Archive for the ‘room to grow’ Category

“If we shadows have offended,

Think but this and all is mended:

That you have but slumbered here

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles, do not reprehend.

If you pardon, we will mend.

And, as I am an honest Puck,

If we have unearned luck

Now to ‘scape the serpent’s tonuge,

We will make amends ere long.

Else the Puck a liar call.

So good night unto you all.

Give me your hands, if we be friends,

And Robin shall restore amends.”

~ Robin in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 5. Sc. 1

Oh to be lost in great expectations on the wings of a seagull guided by a fairy whose confessions are read in a bathtub after a very long engagement that spans the universe and goes into the floor boards to haunt me through the bedroom window where my love last lay, oh the turmoil of Wuthering heights, bring me over the rainbow.

I am hopeless for the insatiable pain and joy of love, the courtship, the lust of pirates, the lure of fairies and never land. I long for chance encounters and foreign seas. To be swept off my feet before midnight and seduced to a romance so pure that words need not apply.

I am a hopeless romantic, lost in a world of mystery, sorcery, folk lore and the suspension of disbelief. I choose to believe. To accept that there are vampires, and pixies, that pirate ships sail through the night air, and that when we meet by chance we meet for a reason. I can not deny the stars and the fortunes that will be mine, I will be the star, unconsciously waiting for Tristan to steal me away.

I simply can not help it. I love the ideas of love, but simple, pure love. I long to be courted and pursued ‘properly’, to do for the one I love in service and in duty. Love letters, flowers and curious surprises entice me, and entreat me to a life that seems so far beyond the realms of that which we live in presently. I suppose than I long for the pain as much as the ecstasy , and yet, the pain is seldom in the fore front of my thoughts when diving headfirst into the thought of love. But then in reflection, how many times have I fallen in love, how many can any of us? Is there more than one? Are they all lusts, is any of it any more or less real than that which Puck, as Robin, discloses to us as a result of his meddling? Is this all a dream, is every time that we fall in love a fall in lust? Do we make friends that we can be with intimately and we develop closeness with, but is this why so often relationships seem to fail, and yet why we have so many? Lust is easy, Love is in fact easy, it is the process of sharing time and schedules and life that gets tricky, this is where the romance seems to disappear. I think that we are mostly hopelessly romantic, longing for some form of pursuit, some form of chase, of desire, of effort, of display of attraction and affection. There are those who choose no part, to be removed, to spare themselves the grief and the pain.

Perhaps though, the other ‘they’ are all correct, perhaps it is better to have loved and lost than have never loved at all.

If we are willing to be alone, to grow from our losses before moving on then there is much to be learned of ourselves in our grief, and grief has its own means of being beautiful. The experience is enthralling, is enlightening is one of the few things in the world that drives us to the greatest depths of ourselves and humanity. Here in our despair we are capable of creating and finding beauty, here we are real, we are weak and strong and vile and graceful and forgiving and vengeful. Our grief is our duality, it is the quintessential expression of our greatest love and greatest despair in one curled up, tight fisted, sopping package.

Here is where our desires and our beliefs come to the surface, and it is here in this cacophony of emotion we are most pure, most honest, most deceived, by and to,  ourselves and others. Here I am. Here I chose to be, by choosing to love, by being willing to love again, I too must be willing to be broken and shattered.

I long to be sought after, desired not to better anyone, and not to better myself but to enhance the joy one already experiences in life, and he joy I can grow to find in myself. So come. Come and find me, hidden in my own devices, take me as I am, and take me with fury, bury me in sonnets and daggers, in whispers and under willows, for this is where I long to be forever, as a child, as with my child, lost in fields and bubbles, here peppered in sunlight waiting, with tiny fingers pointing to clouds, deep in an open field, shaded by a wise old tree, barefoot and dreaming.

Playing with my camera – In an effort to elaborate on how I am linked emotionally and psychologically to the scars that I bare, I needed a picture of them anyways: Sometimes the only way to prove your fears rediculous is by looking them head on.

So I did, I climbed in the dark from a frightening height, and slowly, placed my toes on soft wooden panels; and I peered, with my small light, into the depths under my bed,and in my closet, and into my head, and my heart, and my soul. I searched for monsters that I invented. And when I turned on the light I was as frightened as  I was relived to see me. me. just me.

So my hands. I have not really examined a part of me in true fashion for a while now. Truth be told I have struggled a bit with the photographic aspect of where I intended to go next. But, I think that for now my hands are a worthwhile component of my being to examine.

Here in my hands I hold nothing, and everything. In my hands have been the blood sweat and tears of my self as well as many I have and do love. My hands have been burdened by weight, burns, cuts and sprains. There greatest triumph is the ability to increasingly grow in their strength, flexibility and grace as my son and I age, as his weight bears down harder, as my fingers move more slowly, as daly toils take their toll, the grace of my hands increases.

These hands have displayed the luxuries of sapphires and diamonds, of Tiffany’s and heirlooms. These hands have helped and hurt; healed and injured.

Daily I use my hands. The more I use my hands the better I can say I feel. The dirt and mud, the smell of herbs and dogs. There has never been better work than that I have done with my hands. This delicate feature, fingers and nails, require great up keep for display, for my adoration –  lotion and filing and trimming and oiling – all for me, for you, for a perfect background for the tokens to be displayed. It is hard work for a mother to keep her hands, well respectable. My nails likely will not amount to anything to glamorous, and they will constantly battle dry skin, but, they are strong and capable. They create. They feel. They lead. They toil. My hands are the beginning and ending of every day. They turn on and off the alarm, they gentle wake my son and send him to sleepy bliss. They catch my tears of joy and of sorrow. My hands are well used, well loved. They dig in the dirt for play, and for nurture, they cook for joy and care, they clean for me and for others, they blow bubbles and build puzzles , they write and they turn pages. My hands are my guide, they hold my head up when I pray to God, they squeeze my son when they day has been long, they pick a flower and brush my hair.

They are not the most well maintained. I perhaps abuse the privilege of such talented hands. There are days I forget lotion, or stay submerged in the water. I try, but some how I have never been bothered by the appearance of my hands. Some how, I have always allowed them more room for imperfection, I understood them to be a tool. I have always understood the capacity at which I have been able to function at the cost of my hands. Cards, meals, dishes.  I thought that my hands were a tool to express love, to show others how I cared. I don’t think that is invalid. I do however, think that I overestimated the ability to which I could express my love through products of my hands.

I understand now that the love I have for others can be shown through small tokens crafted between my fingers, but also the touch of my fingers on a forehead, a back, holding hands, a tickle. Perhaps our hands are as much a means to our soul as our eyes are.

In many ways our hands are all we have. They are our primary tool, our means of being real. Our hands allow for all of our daily functions, all of what is needed to be alive, to be part of this species, part of something more. Applying our hands to daily tasks helps to create the path for ourselves and for others. We are as successful as our ability, as our hands, as our being will allow.

My hands may not take me to fame, to notoriety, to riches; but every day they take me home, they feel the small toes, short hair and soft cheeks of the small child that I brought into this world, a child I hold with the same loving hands as the day he was born. And though my destiny may be bigger than I imagine, for now, if all my hands do is fish, garden and wash hair, well for now, thats simply enough.

Pure. Simple. True. Devoted. Unconditional. My hands are an expression of my love for life, my love for self and my love for others.

How funny a creature are we. We that require maintenance. Doctors, shots, medication, sore muscles, weak bones, various diseases, mental problems, emotional issues, learning malfunctions. We are a supremely needy creature. In the wild those with sore bones and learning difficulties are eaten or left for dead. There is so much that we do to improve our chances, beat the odds, out be our being. And though I find this maintenance to be rather detrimental to us in the scheme of evolutionary achievements, I will, and do by choice assume my role and file in line at the nearest maintenance shop. And in return I am protected from the vile ills of man kind and reassured that my tangible existence will be in quality form for a time yet undetermined. Alas, for our species there seems not another way.

However, the routine visits to validate our position in the pool of those awaiting death and welcoming life is really rather benign compared to the maintenance of our vanity.

Vanity. To be vain. According to the dictionary, this is excessive pride in one’s own attractiveness. Am I vain? Is this blog a hidden vanity pouring itself out in digital dialogue? Is a study of my person an attempt to get others to view me, to see me and to experience me as beautiful and confident? Or I guess the last question implies the lack of vanity, if this was vainly motivated I would be posting the pictures to prove that I had achieved or experienced that which is otherwise socially acceptable to those that may be unfortunate enough to receive my blog.

I would like to think not. I would like to think, and truly have until this moment, that all my exposure, my study and my attempt at physical acceptance is not vanity, perhaps a transition in confidence, but not out right vanity. I believe that vanity implies I would, or anyone would be concerned with the opinions formed by others in excess.

This – excess – is the heart of vanity.

For the past two years I have lived in vanity. I have needed, sought and wanted the approval of others, of ‘those others, those in the groups a places that I assumed mattered socially, as a result mattered in how I was liked, and if I met people and so forth. Previously, I lived in the vanity of my estranged husband. I sought the acceptance, tried to be more or less of this and that. I have lived a roll in the vanity of my son and sought his acceptance.

What has been so fantastic about this blog is that is has afford me the chance to come to terms with my vanity. First, we all have some, and some I think is healthy. However, it has to be guided to feeling good for your sake. The jeans I have decided I really like are expensive. But, I did not but them because they were a certain name or style, I did buy them because after going to seven different places they fit me better than any other pair, I instantly loved how they fit and how they felt. Being in the jeans made me feel good, so did the matching bra and panties I bought. I almost always try to coordinate them. No one can see them, but I know they match and there is something sexy about that; and a women who feels sexy is a woman who is confident and a woman who is confident is a joy to be around. For this reason I have begun to embrace my vanity. But the days of doing it for others are gone. I do not set sights on meeting a boy or making an impression. I set sights on feeling confident throughout the day and feeling good in my own skin, and my own jeans and my own self. I shop GoodWill and I shop Lucky and I shop Target and none of it really matters. I like what I like and I am who I am.

But back to the body image, which actually has not been brought up yet, but it is where the idea to ramble about vanity came from. I had an epiphany.

I previously hated my body and was so uncomfortable in my own skin because I was always viewing myself through the magazine, through the pinch or the  size. I was not seeing myself as smart, witty, curious, social, etc., I was seeing myself as an object. A model image, an idea (I do think this is the first in a series of blogs to examine vanity, healthy and otherwise.), and I was trying to figure out how I could be representative of these beautiful confident women that seem to grace the planet at every turn of the newsprint. Then it dawned on me.

The beauty is in the confidence.

I have succumb to the night as of recent. A mistress to the moon to sound more romantic, none the less, I have, as of recent been carried into the wee hours of reading and writing, of listening, observing, crying and experimenting. I have only myself to converse with; and only myself to see. This in return has lead to my self study via camera. The meticulous examination of my being internally as a result of my being externally and the inverse of the same.

Here in the quiet and the dark I am exposed. Under the guise that I am shielded by the peaceful sleep of others, the comfort of my home, and tree covered dark – I am yet exposed, my most vulnerable, my most curious, and my most focused.

The night has become my labyrinth, a place to weave in and out of confidence and insecurities.

Here amongst bats and spiders (and here in SC the ever lovely roach) I have begun to enjoy the time I spend on me. On understanding the places I have developed from, the actions I have taken and the consequences they have had. In trying to understand, or analyze oneself there is a need for risk, and painful exposure, and honesty. In light of that, I have always been as uncomfortable with my internal as my external self. Never nurtured to the comfort of flesh and feeling, I am underdeveloped, a late bloomer, a timid statue of a grater expression. Therefore as I have confronted some more emotionally taxing issues as of recent, I suppose it is time to tackle some more taxing physical issues as well; mostly as a means of breaking the general insecurities I have harbored for so long.

I have always carried more shame then I would ever been willing to admit. Afraid to see who I was/am as much I was afraid to be seen naked, even by, at the time, my own husband.

There is comfort in flesh, in skin, in touch, in curves, and nerves. I ignorantly associated this comfort with a pure desire for sex for the sake of sex. How untrue that is, a tainted conception that evolves from abuses that will not be addressed here. None the less, the body offers a fantastic means for evaluating us each most truly, most purely. The body is something that we all possess. We are all made of skin and bone, though often built quite differently from one to the next, it is here in hips, and toes, and hair and thighs that we are ultimately all common, and yet how incredibly varied in our similarity. This body, this form, this commonality is so shunned in many cultures. To view any portion of the body exposed is to view sex, sin, and lust. This may often be so, but only as a result of our own conditioning to the idea.

When viewed more detached, or perhaps more involved, we can see beauty, even in forms we may not generally appreciate for our tastes. The beauty that is a nude statue or painting is evident, it captures the essence of our sensuality, our fragility, our grace. So why is not the nude photograph understood with the same affection? Before I go on, yes, I do agree that there is a difference between study/classic art and pornography, if it needs to be defined, then you should probably just stop reading here. For the rest of you, there is an obvious abuse of the body that exists in forms of exposure many term ‘art’. For this purpose I am implying those images which capture curiosities,  lines, humanity, or art as it is in the distorted figure. I am not implying that these pictures are art. What I am implying is that in taking the pictures I am experiencing myself as art, as beauty. Its not that I don’t find myself interesting, or attractive. But to understand  yourself as art, as something worth looking at simply because to look is interesting, and beautiful, indicative of confidence and curiosity,  not because its sexual. I am art. I am as much a work of art as the Mona Lisa and to think anything less of myself is wasted energy. The thought may seem lofty and pretentious, but I assure you it is almost essential to maintaining and developing a love of your body and  so yourself.

Do I think that I am perfect, by no means. I am certainly not the standard to which other women, or things, are found to be beautiful or great. I am me, an individual that has struggled with balancing the roles of mother, wife, friend, lover, sister, housekeeper, tutor, worker and student. How do those manifest simultaneously and with a positive result? Well, recently I realized they manifest naturally if you are in balance with yourself. When you are resolved to accept the many parts of who you are – crazy, artsy, nerdy, momish, hard working, emotional, stoic, lazy, tiny toes, stretch marks, imperfect skin, thighs – you come to accept you, and that you are a complex sculpture that requires maintenance and upkeep, much like a classic painting, and some will love what they see, others perhaps not so much, some will understand at sight what you represent and the type of person you may be, or be portraying, others will be blind.

No matter how we come to understanding who and what we are, or when we are given the opportunity to understand, we must be open to it. To understanding that we are a masterpiece in the making, and the more sound in mind and body we become the longer our legacy will last. Those who are the most pure of heart, body and spirit always seem to be remembered the longest and the best. I am only to improve upon the character I am increasingly understanding.

This has been highly more internal than it was intended, but noticing that I am in need of more pictures to continue this on a more external level I will leave it at that.

There are moments in life when grace bestows itself upon us. We do not get to choose the time at which this occurs, but we do get to choose whether or not we are open to accepting it. And when choosing to be open to the acceptance of that which is placed before us we must consider it a gift. A chance to restore our beauty through grace, to choose to grow and excel beyond the constraints from which we have lived. It is in this opportunity that we experience the greatest personal growth. Grace comes to us all at some point, though regrettably, it is often a result of a greater ill that has manifested itself into our life – loss of a loved one, loss of life, loss of self – here in these moments of our vulnerability we can find strength; and should we choose to accept to be strong we will show endurance, and in our endurance we build character and, I have been told, that it is here in our character that we find hope. And, if the monks are indeed correct, hope does not disappoint. However, I think it is fair to assume that this is not the hope for the things in life you want, this is a deeper hope. A hope that assumes you will grow, you will blossom out of the ashes of destruction and thrive.

On a walk I noticed that the likelihood of life flourishing in death is as great, if not better, then life otherwise existing. In plants, there are two general means by which life and death coincide; and both demonstrate a greater strength than life or death independent of each other. In some species, the pod must shrivel and dry before it will fall to the ground and propagate the species. In other instances, most notably fire, the sprouts flourish in the nutrients of the ashes, at some instances, the plant may live and die simultaneously.

There is life in death. Not just life, but an exuberant life. Here in the grace of death we can thrive, as the plants, we as individuals can too thrive. It is here that our sorrow, and our grief and our weakness can be used to extend the degree to which we understand ourselves as we wake and breathe to a new day. In the atmosphere of grace we are beautiful. Our beauty will flourish in this atmosphere of grace, and we will grow more beautiful should be open to the death that precedes it. We will prosper in the radiant light of endurance that rises within us from the turmoil, and by accepting the grace that is bestowed upon us, we strive to be better. Better than we were yesterday and the day before and six months before and ten years before, and better for those around us, but mostly for ourselves. For without being better for ones own benefit, one can be no better for another, and the degree to which we choose to profess our commitment to being a better, more graceful, and more beautiful person, is the degree to which we choose to grow.

It is not a choice when to grow, but it is a choice to grow, and how to grow. And though it may take time to come up through the ash, or to ripen and fall, it will happen. We will choose to grow, and to plant our roots and to develop larger, taller and more fully then those around us; and so long as the choice is pure of heart, we will grow strong, endure, build character, and create new hope.

The choice to accept the beauty of grace is the choice to act for ones self. Our action must first make us better individuals, only then can we become better to those that we love.

The choice. We do not get to choose when, or how, or why the events of life lead us where they do. We do get to choose what we take from those events, and how we take it.

I did not grow up in a bad home. My parents loved and cared for us. They made sure that we had everything  we needed, and honestly more than that. But, they both worked, a lot. And they were young. They had a lot of fun; and I grew up smack in the middle of it all. Now, don’t get me wrong I had some amazing times; and how many children can say they have experienced a Poker Fairy?!  We went all over, we heard loads of music, met tons of people and had an enormous extended family.

And while this was all great, as I have gotten older, I realize that my family perhaps suffered in the area of communication. I do not think that I learned the skills to adequately convey what I needed, how I felt, and what I thought. We were not supposed to cry, and feelings, though not shunned, were personal. We had to deal with things and move on. As a result of this I am tough. I am tenacious and afraid of very little. I know that I can and that I will survive. However, as a result of this, I have only just now realized that I lack, or have lacked, in the area of communicating love.

Sure, I can buy or make a thoughtful, creative, and often aesthetic or tasty gift – and for those of you who have received them I am not denouncing what meaning they conveyed, they were created out of love, out of thought, and out of care. However, there is more to expressing love to someone than gifts.

I could never accept the words “your beautiful” or “I just like looking at you”, or ” I really enjoy talking to you”  - how do you respond to such things. Why would someone say that, isn’t it embarrassing?

Well, I know now, you say thank you, and you tell the other person moments, places, things about them, with them and of them that you enjoy. And you don’t just say it, you think about it, feel it and mean it. And you say it whenever you think about it, not just because someone else said it first.

You honor and respect personal space, time to be alone, time to be with your child, time to be without your child. This time that is devoted to the above, is time that is representative of love. And yes, a love of self is important. Without a love of self communicating how you feel about someone in an open and honest way, and through pure actions, is difficult. That communication becomes shrouded in self doubt and insecurity because you don’t know if it is what you are supposed to say or do, or if it is how you are supposed to. Well, if its honest, and its true, then it will be okay, because if the person in turn loves you than it wont matter how you fumble your words, or if you love their large ears or small eyes. Those are no longer imperfections, rather they are trademarks, tell tale feature that you cherish like a teddy bear.

I have had a hard time communicating how I feel, how I think, what I am sure of, afraid of and what I love about those around me. I think that it is a combination of not developing skills earlier on, and of lacking – time, desire and ability – to self analyze. To actually sit back, look at who I am, how I got here, where I want to be, who I want to be with, why and how I know I want to be with them, what is it about everyday that I love? What is it about myself that I love? others?

Now that my world is relatively quite, I have redirected all of that talk of myself into myself.

A lot has changed already. Im sure there is more to come, and here, in my most vulnerable, I have found strength in me .

Curves. Curves. Curves. I have recently accepted those I have, or don’t, depends on who you ask I guess. I would not consider myself curvaceous in the way Marilyn Monroe was. However, I am cavernous, which in a more flattering term could be curvaceous. I am skinny through my ribs, and through my waste. Standing I seem well – normal, but when I lay down the pit between my ribs and hips is like a valley in the Grand Canyon. I can count most of my ribs and grossly elevate my stomach muscles as a result of the hernia. But there is a geographic beauty in this, a mountainous scene of peaks, and valleys that align to form a more perfect scene.

To be honest, there is a grotesqueness to it, to the bones and to the spaces that concave between them. Yet, it is perhaps one of my favorite parts of myself. I love the distortion, the eerie feel and look that the prominence of the mountain range highly arched and reaching for more, filing only with oxygen to a capacity that levels the valley to a plateau.

The curves that a women has between her hips and her chest, especially when she lays on her side, are perhaps the most sensual, the most beautiful, the most linear, and uninterrupted.

Increasingly I am photographing myself. This in an effort to learn my camera, play with composition and also to see myself, to constantly look at what I am. To develop a sense of what I see in behind the lens, on the computer screen and in the post following. The more I look at each area of myself the more comfortable I become with my imperfections, and I begin to see those in a quite lovely way.

In conversations I have during the day I find myself processing my self. Doing this on my own is new. The dialogue is internal now. It used to be an exchange, but alas, though I love my friends dearly I am at a loss for that banter. None the less, necessity is the mother nature of invention, and so we grow, I am growing and developing a whole new set of skills. The fear here is that if you do not share these skills, these new aspects of self, you will then internalize them to such a degree that you have built a structure stronger than the Hoover Damn, and more engulfing then the Mariana’s Trench – you have built – A WALL.

Building personal walls is a skill. Like building a tangible structure of containment, a wall requires patience, a plan, and dedication to the process (At the least original walls of brick and mortar do, I suppose now they are all framed and done with poured concrete, but as I like to consider myself more of an old soul, we shall be referencing brick walls.) with attention to detail.

Personal walls are the same.

1. A reason to build – family dispute, broken heart (prob the most common)

2. A plan – where to begin, how large it should be, how to defend it, and who or what is ever allowed to transcend it.

3. materials – pack up the memories, change routine, buy clothes, get new friends

4. time – the more hurt you are, the stronger the wall you will aim to build, the harder to break it down.

The building of a wall is generally to protect oneself from something unpleasant that they themselves have experienced or otherwise have an unjustified fear  of (because if you have never been in love than being afraid of getting hurt is ridiculous because you don’t yet understand love, let alone the pain and the drive of it.). I built my wall to protect me from pain, from sadness and from disappointment.

THE PROBLEM WITH BUILDING WALLS -

The problem with building a wall is that you are not building a life. Your skills are strictly defensive, and you are always poised and ready to protect that which you have worked so hard to safe guard. As a result, those that you may want, or may have wanted around you are pushed so far away that they can not look back. Despite finding the peepholes, there is not cannon ball that will crush the foundation of the wall. At least you don’t think that there is. This is particularly tricky when the wall stems from a broken heart or a family feud. At some point, a broken heart must mend, and if it mends it will likely break again, so why let it mend? If you remember the bad, focus on the negative, expect the worse and continue to only develop the skills needed to build walls, then you will push away that which your heart desires out of fear. And a life lived in fear is not a life worth living; and when that which you love is gone, your wall will shatter in you palms.

To build a wall is to block communication, to restrict access and to assume that those who are peering in are only doing so with ill intention. But when you finally push your love, or your family so far away that they are gone, well you realize that building yourself such a strong wall cost you everything that you cared about. But when in that mode, you are afraid to stop building, it becomes all that you know. If you are not shielding yourself from those you want, then how are you integrating them, how are you communicating with them and expressing your desire for their company. Well, simply put, you are not. You are then brought to your demise by your own creation much as our tragic heros of mythology.

And thus, my wall has tumbled, and though I fear that I will rebuild, I am holding out and holding on to the little hope I have that there will be reasons, experiences, friends, and my son to keep me from rebuilding. I have begun learning the tools needed for building roads, and I hope to forget some of those for building walls.

Here is to the road in my head, and the road in my heart, may their paths meet where my road ends.

As a runner, and a self conscious teenager I became obsessed with staying thin, and in shape. And lacking a strong feminine role model, as I got older, despite the words of the man that loved me, I stayed avid in my workouts, and, other than drinking, rigid in my diet. This carried over to being uncomfortable when I was pregnant, an experience I think I would feel much differently about now, perhaps cherish the change, not fight it.

Pregnancy caused great distress on my stomach. I am tiny. And, prior to my son’s birth, my belly button was blue and bruised, my stretch marks were purple and my skin burned because it was stretched so tight. There was nothing to cherish by this point except the end.

Following my son’s birth I was as accepting as I could be. I began running, and with breast feeding and working all the weight came off very quickly. As I regained the form I thought I knew so well, I realized I was in fact regaining something entirely different. My body would never be the same, nor would my life.

When my marriage began to suffer, I thought that improving my appearance might help and again became focused on how I looked, though it was only focused outwardly, on the inside, I was torn to pieces. I was confused and lacking confidence.

Recently though, the battle has ended. About a year to a year and a half ago I began to realize that I would have to work at being fat, and sloppy, that I was an active and healthy young person who could more than afford to indulge once in a while. And slowly, as I began to run less, but play at the playground more, lift weights less, but throw the base ball more, eat less routinely, but when I am hungry, occasionally eat ice cream, cake, pizza, fires, egg rolls etc. As I slowly began to let go, I also began to understand the natural balance of my body and how it regulates itself, and informs quite specifically, what I need and want.

Now, I am ok with it. with all of it.