Longing for the elimination of eliminations

Anyone who has ever googled any phrase somewhat similar to: “lose x-pounds (enter adjective of choice here–some popular options are fast, easily, or perhaps the less frequent but smarter choice safely)” is familiar with one of the paramount rules. Give yourself a small window for error. Allow yourself forgiveness. For if you deny yourself too strictly, you’ll only want what is forbidden more strongly. Perhaps the above websites don’t write this quite so nicely, or encourage it as much as they should, but it almost always makes its way into the top ten “end your unhappiness by slimming down” tips.

In case your sarcasm radar is thrown off a bit by the computer screen, I doubt very strongly that these tips are happiness producers. Happiness is a state of being–one we choose when we choose personal freedom to pave the roads of our lives, instead of growing accustomed to the curves and straights we believe we’ve been dealt. Happiness grows out of self-love and selflessness. It is bred; parented by forgiveness and willingness to take risks at times when risks feel the riskiest. Carved in the space once occupied by contentedness and “if, then” statements. If I lose x pounds, then I will finally be happy. And obviously, not only body issues apply. “If, then” statements are used in any aspect of our lives that we deem needs more control. Afraid of the uncertainty and the possibility of a new, unfamiliar self, we box ourselves into these philosophical arguments. Constantly putting off the light at the end of the tunnel, the freedom, until we fulfill a never-ending set of requirements.

Why never-ending, you may ask? Once I fulfill that “if” statement (the coveted, smaller sized jeans, or other demon of choice) I will have reached the point in which freedom can take over–let happiness ensue. But here I must persuade you to look at the girl who developed an eating disorder, or the employee who is now a work-a-holic consumed by their career. At some point the initial goal ceases to be the point of surrender, and becomes a midway target for a new, more dogmatic end. We miss out on life, allowing ourselves to be consumed by these trivial pursuits; and we pin our unhappiness right back on these issues which have bred the dissatisfaction within us. We first become dissatisfied with our lives, perhaps because we don’t enjoy a certain path we have allowed ourselves to fall upon. Or rather, we haven’t given ourselves the freedom to really know what path we want to be on. It could be that we’ve just stopped enjoying conversation, with ourselves and with others. Walking the world in a permanent state of acceptance rather than questioning, no longer seeking to discover and learn, but instead seeking refuge in lives that are dictated to us in amusing forms of television and books. Once we realize this dissatisfaction deep within us, we pick a superficial factor (perhaps one that does in some way contribute to our feelings, but is certainly not the cause of them), and we brood over that factor, allowing it to grow into an elephant in our minds. “It is my weight that is the source of all my unhappiness. If only I were 10 pounds lighter my world would be ok”. We slip deeper into these feelings of unworthiness,  all the while failing to see that we have reduced ourselves to absurdity. We have bred contentedness within ourselves, and then punished ourselves for not embracing what we fear the most: happiness.

And so here I sit, at 9:15 pm, in my current abode in Germany when I could be doing one of two things I love: yoga, or dancing. And I sit here not because I have a feeling that I need to lose 10 pounds (although I myself have been a slave–and continue to struggle in my escape–from body image and eating problems), and not because I have copious amounts of work that my work-a-holic self can’t put down (although I do wish that sometimes I could embrace that nonexistent version of myself a bit more), but because I have a stomach ache.

A three week long, never ending pain in my stomach that gurgles all night and roars after I eat. One that leaves me looking 6 months pregnant, and feeling like I’ve swallowed a roomful of air. At times there is a jabbing so ferocious that I’ve decided it can only be caused by a personal carpenter who has taken up residence in my middle lower-middle cavity. I can only hope that he is carving something worth all this pain.

With a doctor appointment in site, and a personal eating/elimination experiment in the undertaking, my spirits are temporarily lifted. So then why have I fallen into a new “if, then” requirement. I will only be happy when my stomach stops hurting. One thing is certain, I’ll be a lot more comfortable, but will I be happier? No. I will be happier when I start an internship. I’ll be happier when I begin my NMSU courses, and a weekly yoga class. When I get a guest pass to Mainz University’s Fitness classes for fall semester, and when I have written my monster of a thesis. After all these “whens” I’ll be happy. And that isn’t enough. I need to let go of all of these requirements for my state of being and look into myself right now. Why do I have a need to feel happier when I know that I am experiencing happiness right now? I am in a country that I never imagined myself in. I am embracing a language and a culture that has cultivated multiple feelings within me. I am growing culturally, and even spiritually. And, most importantly, I am living and sharing my daily with a person I love. This is the path I have chosen for myself. It isn’t one that was dictated to me, or even suggested to me based on history, convenience, or age. I strive to let go of the predictable and the certain to embrace the unknown and sometimes unstable feelings of freedom and happiness. Not to find them when, but to embrace them now.

And so now I am left with the task of wrapping up this post and somehow tying in the first paragraph. Although it fits quite nicely into what I was trying to convey, the truth is it set itself up on this page with the intention of supporting a very different message. One lamenting the fact that it seems that all sugars (fruit included) as well as dairy are the source of my stomach pains. A very sorry fact indeed when I’m craving something sweet.

A message I could have followed, for that is the path I had originally set for myself when I sat down to write. Instead, I let these words take me where they would, although I was unsure of how I would help them find their way. A small step in an effort to surrender.

Little Black Books

“Its our life story” he told Megan pointing to our little black book, “we have to write everything down.”

I smiled and nodded, promising to write in the recipes for our homemade pizzas once I put them in the unreliable oven. Megan formed her hands into a heart that exploded into the aroma filled air. The story of our life, I thought; somehow minimized to fit in a pocket sized black notebook. Containing recipes from our abend essen (dinners), grocery lists, and phone numbers for language schools. I can imagine it filled–this black book–with no empty pages left. I can imagine it filled just as I can imagine the pages of my time here filled. All the stories written into the day’s hours with no days left to be written.

What will we have then? Only memories? I can’t comprehend that the time continues to pass, and I will never remember exactly what has happened or how I feel. All that is left is a glimpse of some moments. Perhaps one image filling my head as I think about a day, a week, or an entire visit. Its the blue shirt and black jeans I see when I envision coming off the British Airways flight on May 12th 2010. The picture you have of a white horizon as we drove down the single highway through New Mexico’s national monument on our way back from Ruidoso.

New memories will replace the old ones, and perhaps one day the blue shirt and white horizon will fade to images of weathered, leather, winter shoes and snow topped trees.

But at least this time we will have our black book.

Sundown

Today, I watch the sun go down over Edinburgh. Tomorrow, I will watch it rise over Budapest. Today, I sit in my chair dreaming of possible adventures that await me. Tomorrw, I will venture into the unknown without a map, or a plan; without a computer, or responsibilties; without the burden of makeup, or clothing–with only two friends, adventurers, and companions.

To even utter the word ‘expectations’ would be wrong, for I go without them. How can I expect something from what I do not know? I go with an open mind, heart, and schedule. I do not seek adventure or thrill, for how can I seek something I am unsure exists? Instead I welcome the world which will greet me–so unlike my own–for what will and will not be.

I have more to write..but I have a more important  task at the moment. I am going to live.

Wandering the subconscious

The words I write think of me, not I of them. They find their way to the page without the hesitation of stumbling thoughts. Their clarity becomes a refuge for my cloudy mind.

The paths I follow choose me, not I them. Their winding roads clear into wide valleys without the burden of a wrong turn. Their wild fields become a haven for my aimless feet.

These hollow walls

How can it be that such a city exists. A city where the streets reverberate the sounds of the footsteps that imprinted their soles centuries ago. Where the churches and taverns show marks of eras long gone; yet remain immobile, mute,  in the world of today.

The sheer beauty of the tree-lined walk ways and cobble-stoned streets are enough to leave me gasping for air. The curving roads and unique store fronts beckon me to explore, erasing my notion of time or space.

I am lost and don’t want to be found.

I am consumed by what was Edinburgh. I yearn to know the bodies that frequented the royal mile–stopping in the bakery for a special cake, before running down to the butcher to pick up haggis for guests. I want the smell of barley which infuses the air to carry me back on its clouds. I beg the walls of the old taverns to tell me their secrets; the stories of the lovers it saw escape from its warm hearth into the cold, windy night. I will the mysteries to unfold before me; the lives I have seen in my dreams to appear again and give themselves to me.

I walk down the road and I feel the presence of history. My love for this country roots itself in a time I cannot know, yet cannot forget. Time’s fingers hold me tight in its fist, smirking as my ticking clock slowly withers away. Yet I am assured that its sepia memories–which are for my eyes only–are an escape far better suited for an imagination like my own.

Edinburgh, I hear you whispering. What are you trying to tell me?

I’m listening.