest dreams imagine raising 12 children without a father and no financial support. Her love for folk remedies was handed down to me, too, but we won't go there. Let's just say my MD visits in life have been few, for the most part.

So, over a hundred-plus years after her birth and nearly forty-nine years after her death, here's to Lela, the Old Mama, in whom I have roots ... and am grateful.