The Hope of Impermanence

There’s a smell in the countryside of western Pennsylvania that I’ve never smelled anywhere else (and it’s not the smell of fracking…yet). It’s the smell of hardwoods and evergreens, lichens and fungus, and leaves rotting on the forest floor. On summer mornings, whether I’m taking a walk  or riding on the back of the Irishman’s Harley, I want to continually inhale as it blows through my hair and bathes my skin in its cool familiarity.   

That smell is as grounding as a cleansing breath in meditation. It reminds me that home exists inside myself and that it’s possible – and preferable – to be comforted with something as simple as a smell.

Strangely enough, I am also comforted by the truth of impermanence, the Buddhist teaching that – put simply – everything organic and emotional will change, decay, and die. Understanding that truth and, more importantly, reminding myself of it (I have a really bad memory sometimes), I am better able to accept and live within painful body states and emotions.

This understanding didn’t come easy. For most of my life, I’ve clung to the hope of permanence and rebelled against change I didn’t create or welcome. I’ve moved so many times in almost 50 years that when I moved into the duplex I live in now, I promised myself I’d never plant another perennial. I’d never again leave a piece of me behind. Then, after growing tired of looking at the empty space between two day lilies, I bought two coreopsis plants, something I grew in my most recent former gardens in my most recent former house. They make me smile now, in this moment, and one day I hope they make the people who will live here after me happy, too.

It is my trust in the teachings of impermanence that I have decided it is time for another change, one

Al, left, with her sister, Willow

that I don’t like, but is in Alice’s best interest. The precarious nature of my knee means I don’t know when it will go out next, and I’ve been struggling lately to give her adequate exercise. Alice can’t live with me for a few months after my knee replacement surgery in September anyway, and so her sister Willow’s family has generously offered to foster Al while I attend to my knee now and after the surgery.

Of course, Alice doesn’t understand impermanence, and that’s what grieves me most. My sweet dog, with whom I’ve worked so hard these last four months – who walks perfectly on a lead, understands “No jump!” and runs like the wind (especially when fetch is involved), stands patiently while I bathe her and clean her ears, and earns her “good girl” treats every single day – will not understand why I’m not there to walk her or feed her or play with her or scratch her belly and call her Alice Tiberious Dog. She won’t be able to find me when it storms. I’m pretty sure I’m her best friend. She’s definitely mine. And letting her go is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life.

But…this, too, is impermanent. Her feelings, my feelings, my physical challenges…they will morph and change and mutate into something different, most likely better, because I’ve put the best people in place to give these transactions their best shot at success: Willow’s family, my family, my doctor, and my friends.

 

I will not bury the sadness I feel today. I am allowing it to bathe me with its urgency, just as I let the smell of the Pennsylvania countryside wash over me this morning when I took Al on her last (for a while) walk around our neighborhood. I am comforted by the hope of impermanence, that this, too, shall pass. 

AIM: Maintaining Support…Or Not?

I was standing over the stove yesterday whisking a cheese sauce for a new recipe I was trying (Baked Spaghetti Squashand Cheese…totally worth the time to make!) when it occurred to me that I used to sit down to whisk a cheese sauce when I weighed 300 pounds. My lower back killed me any time I stood longer than a few minutes.  

I’ve written more than a few times about how there’s no way I’d be where I am today – 150 pounds lighter than I was 8 years ago – without the support of some pretty amazing people, both in my “real” life and online. As I was losing weight, I was in touch daily on the Weight Watchers 100+ discussion boards, sometimes posting for hours in order to work out a difficult food or body issue. My friends and family were always there with words of encouragement and to help celebrate a milestone.

In maintenance, the support I need is more subtle. In fact, I often don’t recognize support as “support” until the moment has passed. At this end of the scale, support is a reminder, an experience, an appreciation. It’s remembering that at 300 pounds, my back ached while whisking cheese sauce or, in the case of this photo, rolling out lefse. I remember exactly how I was feeling and thinking at that moment my aunt told me to smile. I wanted to cry my back hurt so much, but I refused to sit down because I refused to let others see that my weight was causing me such pain. After all, I wasn’t really THAT overweight! (Oh the lies I told myself…)

Support is a friend sharing her own realization that I could appreciate and make my own. I had lunch last weekend with my friend, Chris, whom I had met on the 100+ boards eight years ago when I was just starting my journey and she had already lost more than 100 pounds. During lunch, she lamented a bit about how she’s gained some of her weight back, then almost in the same breath, she corrected herself and focused on the positive.

“It’s been 10 years since I weighed over 300 pounds,” she said. “I’ve been maintaining a weight far below my highest weight. That’s a huge accomplishment!”

Yes, it is. And her “Eureka!” moment was all the support I needed to remind me how far I’ve come as well. While I, too, would like my scale number to be a little lower, I have maintained a large weight loss for more than six years. While I can’t rely on that reminder alone to keep the weight off (yes…it still takes daily concentration and dedication to maintain), it’s sometimes a good idea to step back and look at the big picture (pun intended). 

Each of us can be our own best support system. Even if you’re still in the process of losing weight or if you’re stuck on a plateau or feeling blah in maintenance, support yourself by reminding yourself how far you’ve come. Maybe do it the next time you’re at the gym or out for a walk or run, or even when you’re standing at and not sitting by the stove whisking a cheese sauce.

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AIM: Adventures in Maintenance is Lynn, Lori, Debby, Shelley, and Cammy, former weight-loss bloggers who now write about life in maintenance. We formed AIM to work together to turn up the volume on the issues facing people in weight maintenance. We publish a post on the same topic on the first Monday of each month. Let us know if there is a topic you'd like us to address!

Lori @ Finding Radiance

Debbie @ debby weighs in

Shelley @ My Journey to Fit

Cammy @ The Tippy Toe Diet