"Understand The Voice Within, And Feel The Changes Already Beginning..."

‘I’ve been here before,’ I thought, sitting on my bed in the midst of a mind-unconstipating “Aha!” moment.

The clutter started last spring, right around the end of April, when my left knee started slipping out of place. I couldn’t stop thinking, “What if?” Then, when I decided to have surgery, I became consumed with, “What will happen next?”

Underneath these questions was another question asked by a voice I didn’t hear. At least not right away.

The house got cleaned and the husband got fed and the dogs got let out and the plants got watered, but in terms of my professional life, nothing got done. Whenever I tried to think about what to write next, my mind was mud. It hurt. Thoughts ran away and took refuge in planning what I’d make for dinner and remembering if I’d let the dogs out or watered the plants.

Six years ago, I had a question begin the same way, as a whisper in the back of my head – “Do you want to lose weight?” It had to get as loud as an 1880s farm wife clanging a dinner bell before I gave it proper attention.

In April, the question that began as a whisper was, “What do you want to write?” Notice the question wasn’t, “DO you want to write.” I had a choice to lose weight, but ask any writer about writing and they’ll tell you it is as necessary as breathing. I know this. I feel this every day. And yet I resisted. Still I would think, ‘Nothing! I don’t want to write anything! Leave me alone! I’m recovering from knee surgery?’

(…No, I don’t want to lose weight. Leave me alone! Can’t you see I’m happy being 300 pounds?”…)

The voice now, just as the voice in 2004, was having none of that.

Before I had surgery, I asked the members of Lynn’s Weigh on Facebook (come on over and join us!) if they had suggestions for books to read during recovery. One member suggested anything by the author Elizabeth Berg. I checked out her book, “The Art of Mending,” and was hooked.

Shortly after I finished, I went online to find more titles by Elizabeth Berg and found she’d written a non-fiction book called “Escaping Into the Open: The Art of Writing True.” (Hmmmm…my weight loss journey started with the book “Get With The Program” by Bob Greene.)

I ordered two of Berg’s fictions as well as “Escaping Into the Open,” and when they arrived, I devoured the fiction. The non-fiction sat on my books shelf for weeks. (“Get With the Program” sat in my nightstand for months…)

I passed "Escaping..." every day and felt a little guilty about it just sitting there. I mean, I paid good money for it and everything, so I moved it to on top of my nightstand. Soon after, a friend wrote to me (coincidentally?) and said she decided to quit her job and write a book. Just like that. No mud in her mind. She just knew.

That’s when the volume got turned up real loud in my head: “What do you want to write?!”

It was finally time to “sit on my cushion,” to quote my former therapist, and make space for and query that vast darkness in my mind.

I opened “Escaping…” and by page 18, I was ready to start journaling. From the journaling was born…just like six years ago…that awesome “Aha!” moment when it became crystal clear what I wanted.

Of course like anything we decide to accomplish, “Aha!” is just the beginning. The real work lies ahead. (Or is it “lays”? Calling all proofreaders! Gail? Anybody?) It’s not enough to say, “I want to lose weight” or “I want to write ___.” You have to commit to the path, even though you know that path will include temptations, frustrations, and mind-numbing boredom.

But if you allow your “Aha!” moment and all the work you did prior to that moment to be your companions (thus the reason I encourage everyone to journal their answers), you’ll not wander too far for too long from that path.

I’m only a week into my writing commitment and already I’ve found comfort in my “Aha!” moment. I’ve reread it several times to remind myself what I want. I’m on the path. God knows the writing process itself will muddy my mind all on its own, just as cheesy mashed potatoes and peanut butter ice cream try to muddy my diet. But it’s mud I’ll encounter on the path and not the mud of a wandering, afraid-to-reflect mind. Somehow, that mud looks…I don’t know…clearer.

If you’d like to share, I’d love to hear about your “Aha!” moment(s). How did you get to it? Does it still “feed” you now on the path it started you on?

Whenever I need inspiration to deal those voices, I listen to the Moody Blues song “The Voice.”

Make a promise, take a vow. And trust your feelings, it’s easy now. Understand the voice within and feel the changes already beginning.


And how many words have I got to say? And how many times will it be this way, with your arms around the future, and your back up against the past? You’re already falling. It’s calling you on to face the music and the song that is coming through. You’re already falling. The one that it’s calling is you.

Firefox and Safari Users, I Think This New Layout Will Work!

For months now, those of you who use Firefox or Safari to browse the Internet haven't been able to leave a comment or search my blog for previous posts. I think I've finally found a design that works. Please leave a comment or send me an email (lynnbering@verizon.net) and let me know if it's finally working again.

I apologize for the long delay in finding a solution. Thanks for sticking with me! I look forward to hearing from all of you again.

Publicity? You Want Publicity? Here's My Publicity :)

For this blog, I direct you to my new page: "Haven't I Seen You Somewhere?"

I've wanted to put together a list of my publicity for new readers of Lynn's Weigh for some time now, but I've dragged my feet. Why I don't know. Maybe because it all feels kind of...gauche. I mean, I'm very grateful for the publicity because it's helped build a "community of weight losers" of which I'm honored to be a part, and I've "met" so many people who want and strive to change their physical and/or emotional well beings.

There's just something about the singular focus of publicity that makes me uncomfortable. Behind that smile is a lot of anxiety. The same anxiety I've fought for years. "Am I good enough?" and "I shouldn't be here" and "Who do you think you are, Lynn?" are the lines I fed to my head whenever I faced a camera. Yet something inside me said, "Shut up!" and I did it anyway.

Sometimes the best thing we can tell ourselves is to shut up. Shut. Up. Only then can we procede to do what we strived to do in the first place.

Here's to striving, my fellow weight losers. May you find your face on Oprah or People or Today or in your own "I Did It!" diary some day. It's all...ALL...possible.

Like Your Mother, Muscles Remember Everything (and a giveaway inside!)

The only thing this Yogi the Bear and I have in common is our love of “piiiic-i-nic baskets.” (God knows I’m not “smaaaaarter than the aaaaaaverage bear.”)

Yeah…I’m more like this Yogi the bear:

Post PT and pre-Advil this morning, I was feeling pretty darn sore in my knees and quads. That’s not unusual for a PT day. But this pain and fatigue was different because today I did…

…drum roll…

10 minutes on the elliptical!

I mostly stayed on levels 1 and 2, although I did do a 2-minute burst at level 6.

It felt like an hour.

‘Oh how quickly my muscles forgot,’ I thought as I huffed and sweated through the last agonizing minute.

Or did they? It seems that muscles might not forget, or at least they don’t forget for very long.

NPR’s "All Things Considered" reported Sunday on a study that suggests muscle memory may last...

get this…

FOREVER.

“No More Gym? Don’t Worry, Your Muscles Remember”: Muscles actually have a memory of their former strength — and that memory may last indefinitely, University of Oslo physiologist Kristian Gundersen tells NPR's Audie Cornish. Gundersen's team just released a study that has good news for those of us who used to be fit.


The study challenges the idea that muscles go back to their starting condition when you stop strength training.“Our findings suggest that there are permanent structural changes in the muscle," says Gundersen. "We don't know if they're really permanent, but they're very long-lasting in animals, at least."


The researchers put mice through strength training on their hind legs. Building muscle generates new muscle nuclei, which Gundersen calls the "small factories that will produce new muscle." Then the researchers took the mice off their training regimen. Gundersen observed their nuclei directly with specialized microcameras, and found that although the mice lost muscle mass, they still maintained the muscle nuclei. Those nuclei give the muscle a head start when training resumes.

I’ve been slowly resuming my strength training regimen since surgery 9 weeks ago. My arms are doing pretty well. It only took them a few weeks to get comfortable with the old routine again. Same with my calves. I’m back to holding a 15-pound weight when I do calf lifts on the step. My abs are resisting a little, but those exercises are a little harder to do given the limitations I still have with my knee.

It’s the large muscles – my quads and hamstrings – that are complaining the most. But getting them back in full working order is the most important thing I can do for my arthritic knees. (See “Strong Quadriceps Protect Women’s Knees from Pain”)

I’m a HUGE proponent of strength training, particularly for women. It’s not enough that we sweat our way through hours of walking, running, ellipticals, stair-steppers, biking, whatever your cardio of choice is. We also need to engage in resistance training. Nothing big. Twenty minutes 2-3 times a week will suffice. The best part is that you don’t need the go to a gym! I don’t. I do it in my home with some hand weights, Thera-Band, a couple of weighted balls, an exercise ball and my own body weight (push-ups, anyone?)

This article is a good place to start if you’re not sure how or why to begin: “Strength Training For Women” (From the Women’s Heart Foundation).

To celebrate the memory of muscles, I’m giving away a used copy (Not my copy. I could never part with it.) of my very favorite strength training book, “The Body Sculpting Bible for Women: Featuring the 14-Day Body Sculpting Workout” by Hugo A. Rivera, James C. Villepigue and James Villepigue.

Leave a comment, or if you prefer or cannot leave a comment because of Blogger’s “technical” difficulties with Firefox and Safari (grrr….), send an email to lynnbering@verizon.net to throw your name in the hat. I’ll draw a winner this Saturday (Aug. 28).

Now go pick up a couple of soup cans and work those biceps!

Seeing Things For the First Time

Claire and I went to Borders yesterday. It’s not the first time she’s been in a book store, and her mom takes her regularly to their local library, as do I when she visits me. Still, she was amazed by all the books, like she was seeing them for the first time.

I’ve lived in my body all my life, and yet it wasn’t until I was 41 that I started to really pay attention to it, like I was seeing it for the first time. Six years later, I’m still paying attention and learning how it all works, and I’ve expanded this awareness into other parts of my life as well.

On Lynn’s Weigh on Facebook last week, I posted: “The truth really does set us free. I faced the scale after my ‘just a few bites’ weekend, and while it was up a little, knowing my number - the truth - is WAY less scary than what my head said it was. The truth isn’t always easy, I know. But what truths are you not as likely to run away from anymore or want to stop running away from?”

April wrote: “I think getting out of the ‘I’m destined” to be fat mentality was big for me....NO ONE is destined to be fat. A truth that can be hard to face especially for a girl who weighed 206 her Freshman year of HS. This is how I know myself, and convincing myself not to confuse my identity with the ‘wrapper’ has been VERY hard.”

Tammy replied: “Hmm…probably the truth that I’m also not destined to be fat. Genetics may not be on my side, but that is no reason to throw in the towel and surrender. My great-grandparents aren’t forcing me to shove a jelly donut down my throat, so I just need to own it.”

We live so much of our lives on autopilot and in fear. We accept things we’ve not tested or questioned as truth, and we find comfort in doing things the way we’ve always done them, even when doing so hurts us or holds us back.

When I was 300 pounds, I knew I was obese, but I didn’t want to see it. I wanted to like things the way they were, when in truth, I was afraid to change. Afraid to fail again. Afraid to find out what was underneath the weight I’d added to the person who – even when thin – was flawed, often sad, and had run away from some pretty big truths.

It still takes some convincing for me to stay present sometimes, and I’ve still got fears ‘o plenty. But I know that until I ask, “What do I REALLY want or need” and make an honest inquiry about what keeps me stuck, I cannot change.

Most of have done this at some point in our lives. We stay in our habits, hoping things will change “some day” and in the meantime, we continue to suffer emotional pain because we allow ourselves and others to treat us unfairly; suffer from heartburn, high blood pressure and other diseases because we eat too much; suffer physical pain because we don’t use our muscles; and suffer self-sabotage because we don’t appreciate and love who we are.

Seeing things for the first time can be scary, but it can, in time, lighten our hearts and our bodies, if we so choose. Facing that fear is what in Buddhism is known as “having tea with Mara.” Tara Brach retells the story of the demon Mara in her book “Radical Acceptance”:

“One of my favorite stories of the Buddha shows the power of a wakeful and friendly heart. On the morning of Buddha’s enlightenment Mara, the fearsome demon who symbolizes the shadow-side of human nature, fled in defeat and disarray. In Sanskrit “Mara” means “delusion” – that craving and fear that obscure our enlightened nature.

But it seems that he was only temporarily discouraged. Even after the Buddha had embarked on his teaching career and become a revered figure throughout Indian, Mara continued to make unexpected appearances. Instead of driving him away, however, the Buddha would calmly acknowledge the demon’s presence saying, “I see you, Mara.”
He would then invite him for tea and serve him as an honored guest.

Offering Mara a cushion so that he could sit comfortably, the Buddha would fill two earthen cups with tea and place them on a low table between them. Mara would stay for awhile and then go, but throughout, the Buddha remained free and undisturbed.

You see, when Mara visits us in the form of troubling emotions or fearsome stories, we can say, “I see you Mara,” and clearly recognize the craving and fear that persists in each human heart. The objective is to see what is true and to hold what is seen with kindness….

Our habit of being a fair-weather friend to ourselves – of pushing away or ignoring whatever darkness we can – is deeply entrenched…. We truly befriend ourselves when, rather than resisting our experience, we open our hearts and willingly invite Mara to tea….”

When Normal Comes Calling (or yelling)

No sooner had I emailed my friend Shari on Tuesday, telling her I was going to lay down for awhile because the goldenrod had bloomed and I had an allergy headache, that I developed a sudden craving for salad. And on that salad I wanted a cucumber. Sadly all that was left of the cucumber in the crisper was a little stub.

What to do, what to do. My head needed a lie-down, but I really wanted a cucumber on my salad. So I put off my nap and drove to our local farm market to buy a cucumber.

One hour AND…one cucumber, three nectarines, a melon, five heads of garlic, six sweet onions, two pints of green beans, one pint of blueberries, one large zucchini, two red peppers, and 10…yes 10!...pounds of Roma tomatoes later, I was in the middle of making five batches of roasted tomato sauce.

No nap for Lynn. But at least in between roasting batches of tomatoes, I ate a salad with a bunch of cucumber chunks on top and my headache disappeared.

Lately I’ve had this never-before craving to move. It’s like a food craving, the kind in which you want a sweet/sour/salty/mint ice cream/Little Debbie/Texas toast (or cucumber) fix so badly that you’re salivating and will drive 20 miles in rush-hour traffic and stand in the check-out line for an hour just to get it. Only instead of a food fix, I want a movement fix. Something – anything! – more than what I’ve done the last 8 weeks: “Watch out!”, “Don’t fall!”, sit-down showers, and living out of a laundry basket because of stair avoidance.

It started as a whisper last week – “Come on, do a little more. It’s OK.” This week my body is like a coach screaming at an umpire just before he’s thrown out of the game.

“Get up! Move around! Do something!!”

To clarify, I’ve not been sitting around for 8 weeks. I go to PT three times a week and I do my exercises at home. It’s hard work. The voice I heard this week is my Normal calling me, and it told me it’s tired of being stymied.

And so I moved the way it challenged me to.

Along with the spaghetti sauce, I organized the move that brought my gym and office upstairs and my bedroom downstairs. While Larry (with the help of our next-door neighbor) was the muscle, I did my fair share of lifting, moving, bending, stretching, reaching…everything my body was craving. By the end of the day, my office and gym were set up, the grandkids’ toys were in their new home, and most of my clothes were in my “new” room. My knee felt like it was being strangled with bare hands, but that’s why God made ice and heating pads, right? 

We went from this:

To this:

Today’s desire to move kicked in when my new lazy Susans arrived. (By the way, who is Susan and why is she lazy?) I also bought 16 glass spice bottles and filled all of them with my spice mixtures and other herbs I'd stored in Ziploc bags.

We all live within a me-specific Normal. But stuff comes up. We get distracted and busy and we stray from our normal. We have surgery or develop a disease that causes us to change what normal is. However normal changes, both our body and mind have to agree on what to do and how to move in order to feel normal again. This week, my body spoke the loudest. My head took into consideration what it said (despite the screaming) and agreed (or in some cases, simply acquiesced). I pushed myself just a little bit more and the reward is that I’m a little bit better and a little closer to normal. The bonus is the emotional satisfaction. I have a new work space, a new bedroom, a TON of yummy spaghetti sauce in the freezer, and an organized spice cupboard. Each feels good, like home.

So does my body. It’s my home. And I like it, despite (and sometimes because of) its flaws and outbursts.

If Only Thoughts Burned Calories

Today was the first day in 8 weeks that I broke even the tiniest sweat doing something remotely close to a real workout. I rode a stationary recumbent bike for (don’t laugh) 10 minutes.

Yes, I’ve ridden my stationary recumbent bike at home for a few weeks, but this one’s different. It’s the bike at physical therapy. It’s fancier, has more resistance AND…people – namely my PT – are everywhere, they could see me, and a guy was riding a bike next to me. An older guy. At least 10 years older than me.

Competitive (and vain) me was all over that, and within a few seconds I was matching him stride for stride, even though my thighs were burning.

It was the longest 10 minutes of my life. OK, maybe giving birth was harder. But still…

It’s not my legs that have forgotten to work. God knows I’ve been doing enough lower body PT these last six weeks. It’s my overall endurance – particularly in the cardio department – that has me by huffing and puffing right now. How quickly the lungs forget!

While I biked, my thinking was all over the place. From shopping lists to-do lists to “Is it over yet? God a minute feels like forever!” I couldn’t turn my mind off. I remembered something I’d written a few years ago about my thoughts while working out on an arc trainer. When I got home I looked it up and read it and realized that while the way my body works has changed significantly, the way my mind works hasn’t changed one bit. The random thoughts from then were pretty close to the ones I had today on the bike. I wonder if any of them are familiar to you.

From April 2008: Random Thoughts On An Arc Trainer

“I can do this, no problem.

I’m bored. Music? No, wait, I haven’t listened to ‘Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me’ yet. That’ll distract me.

I’m not going to work out very hard. Nope. Gonna go easy. OK, it’s 10 minutes to 8:00. I’ll be done a little after 8:30. Increase to 30. Yeah, that’s it. No problem.

The chick next to you is bouncing around at only 20. What a wimp! She can’t be more than 19 years old and she can’t take more than a 20 intensity? Wait, maybe she’s sick or is just getting back into exercise. What a bitch you’re being, Lynn. But crank it up anyway. 45. Yeah. 45. You want to sweat, Lynn. Show her. Come on, show her what you can do.

OK, back off to 40. I can’t breathe.

How many more minutes left? 35? Ugh. Everyone in here is so young and thin. Stop it, Lynn. You’re not old. I feel old. I’m sweating finally. Did my knee just pop?

This is going to take FOREVER. Why am I doing this? Because you want to stay thin. What if I just stopped now? 20 minutes is enough. No. It’s not. What should I make for dinner? I have to go to the grocery store.

Music. I need music. No, not that song. Not that song. I need to update this iPod. Not that song. There, ‘Back in Black’. That’ll work. I’m half done, thank god.

Hmmm….he’s kind of cute. Don’t stare, Lynn. He’s young enough to be your son. Shut your eyes. Listen to the music. Concentrate for a minute.

Crank it back up to 45. There, that’s good. My butt doesn’t feel too bad. How many more minutes? 18. I’ll do 45 for 2 minutes then 40 for a few then back to 45. Yeah. That’s what I’ll do.

The sun’s shining. Maybe I’ll take a walk today. I need mulch. Maybe I’ll go to Wal-Mart. Did I leave the stove on? Crap, I think I did. I need to vacuum. And call the groomer. And pick up Cooper’s doggie medicine. I have to write a blog. What will I say?

How many more minutes? This is taking forever. What time is it? 8:27. Good. Almost done. Is that girl getting on the stepper now? Man, she just did a half hour on the elliptical. I wish I had that stamina. Wait, she’s not sweating. I’m dripping like I just got out of the shower. Does that mean she’s not working as hard as me or that I’m just prone to sweating? Is my underwear showing?

Oh no, I forgot deodorant. Try to keep your arms down. Man, you smell, Lynn! Will there be a bench available in the weight room when I’m done? Or do I want to do my abs at home? No, do them here. Wait, do them at home. No, because if I decide to do them at home I’ll get distracted and busy and not do them at all. Do them here.

Two minutes to go. Cool down. No, one more minute at 45, then a 1-minute cool down. That’s all you need.

I feel pretty good. I don’t have to do this again for 24 hours. Maybe I’ll like it tomorrow. Maybe I’ll want to do it tomorrow. At least I did it today. What’s for breakfast?”

Wouldn’t it be GREAT if thoughts burned calories? There would be no need for diets because we’d all be thin as rails!

************
Congrats to Dayna C who won my drawing for the book, "Women, Food and God"! Thanks all of you for throwing your name in the hat. I just wish I had a book for everyone.

Learning the Lesson Of “Just a few bites…” Again.

I don’t do it often, but when I do…

Doh!

I couldn’t eat my birthday dinner on Saturday. Not. A. Bite. The culprit: Too many other bites of un-food earlier in the day.

When I say “a few bites,” I mean – quite literally – no more than a few bites of white bread, fake cheese, a store-bought cookie, iceberg lettuce, Jell-O “fluff” with “fruit,” and restaurant coleslaw. But enough “few bites” of several kinds of un-food make my real digestive system reeeeeallllly angry, and late afternoon it was asking, “What the hell were you thinking?”

Well… You know…

What I was thinking was that it was just a few bites on one day. My birthday. Don’t we get a bye on our birthday? (And Christmas, Thanksgiving, Halloween, Labor Day, Mother’s Day, Best Friend Day and every other Sunday in the months that begin with J?)

And, of course, the answer is a resounding, “No!”

I know that bad restaurant salad bars are evil. I really do. I preach it, for cryin’ out loud. “Stay away from bad restaurant salad bars!”

But there I was, face-to-face with a bad restaurant salad bar and all its un-food and I thought, ‘Well, if I hold myself to just a few bites of whatever to get me through the rest of the time out with the grandkids, I’ll be fine.’ I mean, it’s not like I’d ordered the barbecue beef on a huge white bun, served with French fries and ham and bean soup. (No, that would be my iron-stomach/ultra-metabolic husband who could STILL could eat my birthday dinner 8 hours later.)

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve eaten like this in 5½ years, but you’d think I’d have learned the first or even the second time: I can NEVER eat the way I used to. I am physically incapable. All it takes is a few hundred calories of un-food and my stomach revolts, I’m tired the rest of the day, I feel 10 pounds heavier, and it takes two days for my body to normalize.

For optimum comfort, I need to stick to a plan – especially when un-food is on the menu, as it was Friday night. I decided, since we were camping, to have a s’more for my birthday treat. Granddaughter Claire was super excited about roasting marshmallows, something she’d never done but for some reason associates with camping. (She also called Grandpa Thursday night and asked him to bring his guitar so we could sing songs around the campfire. Which we did.)

So we roasted marshmallows and made s’mores our first night at the cabin, the day before my actual birthday.

But I’d planned for it.

(So did my grandson, Luca.)

Two low-fat graham cracker squares, a half of a Hershey’s milk chocolate bar, and one jumbo marshmallow is 170 calories and 7 grams of fat and 100 percent delicious and satisfying. All day I’d looked forward to it. I could taste it. And when I ate it, it was every bit as good as I anticipated. It was a true treat. A birthday gift with no repercussions.

Un-food at a restaurant salad bar? Unplanned and consumed in haste? Total waste of my time, calories, and money, and a seriously HUGE birthday let-down because I couldn’t eat my anxiously anticipated and perfectly planned birthday dinner: an Amy’s California veggie burger, corn on the cob, and my signature roasted potato wedges served with my favorite condiments: fat-free sour cream, ketchup and mustard.

Doh!

(Claire enjoyed my birthday dinner, though.)

In my last post, "Are You Getting It? Really Getting It?" I said that I’d lost weight for me. The same is true for maintenance. I am the only person occupying MY body and you are the only person occupying YOUR body. We are the experts on what too much weight feels like on our own bones and hearts and minds. We’re the only ones who know what eating right or making poor choices feels like. When we talk ourselves into abandoning or are encouraged to abandon our plan for “a few bites” or “just one day,” we suffer the consequences.

Lesson learned. Again. I’m moving on, determined a little more to make a better choice next time. Because there WILL BE a next time. There always is. That’s why a good food plan (and our belief in and love of ourselves…don’t forget that part) is always our best line of defense.

(To read a related blog about indulgences, see “Forgive Me For Getting A Little Testy.”)

Are You Getting It? Really Getting It?

I didn’t do it to be on “Oprah”. I didn’t do it to get in “People” magazine. I didn’t even do it for my husband or my kids or for all the other folks who love me.

I did it for me.

There are a lot more of you reading my blog these days (Welcome!) and so I thought I’d offer a quick primer (or refresher) to what led to and sustains me in my weight-loss/maintenance journey.

The top three questions I get asked when people find out I lost 170 pounds are: 1) How did you get started? 2) Do you have excess or loose skin? and 3) How did you/do you stay on plan?

I answered question 2 here: “Closer to Accepting the Flabby Bits”.

But I think the more important questions are 1 and 3. And the answer to 3 stems from my answer to 1.

In 2005, I didn’t understand how vital self love and appreciation are in successful weight-loss. “Successful” being the operative word. All the times before, I lost for someone or something else: a guy, a wedding, or to punish myself. But this last time, I’d crossed a threshold, and a two-week starvation diet wasn’t going to cure my ills. I was on the cusp of all kinds of diseases. Scary diseases. And if I didn’t do something to lose weight, I would further jeopardize my health.

Watching the rerun of “Oprah” today, I was transported to 2004. To the day I bought Bob Greene’s* book, “Get With The Program!” The book that finally got me asking: Was I worth one less helping of mashed potatoes? Worth giving up that bag of sunflower seeds every night? Worth waking up out of my food fog and getting real about how my weight was hindering my life?

The answer was within, and within was a scary place.

I hated Bob for a few weeks as I journaled how I felt emotionally about…stuff. Stuff. Lots of stuff. But the more I wrote, the more I realized (AHA!) that weight was about me…ME!...and not everyone and everything else in my life. I had to occupy the center of my life in order to be in the center of my weight loss.

So the answer to question #1 is: The core of your intent to lose weight must be YOU. YOUR health. YOUR future. YOUR peace of mind. Once you believe that you are worth every moment you will spend cooking, eating, and living a more healthy lifestyle, you will succeed. It’s only through that true, heart-felt belief in yourself that you’ll “get it.” That no matter what life throws at you, you won’t let food or excuses dominate your life.

Sure, your eyes may get diverted (dessert tray, anyone?). You might give in a time or ten to “just one more bite.” But once you “get it” – and to answer question #3 – you’ll always have your original intent to remind you why you are on your journey.

I stay on plan because I am worth this journey. I am worth the hard work. 300-pound me told me so when she got out a journal and started writing about it.

YOU are worth this journey, too. Dig out a piece of paper and start writing. Why? Because it’s remembering what you thought about and felt and went through during that path to “getting it” – really committing yourself to yourself – that will sustain you when you get stuck or want to give up or get lost in that fog.

Trust me on this. I have 170 pounds of experience backing me up.
--------------------
* When I met Bob Greene on stage on “Oprah” and gave him a big hug (and I feel terrible that I interrupted him during my interview), it felt like my journey had come full circle. I hope one day I get to tell him that in person and to thank him.

My Oprah Episode To Re-Air Today!

Just a quickie to let you know that I heard from a friend that the Oprah show I was on in Nov. 2007 will re-air again today (Aug. 12).

If you'd like to read about my experience and see a few photos, click here.

I hope you find inspiration, as I did, listening to the awesome stories of weight loss and perseverence of the folks on this show. It was quite a moment for me, but an even greater learning experience that continues to educate me two years later.

The “Prime” Of My Life

At 8 a.m., I dug a splinter out of the bottom of my left foot. By 4 p.m., the garden was weeded and pruned, the garage was swept, the birdbath was algae-free, the porch plants were watered and the porch was swept, the bathroom rugs were washed, the wireless network was set up, the Jeep was clean (inside and out), my legs were shaved, and the checkbook was balanced.

Clearly the excitement of seeing the bottom of my foot for the first time in 7 weeks started an adrenaline-fueled chain reaction.

Now I’m sitting on the deck with an ice pack on my knee, but it’s worth every minute of today. Plus, it gives me time to think about the close of my 46th year – a year of physical pain, yet perseverance. Still, I won’t be sorry to see the screen door hit its ass on its way out.

I turn 47 on Saturday. I’ll be “camping” (in a cabin) in Cook Forest with my family (including the g-babies!), and my birthday cake will be a s’more. Not sure where we’ll put the candle, but I can’t think of a better way to start my next prime number birthday.

Either by coincidence or the mystery of mathematics, prime number ages have been the most complicatingly life-changing.

19: My daughter was born and my husband died.

23: I divorced a big mistake.

29: My “cougar” year. Although can you really be a cougar at 29? Junior cougar, maybe? Cougar-in-training, perhaps? Whatever, it was a fun year.

41: I started thinking seriously about losing weight. Journaled. Tough but necessary work.

43: 2006. The year of the wedding. Before the deck, before the grandbabies, before goal – things that made me super happy from 44-46 – 43 ranks as one of the best years of my life. By my 43rd birthday, I’d lost 130 pounds and was exercising, my daughter was marrying a great guy, and I was on the path to figuring out who I am.

47: It will be a good year. I can feel it. Even if my knee is swollen like a grapefruit and cowering under a bag of frozen peas.

As my birthday gift to you, I am giving away my copy of “Women, Food and God: An Unexpected Path To Almost Anything” by Geneen Roth. I mentioned it in my blog from a few weeks ago, “Wiggle Your Toes and Breathe.”

I was introduced to mindfulness practice four years ago (prime age 43!), so the book was a good reminder of why I practice. If you’re not familiar with the book, here’s a snippet of the review from Amazon.com: “If you suffer about your relationship with food – you eat too much or too little, think about what you will eat constantly or try not to think about it at all – you can be free. Just look down at your plate. The answers are there. Don't run. Look. Because when we welcome what we most want to avoid, we contact the part of ourselves that is fresh and alive. We touch the life we truly want and evoke divinity itself.”

If you’d like to throw your name in the hat for this book, leave a comment or send me an email at lynnbering@verizon.net, especially if you use Firefox or Safari because it’s nearly impossible to leave a comment on my blog if you use those browsers for some technological reason that is way beyond my understanding. Don’t be afraid to send an email! I promise I won’t spam you. Pinky swear.

I’ll draw a winner next Monday (Aug. 16), when I’m officially my latest prime-number age.

Not Fried Refried Beans

The first time I made these “refried” beans, I followed the recipe in The Super Foods Rx Diet by Wendy Bazilian and Steven Pratt to a T (a book I ADORE and, honestly, only let me down this one time).

Per the recipe, I soaked the beans in the crockpot the night before, cooked them on low for 10 hours the next day, added the (too short) list of ingredients, mashed the beans with a hand mixer (disastrously frustrating), then took a taste test. Oh. My. God. They were awful. I wanted those 10 hours back, or at least the one I’d spent making that batch of disaster. I hated them so much I actually ranted in my kitchen and wrote across the top (in pencil): “Never make these again! They’re bland and they suck!”

A few weeks went by. I was haunted by those beans, convinced I could make them better. But at that time I was not a recipe strayer, at least not with new recipes. I didn’t trust my instincts because…well…I didn’t think I had cooking instincts. Recipe straying takes confidence, and while I was a good cook within my own tried-and-true recipe arena, I didn’t think I knew enough about cooking to have an opinion.

However, after a few weeks, I really REALLY wanted refried beans and the ones in the can had way too much sodium, thus the reason I attempted to make my own in the first place. I went back to the book, erased what I wrote and instead, challenged myself: “A bit bland. Needs more oomph.”

I bought a couple pounds of dried beans, thought outside the box, and after several experimental batches, came up with this, my modified recipe. 

Lynn’s Not Fried Refried Beans

Yields 2 cups
¼ C equals 50 cal., 0 gms fat, 3.5 gms fiber

8 oz dried pinto beans
2-3 T minced onions (if you like a good strong onion flavor) OR ½ C diced onions OR ½ t onion powder (the diced or the powder will give you a more mild onion flavor)
½ T chili powder
½ t garlic powder
¼ t salt
¼ t cumin
¼ t ground chipotle pepper (optional)
A few shakes of red pepper flakes (optional)

If you remember to soak the beans the night before, do that. But if you’re like me and decide at 3 in the afternoon that you want refried beans for dinner, put them in a pot covered with cold water, bring to a boil, boil for 2 minutes, turn them off and let them sit for an hour.

Drain.

Put the beans back in the pot. If you’re using minced/dried onions or diced onions, throw them in there, too. Refill pot with fresh water. Simmer for 90 minutes or until the beans are very tender. Drain, reserving about ½ cup of the cooking water. (If you forget to do this, no worries. Regular water will work.)

Put the beans in a food processor fitted with the blade. As I mentioned, I used a hand mixer with less than stellar results. But then, I get frustrated easily, so if you’re patient, you will probably have a better experience. You can also mash all this up with a potato masher or fork.

Add the rest of the ingredients to the beans. Process (or mix or mash) for about 30 seconds. Add a ¼ to ½ cup of bean water (or regular water) and process for another minute or so. Check consistency. Mix things around a little with a spatula and process again for another minute or two, adding water if you want them creamier. Check the taste and add whatever you think they need: more salt, chili pepper, whatever. Process again if you need to. Remember, these are YOUR beans and get to make them however you want.

That’s it. Pretty simple, eh?

I think everyone needs something to call our signature food. Something we’re known for. Something people request we bring to a party. My ex-husband made killer spaghetti, and my now husband makes a garlicy scallops dish that, although I’m a vegetarian, would request for my last meal.

My mom makes chocolate chip cookies to die for. Daughter Carlene makes amazing banana bread. Daughter Cassie can do things with lentils that would knock your socks off. They kinda sorta follow a recipe, but they know what ingredients work best for the results they’re looking for, so to duplicate what they do is futile.

How about you? What recipe are you known for?

On Being Called "Fat"

I’m reading a collection of short stories by Elizabeth Berg, the title of the collection being what lured me: “The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted (And Other Small Acts of Liberation).” Body weight and self-esteem are themes in several of the stories, but it’s the story “Full Count” that I (unfortunately) can relate to the most.

It’s the story of a pre-teen girl visiting her relatives in North Dakota for the first time in two years. She’s so happy to be there among them, free and innocent. She goes to the lake with her grandfather (whom everyone calls Bampo) and cousins, and after swimming, they all play tag. Janey, the main character, is “it.”

“[Janey] walks over to the bushes, laughing. There they all are, every one of them, including Bampo, crouched in the greenery and peering up at her. ‘I see you,’ she said. ‘Y’all come out of those bushes.’

“A kind of guffaw, and then there is the sound of Michael imitating her, saying in a high voice, ‘Y’all come out of those bushes!’ All the cousins laugh. For a moment, she holds the smile on her face, the bright happiness she was enjoying still inside her. But then Michael comes crashing out of the bushes and walks past her with a look of disgust on his face. ‘Lard ass,’ he mutters.

“She jerks back a breath. Lard ass. What does it mean?...

“She is not a stallion, wild and free. She is a girl whose bangs were cut crookedly last time and whose mother told her to stop complaining. Her teeth are too big and her eyes are too small…She does not have any friends, really. And here, the last, she understands she has gotten fat. She understands the reason for the looks that pass between her mother and her father when she asks for pie, for French fries, for more.”

The story ends with Bampo taking his grandchildren to Dairy Queen. Everyone orders something except Janey. She’s hungry, so hungry that she’s lightheaded, but she orders nothing.

When I was a kid, being called fat was the worst thing I could imagine.

And when it happened, it was.

“Try out for cheerleading with me,” said my friend Robin a few months into 8th grade. “We’ll have fun.”

Robin was one of the lucky ones. She was growing into her body proportionately, and she had long blond hair and perfect skin, too. In Robin’s world, trying out for cheerleading was as natural as breathing. For me, I could think of nothing more humiliating. But I was stuck. I knew if I told Robin no, she might not speak to me for weeks, and that was a fate worse than falling on my big-boned ass during a spread eagle jump.

So I stayed after school every day for two weeks, learning routines with the other 20 girls trying out for the four-person squad. It was the first time I’d competed for anything individually, and despite my emotional passivity, I am inherently competitive. My long legs came in handy, allowing me to jump high, do the splits, and nail a perfect cartwheel. By the time of the actual tryout, I didn’t care if I made the squad or not. In my mind, I was a cheerleader.

The results were announced over the loud speaker during daily announcements the following day. I was in third-period study hall with 30 other students from various grades. The room was quiet as Robin’s sister, a senior-high cheerleader, announced the new members of the junior-high squad. Debbie Megard. Debbie Skorr. Robin Martinson. Lynn Haraldson.

The older students at my table turned and looked at me and my face burned red. They smiled and gave me thumbs up and mouthed “Congrats!” I sat there, guts churning, not sure if what I was feeling was pride or dread. I pictured myself on game days, walking down the halls in my saddle shoes, short skirt, and orange sweater with the letter J on the front. People would know I was agile and spirited and not simply some number on the scale. I dared to think that maybe I wasn’t so awkward. Maybe I wasn’t so big-boned. Maybe I really was normal.

Then in the silence someone said, “Great. We have a fat cheerleader.”

It was Ricky, my sixth-grade boyfriend. His friends snickered. The study hall teacher told them to shut up, but the words were out there. I sat in disgrace, no longer the perky girl with the perfect cartwheel.
I was now a fat cheerleader.

1977, the photo from my yearbook.

I’m on the right with with the sloping bangs (stupid curly hair). That’s Robin on the left.