SavasaNOOOOOOO!!!!

I started yoga just after coming off an eight year long exercise bender.  I won't go into the lurid details; it will suffice to say that I planned my mornings, evenings, weekends, holidays, and vacations around when I could get to the gym.  It did not provide stress relief, release endorphins, or lift my spirits; in fact, each time I left I had a pit in my stomach knowing I would have to do it again, and again, and again, for the rest of my life, pedaling to nowhere on the elliptical machine.

After a serious health scare that landed me attached to heart monitors for two weeks at Beth Israel, I realized that if this continued, I would die.  I didn't want to let go of my exercise addiction, but the thought of stepping foot into the gym again made me physically ill.  When a good friend, who also happens to be a yoga teacher, suggested I try a class, I gave the standard response: "I'm not flexible."  She gave the standard answer: "You don't have to be."  Um, okay.  In my mind, only contortionists could ever shape their bodies into those impossible positions; I could barely touch my toes.

I also had a personal vendetta against yoga.  When I was in treatment for my eating disorder, they had a mandatory weekly yoga class.  I hated it so much that I planned to speak to my outpatient therapist during this hour every week so I wouldn't have to participate.  In my rigid mind, at that point yoga didn't "count" as exercise.  Also, I hated with a passion any activity designed to connect your mind and your body.  I hated my body, I hated my mind, my mind hated my body... it just wasn't a good scenario.

But, just about two years ago, my cousin and I decided to give it a shot.  We went to a power yoga studio, had no idea what we were doing, laughed hysterically during the "ooooooms", and left feeling incompetent and sore.  But something made me go back.  Not to the same studio, but back to yoga.  I would like to say it was for healthy, sane reasons, but really it was my eating disorder tricking me into finding a way to exercise without involving the elliptical.

For that first year, yoga was simply a means to an end.  My eating disorder wanted me to exercise, the people who cared about me did not want me at the gym; yoga was the perfect solution.  I had yoga rules; only certain classes "counted", I had to go in the morning, I wasn't allowed to rest, I had to go x amount of times/week, etc.  If I couldn't do a pose, I felt angry at myself.  If I wobbled during a balance, I felt frustrated and ashamed.  I compared myself to everyone.  One notable example of my madness was when I told my teacher, in all sincerity, that during a class I had been seriously weighing which would be worse, having to rest in child's pose or passing out and having the ambulance come.  Basically, I did everything that yoga says you shouldn't; yes, I was doing the poses, but I wasn't doing yoga.

What I hated most about yoga was savasana, the mandatory rest period at the end of each practice.  In fact, I would try to skip out on savasana with the excuse of leaving for work; my wise (and amazing) teacher Lauren caught on quickly and put an end to that.   I started taking private lessons with Lauren, and she worked tirelessly to find alternative methods of savasana which would be beneficial to me.  The truth was, however hard she worked, Lauren alone would not be enough to quiet the chaos that ensued in my mind when someone asked me to relax and be with my body.  It just wasn't a place I was ready to travel.

I think of the next phase of yoga as "The Year of Secret Yoga".  This was when my doctors caught on to the fact that my version yoga was not, in actuality, gentle stretching for relaxation, but rather extremely hot power yoga that was probably not ideal for someone with blood pressure/cardiac issues, not to mention a raging eating disorder.  So began "Secret Yoga" (not to be confused with "Secret Night Walking" or "Secret Summer at the Gym").  Secret yoga involved my attending classes without directly mentioning to my doctors that I was doing this.  While in treatment that year, "Secret Yoga" was a pretty much nightly ritual where we (the patients) would design our own yoga classes (sometimes in the walk-in closets) with an emphasis on ab work.  Needless to say, this did not come from a healthy place (although from this practice did come "aspiring yoga fish", which could be among the most satisfying yoga pose(s) ever created).  

During this phase of yoga, I actively worked to convince myself that I genuinely loved yoga and was doing it to be "healthy" and to "relieve stress".  I told everyone that it was "good for me", that I was not doing it because I "had to", and that it was not hurting my recovery.  I am very convincing, and I believed myself.  Coming out of treatment, I even allowed myself to do shorter private sessions to "ease back into it".  Looking back, I was so weak then, and not ready.  My arms would shake during even the simplest poses.  I had no strength.  I was anxious and jittery and it showed in my movement.  I hated going to class because I hated for anyone to see my weakness.  I felt afraid of the heat, afraid I wouldn't be able to keep up, afraid that I wouldn't be enough.  Savasana was a time of judgment and self-hate.  I felt angry at myself for resting.

So, I took a break.

And then, during a particularly difficult period this fall, I found myself doing child's pose in the living room, a sun salutation before bed, headstand in the hallway.  Without even thinking about what I was doing, my body knew what it needed and instinctively felt better after even the smallest shifts in movement.    So, I returned to class, and something was profoundly different.  My mind had changed, due to a LOT of slow, hard work.   What surprised me was the way my body responded to this change in my thinking.  The heat no longer made me dizzy and light-headed, but became, in a strange way, comforting.  I stopped looking at the people around me.  I stopped worrying about doing everything right and focused on doing what felt right to my body.  This was the shift that allowed me to begin to really benefit from and understand the power of yoga.

There are no longer rules surrounding my practice.  I go when I want to, when I can, and when it feels right.  If I need to rest, I do.  In fact, sometimes I force myself to rest.  Whenever the teacher begins to transition into anything involving abdominal work, I face my fear and go right into child's pose.  My anorexia loves crunches.  Thrives on them.  Gets addicted to them.  I know myself well enough to realize that crunches are not conducive to becoming the person I want to be.  It is really, really hard for a perfectionistic, competitive, exercise addict to choose to rest when a roomful of people around her are making their stomachs flatter.  People talk about exercise taking "willpower"; for me, it is the opposite.  Not exercising takes willpower, and every time I find myself in child's pose it feels a little bit less like a failure and more like a victory.

If you had asked me six months ago whether I could ever find a healthy relationship with exercise, I would have said absolutely not.  Even thinking about exercise made me feel physically sick and caused the anorexic brain to go on high speed.  Nobody could have convinced me that anybody actually enjoyed exercise... I actually had a fairly logical argument that everyone who goes to the gym secretly has an eating disorder... but that's probably for another post :)  Through yoga, I am beginning to understand the power of exercise done for the right reasons.  The moment I get on the mat, I begin to forget about my stress.  I feel energized and relaxed.  I am learning I don't have to be perfect.  There are no rules.  It's okay if some days I feel strong and great, and other days weaker, more tired, wobbly.  That's life.

Yoga has helped me begin to see in shades of gray.  It's okay to work really hard, it's okay to sweat, it's okay to not be as strong (pretty, thin, good, smart) as the person next to me, and yes, it's okay to rest.  Savasana is still not my favorite part of yoga, but it no longer makes me cringe.  And it sure as hell beats the elliptical.

"1-4-3, Uncle!!!!!!"

As many of you know, I lost someone very dear to me last week.  I wanted to share my words of remembrance here, and I want "Uncle!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"  to know 1-4-3 -- I love you and always will.  You have helped shape who I am today.

Through my entire childhood, my uncle Bernie used to tell me a story.  When I was fourteen, I changed his story into a poem as a Christmas gift.  It read: 

Long ago and far away

Or maybe here, this very day

God came down with his Holy Ghost

And said, “Bernie Walsh, which do you want most?

All the meadows, all the trees, even the shining stars;

All the people, all the homes, all the brand new cars.

“Or would you rather Bernie,” he smiled,

“Have the gift of this little child?”

Between two streets, the left side and the right

Bernie thought with all his might

Shall I choose the left side with all its gems and pearls

Or shall I choose the right, which holds the little girl?

Bernie looked at God, his eyes full of question

And asked if he had any suggestions

God gave the only advice that he could,

“Do what your heart tells you you should”

As Bernie listened to his heart

He knew it held the answer right from the start

He looked at God and boldly said

“The riches don’t matter,

Of course I choose Kara.”

I felt special when he told me that story.  He made me feel like I was the most important person in the world.  Bernie’s gift, though, was that he was able to make everyone whose life he touched feel like they were that little girl, or boy, on the other side of the street.  When Bernie loved you, he would do anything for you.  He would take a bullet, or give the shirt off his back, to help the ones he loved.  And Bernie loved a lot of people.  His heart was big and there was always enough  to go around. 

I am the last remaining member of the Walsh bloodline.  My uncle was devastated by the deaths of his beloved mother, his father, his sister KK, who died tragically at the age of two, his brother John, and finally his dear sister Evelyn, my mother, whom we lost to cancer in 2002.  What a strong man, to watch his entire family pass on before him and still continue to live and love.  My uncle Bernie serves as an example to all who have lost loved ones; his family meant the world to him, he spoke to them every night in his prayers, and he continued to move on with his own life, holding them in his heart. 

 If friends are truly the family you choose, then Bernie chose well.  Everyone here meant something special to Bernie.  He created his own family, not only myself but my extended family, especially my father, Joe; my Auntie Pat, his dear friend of 36 years and her children and grandchildren, who called him “Grampie”;  and our wonderful neighborhood.

It is hard to put a label on the relationship I had with my uncle.  Because he was so much more to me than just an uncle.  He loved me like a father, he spoiled me like a grandfather, he teased me like a brother, and he conspired with me like a friend.  My uncle attended every dance recital and every theater performance I was ever involved in.  Whether I played a starring role or ball guest #8, his pride in me was the same.  He would beam, make sure everyone sitting near him knew that I was his niece, and would always give me a Beatrix Potter figurine to put on my piano to mark each performance.  As a little kid, I would lie on my uncle’s bed at night and watch MASH, an old TV show about the Korean War.  Not sure it was the most appropriate choice for a kindergartener, but my uncle did not believe in sheltering kids (in fact, he taught me all of my swear words).

  

  He read to me every night.  We started with “Annie Goes to Camp”; I ended up memorizing it at two years old (even knowing the right places to turn the pages) and he would show me off like a party trick, telling people I knew how to read!  He would try to trick me by reading the wrong words or ending suddenly, and I always called him on it—that made him proud.  One of our favorite children’s books was called “A Special Trade”.  It was about a grandfather who took care of his granddaughter when she was young, feeding her, telling her stories, and taking her for stroller rides around the neighborhood.  Later, when the girl was older, her grandfather fell ill, and she took care of him, feeding him, telling him stories, and taking him for wheelchair rides around the neighborhood.  While my uncle was sick, we talked about this book; it holds a special place on my bookshelf and in my heart.   

My uncle was always meticulous about the way he looked and dressed.  In fact, our biggest fights revolved around who got the bathroom first.  He would spend HOURS getting ready, shaving, and the hair… he had a little black comb and spent at least an hour making sure every hair was exactly in place.  One of my favorite games as a child was to try and mess up his hair, because I knew that really pushed his buttons.  I think that my love of all things Burberry comes from my uncle Bernie;  only the best for us!  He loved dressing to the nines to visit the Colettis’ for holidays, taking Pat to church and to dinner at the Wayside Inn, going to the country club with Ed and the rest of the Deveaus’, riding down to Scituate to visit David, going to Chicago to see Brian’s family (he was so proud to be at Andrew’s graduation!) and traveling to Florida to see Karen and her family.  All of these trips made him feel proud, important, and special, and he wanted to make sure he made everyone he loved proud of him as well. 

Growing up, my uncle and I had a little conspiracy against my parents.  When I was about 6, there was a fad of trading cards called “Garbage Pail Kids”.   When my mom realized how vulgar and disgusting they were, she told me I had to throw them all away.  Seeing how devastated I was, Uncle told Mom that he would throw them away, and instead he stored them in his hope chest, where they live on today. Uncle and I also shared a sweet-tooth. On his way home from work, Uncle would stop at CVS and buy me secret stashes of candy to keep in my room.  When my mom and dad insisted that I eat my vegetables, my uncle would covertly push his plate near mine and slip the spinach or broccoli onto his own plate.  We had lots of inside jokes, but our favorite was called “lightbulbs”.  Once, my uncle told me that my parents “weren’t that bright”.  From then on, every time one of them said or did something we thought was ridiculous, we would point at the ceiling and whisper “lightbulbs”. 

My uncle liked to think of himself as a tough army veteran, but really he was sentimental at heart.  It was he who saved every piece of artwork, every program, every roster, every newspaper clipping, every test, every essay, every report card, from my pre-school through college graduation. 

My uncle was equally proud of his granddaughters, Jena and Alicia.  “That Jena, she’s sensible and smart and responsible; and Alicia, she takes after me!  Don’t ever mess with Alicia!”  Bernie was a steady and consistent presence in Jena and Alicia’s lives; he was at dance recitals, holy Communions, soccer games, softball games, Sunday dinners, and graduations.  He wanted more than anything to be with Jena on her wedding day and was devastated when he was too weak to make it; however, he was surely there in spirit and heart, just as he will be with all of us as we move forward with milestones in our lives.   A memory that all of us share is my Uncle’s love of “slipping the twenty”.  He didn’t make a lot of money, but every time he would see Jena and Alicia, he would make a point of secretly slipping the bill into their hands and admonishing them not to tell their mother.  He did the same to me, and to my many cousins, to the kids I babysat for; pretty much to any kid who walked through the door. 

Uncle Bernie was equally generous with the neighborhood children.  On Halloween, he made sure to buy each “special” child a huge candy bar wrapped in a dollar bill.  On Christmas, he made the rounds with giftcards for all of his young friends.  As he got older and retired, we got a dog named Chloe.  Chloe and Bernie pretty much became the neighborhood mascots.  They would walk up to the Perkins School for the Blind every single day and visit with the kids, the bus drivers, the teachers, and the nurses.  In the afternoon, Bernie and Chloe would sit on the front steps and wait for the kids to get off the school bus.  He would chat with Hannah and Ally about school, Timmy about snowboarding, Anna, Ava, and Joseph about puppies, and little Clara would sit with him for hours discussing world events.  In the evening, he would talk about gardening and history with Dan across the street, would crack jokes with Steve, and would have long conversations with Helen and her sweet granddaughter Hannah. 

Our next door neighbors, Fred, Sophie, Benjamin, and Olivier, held a particularly special place in Bernie’s heart.  They moved in next door when Sophie was 7 ½ months pregnant with Benjamin.  My uncle loved watching Ben grow from a baby, to a rambunctious two year old who never walked, only ran, to an independent pre-schooler.  As Benjamin grew, for better or worse, Bernie taught him the way he taught me as a young child.    They would sit on the porch for hours reading Curious George and eating lunch together, having conversations that I’m sure Sophie thought were completely innocent. 

Until one day, Sophie mentioned to Bernie and me that Benjamin had been saying something about “throwing you in the ocean and feeding you to the sharks!”  She couldn’t imagine where he had learned such a thing.  My uncle got that devilish grin on his face; “Not from me!”  One day, as I sat on the porch and witnessed their inappropriate (but funny) bantering, I said to Benjamin, “Ben, would your mother want you saying things like that?”  Benjamin, showing off the devilish grin he learned from Bernie, replied “My mother is not HERE!”  

Last summer, Fred, Sophie, and the boys took a trip to France to visit family.  Sophie overheard Benjamin, then three, asking his cousin how to say “Nincompoop” in French!  Wonder where he got that from?

Aside from having a gift with the young, Bernie had a special gift with the elderly.  For years, he and Pat volunteered at Maristhill Nursing Home.  My uncle’s job was to wheel patients down to Mass.  For some reason, he was often mistaken for a priest by the residents.  Of course, he loved that.  He would bless people in the elevator, say a prayer, and they would gratefully reply, “Thank you, Father”. 

My uncle was fiercely protective, especially of Pat.  He put the needs of others over his own.  One night, not long ago, the fire alarm went off at 55 Waverly, where Bernie and Pat lived two doors away from one another.  Pat didn’t hear the alarm, and Bernie stubbornly refused to leave the building without her.  When the firemen told him he would have to go, Bernie shouted (using colorful language), “That’s the police chief’s mother in there and you better get someone to unlock that door NOW!”  He was battling cancer, not even close to the 220 pound tough guy he used to be, but he remained just as persistent and protective as ever.  And as usual, he got his way. 

My uncle has been preparing me for this day since I was a little girl.  He always told me that every year he got to see me grow was an extra blessing he never expected.  He said that when the time came, that I should cry at the funeral (and he said that with a twinkle in his eye and that devilish grin), and then I should move on with my life, remembering him but not dwelling in the sadness.  I know that he would want the same for all of you, the family he created. 

There’s a line from a song by Andy Griggs I would like to share:

“If heaven were a town it would be my town, on a summer day in 1985

When everything I wanted was out there waiting

And everyone I loved was still alive.

Don’t cry a tear for me now baby, there comes a time we all must say goodbye

And if that’s what heaven’s made of

You know I, I ain’t afraid to die.” 

My uncle was not afraid to die.  Yes, he was worried about all of us he has left behind, but his message to you would be to remember him always but to go on with your lives.  He held on for a long time, because he was a tough guy and that’s what tough guys do, but now he is at rest.  He was a man of God and had a strong faith and is now safe with the Lord.  I can imagine his mom and dad, sisters and brother,  waiting to welcome him at the gates of Heaven, and of course Chloe running over the Rainbow Bridge, ears flying behind  her, tail wagging, to greet her best friend. 

I have one last thought before I close.  One night, while he was pretty sick, I was lying on my uncle’s bed with him.  We were very open about death and dying, and I asked him what he would like me to say in the eulogy.  He thought a minute, got that devilish grin on his face, and said, “He was a hell of a guy!”   And uncle, you were.  You were a hell of a guy, and we will miss you.  I love you. 

 

Tastes like Sadness

As most of you know, I love to read.  Sometimes, moments, lines, or images from a novel linger in my mind long after I have read the final chapter.  I read The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides when my mother was sick with brain cancer and I was sick with my eating disorder.  A line resonated:  "A half-eaten sandwich sat atop the landing where someone had felt too sad to finish it." 

I could see the sandwich, and the image burned a hole in my throat, in the place where grief and loss lives.  Sometimes, I imagine sadness as the sand in an hourglass.  Your body can only hold so much, and when you are filled, it is impossible to fit in anything else.  There is no room for anger, hope, love, or care.  There is no room for food.  I wonder now if my refusal of food was also a desperate attempt to shrink my body into a smaller vessel, where there would be less room for the sand of sadness to fill.

Yesterday, I tried to eat a Resees Peanut Butter Cup Congo Bar from a bakery in the North End.  Should have tasted amazing, right?  But it didn't.  I told Marci it didn't taste good.  She asked what it tasted like, and the first thing that came to my mind was a favorite children's book of mine, Kate DiCamillo's Because of Winn-Dixie.  In it, there is a candy called a Littmus Lozenge:

"She unwrapped the Littmus Lozenge and put it in her mouth and nodded her head. 
'Do you like it?' I asked her.
'Mmmm-hmmm."  She nodded her head slowly.  'It taste sweet.  But it also taste like people leaving.'
'You mean sad?' I asked.  'Does it taste like sorrow to you?'
'That's right,' she said.  'It taste sorrowful but sweet.'"

When Marci asked what that decadent brownie tasted like to me, all I could think of was Opal and Gloria and the Littmus Lozenge.  I told her it tasted like sadness.

But what does sadness taste like?  Sadness is that fullness that starts in your stomach and creeps into your throat and makes it impossible to let goodness in.  Sadness tastes like a memory that you can't have back.  It tastes like a taunt that you will never have happiness again.  It tastes like feeling unworthy of that which is rightfully yours.  It tastes like a fear of forgetting, a fear of abandoning, a fear of betraying. 

Sadness tastes like not being able to enjoy something now, because you know that eventually it will be gone. 

Those images, that of the neglected sandwich and the sorrowful candy, remain burned into my memory long after I closed each book.  The sandwich, symbolizing a sadness so complete that people are unmotivated to take in that which sustains life; the Littmus Lozenge, tasting the great sorrow that lives buried in even something sweet. 

I believe that eating disorders aren't caused by one factor.  They are so complex and intricate that I think it is nearly impossible to pinpoint the "reason" an individual might develop one.   I spent years telling myself that I didn't "deserve" to have an eating disorder, because my reasons for developing one weren't "good enough".  Sounds crazy, right?  But it gives you a little bit of insight into the distortions that the ED mind tells the sufferer.  Looking back, I still don't think one thing caused me to develop my eating disorder.  However, I do think that grief played a major role.  Not just the enormous, life-shattering grief of losing a mother at a relatively young age, but also the more ambiguous developmental losses:  the loss of childhood, the loss of relationships, the loss of identity. 

Unfortunately, for me, grief and food are inextricably linked.  Which might be the reason why my delicious Congo Bar tasted like sadness.  

I would like to imagine a day when food tastes like hope.  When it tastes nourishing and delicious and nurturing and life-affirming and... just yummy.  Maybe someday.  The message in Because of Winn-Dixie is ultimately that yes, there is sadness in the world, and that sadness is reflected in the particular taste of sorrow in the Littmus Lozenge, but that the sorrow coexists with sweetness and joy. 

One day, in the future, I will take a bite of a dessert from a special Italian bakery and it will taste like sweetness -- the pleasure of taking it in; and sorrow -- the strength in remembering. 

My Favorite Things (part 1)

Some of you know that I LOVE "The Sound of Music".  One or two of you may have even witnessed my amazing performance as Maria in the 5th grade Watertown Children's Theater production (which was hilarious considering I can't sing even a little...)  Anyway, we all remember the moment in the movie when Maria sings to the children about her favorite things.  In her words:  "When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad - I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don't feel so bad!"  So, I decided to begin a list of my own favorite things in my journal, and I want to share them with you: 


Babies with chubby legs
Dads who come to parent-teacher conferences still wearing their business suits
The sound of the phone ringing at 6am on a snow day, and the bliss of turning it off and falling back to sleep
Waiting until all of the books in a trilogy are released to read them so you don't have to wait to read the next one
Cards, notes, and letters that are not electronic
Vitamin Water
When my 3 year-old neighbor shouts "Good morning!" out his bedroom window while wearing his Buzz Lightyear pajamas and rubbing sleep from his eyes
When you're doing yoga or stretching and you crack that spot where all your tension is and you feel that amazing release
Discussing a good book
The first day of school (and Back-to-School shopping)
When the Dunkin' Donuts worker knows your (complicated) order by heart
Finding a parking spot at the mall on Black Friday
When the digital clock reads a palindrome
When a stranger compliments your outfit
The freedom that comes when you admit that you're bad at something
When you're on vacation and you lose track of what day it is
When you overhear someone saying something nice about you
The part in "The Sound of Music" when Captain VonTrapp is singing Edelweiss and gets choked up, and Maria steps in and sings with him
A jumbo Diet Coke at the movies

When a stranger smiles at you
Little Miss Match socks
When you see a child and it's obvious she picked out her own outfit
Remembering a time when you memorized phone numbers
When your favorite author writes a new book and you pre-order it on your Kindle so you have it the second it is released
When you try to read slowly because you don't want your book to end
Metaphors
When you go into Target for body wash and somehow end up spending $100 on things you didn't know you needed
When you cut yourself shaving and you're annoyed until you remember you get to use a Hello Kitty band-aid

When it's raining and you get to wear your super cute rainboots
The first day it's warm enough to wear flipflops
When you plan your entire outfit around your shoes
When someone says exactly what you need to hear
When someone tells you what you don't want to hear, but you know it's out of love and concern
When you're in an argument with someone and you start laughing because you realize that what you're saying is absurd
When you go to get a baby out of a crib and she reaches her arms out for you

What are your favorite things?

Love,
Kara

Magic Wands

I sit across from my nutritionist.  I have just finished eating whatever that day's torture happened to be... I don't remember what it was now.  Could have been a cookie, a smoothie, a Lara bar, maybe even an entire lunch - anyway, what it was doesn't really matter, because the guilt is always the same.  The voice in my head is screaming a battery of insults and degradations.  I feel like I want to run, or cry, or never eat again, or a combination of the three.  But then my nutritionist starts waving her hand around in the air.  At first I think she's a little crazy, but then she smiles and proclaims, "I have a magic wand!"  I smile too, then, and start to feel a little better.  She continues:  "I'm erasing your guilt.  You are worthy.  You are worthy.  You are worthy.  You are deserving.  You are deserving.  You are deserving."

"I'm erasing your guilt."  If only someone had the power to do that for me.  To take all of the irrational, self-loathing, illogical thoughts out of my brain and simply make them cease to exist.   Erase them.  Then where would I be?  I could eat because I was hungry or because I felt like it, rather than having food dictated solely by what it says on my meal plan.  I could stop counting exchanges (and calories).  I could stop berating myself with every bite.  I could believe that nourishing my body and my mind is natural and good and okay.

My nutritionist is away for a couple of weeks.  Of course, she gave me her magic wand to borrow while she's gone :)  It got me thinking.  Maybe I need a magic wand of my very own...

Remember at the end of "The Wizard of Oz", the moment when Dorothy realizes that she had the power to get home to Kansas all along?  What she needed wasn't actually to see the Wizard at all; the fact was, she had all she needed inside herself.  Sure, she had some help from the Scarecrow, Tin Man, Lion, and of course (the sparkly, pink) Glinda.  But as much as they loved her and wanted to help her find her way home, ultimately she needed to discover her own way.  Even Glinda and her magic wand couldn't fix it for her.

Maybe my nutritionist is my own personal Glinda.  She can guide me, show me another way, wave her magic wand... but in the end, I have to realize that all I really have to do is click my heels and say, "There's no place like home."  Or, in my case, suck it up and eat. 

For now, I'm going to borrow my nutritionist's magic wand and her hope and her belief in my recovery.  And soon enough, I'm sure, I will have a magic wand of my very own.  And you can bet that it will be very pink and sparkly.

love,
kara

Book Review: The Hunger Games Trilogy

Good vs. Evil.  Star-crossed lovers.  Daring plot twists.  Beautiful, outlandish descriptions of fashion.  Brutal physical and psychological torture.  Dazzling escapes.  The power of sacrifice.  Enduring love. What more could you ask for in a series? 

The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins, along with the other two novels in the series, Catching Fire and Mockingjay, tell the story of Katniss Everdeen, a 16 year-old girl reaped from her village in District 12 (set in futuristic North America) to participate in a brutal, televised contest called "The Hunger Games".  The Capitol, or the seat of power in the futuristic "Panem", led by evil dictator President Snow, holds the games annually, pitting children in a brutal fight against one another and Capitol-created "mutations".  The winner of the Hunger Games is the last person left alive.

Katniss is surrounded by a colorful cast of characters-- Peeta, the sweet and kind boy who is also reaped from District 12 and becomes Katniss's ally and friend in the arena; Gale, Katniss's dark and brooding childhood friend and hunting partner; Prim, her innocent and captivating younger sister; Cinna, her flamboyant stylist from the Capitol; and Haymitch, her often drunk yet steadfastly loyal mentor in the arena.  And the list goes on.

Collins creates a stark and terrifying vision of a future in which corruption, greed, and money rule.  A future in which children are sacrificed to preserve governmental power.  It is both a cautionary tale about the atrocities of war and a hopeful story of the power of one individual (namely, an ordinary girl!)  to launch a revolution.

Collins does not attempt to sugercoat the horrors of war.  Her tale is full of brutality, torture, impossible decisions, grief, loss and despair.  And yet it is the underlying current of hope even in the darkest hour that keeps the pages turning.

I literally could not put these books down.  I admit that at the beginning, I was skeptical.  I am not a fan of science fiction and it took me a while to understand the dynamics of Panem, the Capitol, District 12, and the arena.   Yet once immersed in the world, I couldn't let go.  It was a series that I wanted to read slowly, to savor, but instead quickly devoured, leaving me hungry for more.  Unfortunately, for that I will need to wait until the movie comes out on March 23rd, 2012.

The books are marketed as "Young Adult".  Personally, I do not think I would recommend the series to my sixth grade students.  Although many of them have read (and enjoyed) the books, I think that the mature themes and graphic violence are less than appropriate for a younger audience.  In fact, one of the more disturbing scenes even gave me nightmares.  If you are a parent, I would strongly recommend that you read the series before your children do, and determine whether they are ready for the mature content.

So, if you need a good beach book for those sweltering August days, or an exciting series to keep you up late at night, go pick up a copy of Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games.  And, in the words of Effie Trinket, "Happy Hunger Games!  And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Love,
Kara

In one of the stars, I shall be living

"In one of the stars I shall be living.  In one of them I shall be laughing.  And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night."  -- The Little Prince

Nine years ago today, I lost the brightest star in my sky.  I remember that first lonely night, sitting in my dark living room and looking out onto the empty street, crying the deepest tears I had ever felt, whispering to myself, over and over again, "I don't have a mother."  

What I didn't know then, and I do know now, is that the pain gets softer around the edges.  I think about her every day, but the memory does not always cause the sharp pains in my stomach or the lump in my throat.  Sometimes, I can think about her and laugh.  Other times, I wonder what she would think about decisions and milestones in my life.  Mostly, I feel her presence with me whatever I'm doing, wherever I am.  What I didn't know the night she died, and I do know now, is that I most certainly DO have a mother, and always will have one. 

Today, the sadness is there.  The missed opportunities, the things left unsaid, the future she didn't get to see.  The memories are there; the darkened nursing home, the screams of pain, the words, "She's gone."  But I know that is not what she would want us to remember.  So here, on this night of reflections, are the things my mother taught me, the lessons I gained, and what will remain with me forever:

Always take the time to wish on a star.
You are precious, you are special, you are important, you are loved.
Family first.
Laugh loudly and without apology.
Always wear sunscreen.
The people who have died are always with us.
Always keep hope.
Never go to bed angry.
Never leave the house angry.
Never tell Dad how much things really cost.
Always be the first to smile. 
Listen to others.
Be generous with your spirit, your love, and your time.
Give hugs and don't let go.
Read because you love it.
Dogs are the best source of unconditional love; be sure to love them back.
The best gifts are not the most expensive, but the most thoughtful.
There is nothing to be afraid of.
Tomorrow will always feel better.
Believe in something.
You have unlimited potential and I believe in you. 
People are inherently good. 

So Mom, tonight I remember all the positive things that you imparted in your too-brief time with us.  You were loved by so many and are missed by all who knew you and loved you, especially me.  I hope that you are proud of me and you are in my heart today and always. 

Love,
Kara