vulnerability

A dear friend of mine recently sent me a podcast about vulnerability that was part of an hour-long TED program created by NPR (a good remix if you're tired of listening to TED talks that rely heavily on visuals).  In this talk, Brene Brown -- a woman I had heretofore avoided because I saw she had been on Oprah and, well, that made me doubt how uncheesy she was going to be -- focuses on shame and vulnerability.  She defines shame as more ore less this fear:  "is there something about me, that if other people know it or see it, that I won't be worthy of connection?"

She tells the story about her struggle with vulnerability and the research she's done around people who are willing to be vulnerable.

It's a great listen:  http://www.npr.org/2013/03/11/174030515/making-mistakes

more on beginner's mind

My last post mentioned the concept of beginner's mind, and I found an article that expands on it, pointing out 10 different ways to expand your perspective:

1. Take one step at a time.
2. Fall down seven times, get up eight times.
3. Use Don’t Know mind.
4. Live without shoulds.
5. Make use of experience
6. Let go of being an expert.
7. Experience the moment fully.
8. Disregard common sense.
9. Discard fear of failure.
10. Use the spirit of inquiry

Read the rest of the article here.  I enjoyed it and hope you will, too.

making peace with peanut butter

I  confess: I love peanut butter with a fierce, burning love that should probably be reserved for a soul mate, or, you know, a person (or a pet – you know, something that can love me back). The sweet saltiness, the salty sweetness. Not even its being one of the few foods that can’t be dislodged by the Heimlich maneuver will dissuade me from my faith in its perfection.
I. Love. Peanut Butter.
Now, I’m sure you’re thinking “Kate, that’s not burning love, that’s food obsession.” But you’re wrong! I mean, it’s not like I stay up every night, dreaming of peanut better. And I don’t bathe in it (much) or talk about it (daily) or carry pictures of it in my wallet (though that’s not a bad idea). I’m not nuts! (heh heh)

It’s just that, up until about six weeks ago, if there was peanut butter in my house, I would consume it. Rapidly. By the spoonful. While standing next to the pantry door. Drooling. (It was not pretty.)

So I never bought peanut butter. Safer to just not have it in the house than to risk the 47,000 calories I was likely to consume in a sitting, like I did whenever visiting my mother, who, surprisingly, doesn’t have the same obsession. (My sister, though, suffers the same compulsion so perhaps it comes from my father’s side...)

I started reading a book called “Intuitive Eating” by Evelyn Tribole and Elyse Resch that talked about the dieting mentality and how food restriction doesn’t work. “When you rigidly limit the amount of food you are allowed to eat,” they wrote, “it usually sets you up to crave larger quantities of that very food.” So by not having peanut butter in the house, I was setting myself up for hours of drooling next to the pantry door.

Their advice? Slowly re-introduce any foods you have restricted and teach yourself that you are allowed to have them. Reset your inner calibration so that you can appreciate the food for what it is, and not for all the emotional baggage that saying no to it has meant. For me, the first choice was, of course, peanut butter.

I warily bought a jar of natural (because it’s the most deliciousest kind) and kept it in the cabinet. The first week? It was bad. I ate a lot of peanut butter. And the second week, too. The third week started to taper off a bit, because, let’s be honest, at least half the jar was gone, and the fourth week it dropped off even more. By the fifth and sixth weeks, there were maybe two or three spooonfuls just sitting in the jar, smiling at me.

I call that a success! A jar of peanut butter has never lasted six weeks in my house before!

So what did I learn? That yes, I go to peanut butter for comfort. And I go there because I’m not usually allowed to go there, so it makes me feel special. But once I could have it any time I wanted, some of the comfort left. I started to see it as a fuel. A delicious fuel, don’t get me wrong, but one that was in service of me, not the master of me.

Can I take this experiment to the next level and do it with ice cream? I’m not sure. In truth, it takes a lot of faith, and a willingness to put on a little weight in the service of making peace. And given that it’s hot AND bathing suit season, I may hold off on this experiment until December. But I’ve taken the message to heart – there’s nothing I can’t eat. And when I watch people around me dieting and worrying about what they eat, I wonder if they, too, will sometime soon, find themselves next to the pantry door, overeating in an effort to feel special.

So, what did you risk, Kate?

The month of Risk is over, and what a great month it was! Here are a smattering of the risks I took, and why they were risky:

1. Setting clear boundaries with a date -- eek! he might not like me!

2. Going to an OA meeting -- yikes! I might have food issues!

3. Starting a friendship with someone I previously had a crush on -- oh no! I might get hurt!

4. Cutting off all my hair -- ack! I might look so stupid that nobody would ever ask me out again!

Needless to say, one of the things I learned about risk is that it is incredibly personal. What's risky for me could be a walk in the park for you, and vice versa. Also, what's risky for me at this point in my life could, at some other point, have been no great shakes.

Enter my mom.

When I asked her about risk, my mom told me about the risks she took when she moved to New York in the 60's. She had a degree in journalism from Northwestern University and moved to the city completely alone looking for a job writing advertising. (Can you say "Mad Men"?) And, unbeknownst to my mother, the way a woman got a job as a writer in those days was to take a job as a secretary and then get promoted to a writer's position. But my mom a) didn't know that, and b) didn't want to be a secretary. So when she was offered a couple of secretarial positions, she turned them down flat. She was, finally, offered a writing position at an agency, but not before going through several interviews. Had she known at the time what was "expected," she told me, she never would have done anything quite so risky. But what I love about it is how courageous and forthright she was. She wanted what she wanted and went after it the only way she knew how. Risk or no risk.

Another friend told me that "risk is risk the way gravity is gravity, but you may not feel it until you experience the effects." And I'll be honest -- the effects ranged from "meh" to "aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahimgonnadieijustknowit!" But there was a consistent dedication I felt in pursuing all my risks; I was doing it for the greater good of the Kate. And that made facing down the fear all the more bearable.

It was an exciting and mind-bending month; I HIGHLY recommend an experiment like this one!

that which we resist persists

About ten years ago, I was working with a therapist who, after a couple of sessions where I talked about my relationship with food, suggested I go to an Overeaters Anonymous meeting, just to see if it would help.

And the minute she said it, every single cell in my body revolted. I wanted to die. There was absolutely NO WAY I would go to one of those meetings. Never. Ever. Not in a million years, not if you gave me a million dollars. Never. Not if the room was full of hot, eligible bachelors. Not if it meant I would never overeat again. If I happened to be running down the hall of a burning building and the only way out was through an OA meeting, I'd burn up with the industrial carpeting. Not. A. Snowball's. Chance. In. Hell.

A simple suggestion, one that I could take or discard, and my whole essence was ready to drop a very small, very targeted nuclear bomb on the sweet, dear therapist who mentioned the idea.

Needless to say, ten years passed, and my relationship with food has remained interesting.

When I feel good about myself, food is my nourishment. When I feel bad, it's my comfort. And I think that's pretty "normal." But since I don't see anyone else eat, and can't get inside the heads of other eaters, I have no idea whether my relationship is dysfunctional or not. However, some part of me desperately fears that it is. Otherwise I wouldn't be willing to burn up with the carpeting.

So, last week, in honor of the Year of Yes! (well, ok the fourteen months of yes) and in an exploration of Risk, I went. And it was scary. And it was awkward. And the building had some truly horrid industrial carpeting. But what's most important is that I made it out the other side. Was I like some of the women in that room? Yes. We all had tricky relationships with food. Was I not like some of the women in that room? Yes. And for privacy reasons I won't say why.

What I was afraid of was the label. I was afraid of admitting that my relationship with food might have been "abnormal" or "dysfunctional" which would, by association, make me a failure. Yes, it was that simple. If I went to a meeting of people who had trouble controlling their eating and found I was like them in any way, I was a failure.

I'm pleased that I went, and I'm incredibly proud of myself for facing that silly little fear that's been holding me back for ten years. Will I go again? Not to that particular meeting. I'll try another one, just to see, but I don't particularly care for the 12 Step model.

So I'll throw it out to you: what are you afraid of? What one thing does your whole body create a violent reaction to when you consider doing it? And if you could do it safely, what would it take for you to do it?

what makes yoga risky?

I headed out the door today to a yoga class feeling nervous. What if I looked like an idiot? What if I did everything wrong? What if I was that loud, obnoxious, nervous person who laughs at everything, only because she's nervous? What if everyone there knew each other and my showing up meant that someone who regularly takes the class wouldn't be able to get in and then everyone in the room would be angry at the new girl who ruined everything?

Welcome to my fears. You can see how going to yoga was a risk for me today.

Dictionary.com defines risk as "exposure to the chance of injury or loss; a hazard or dangerous chance." And that's what I was facing at yoga class. I might lose my sense of myself as a "cool" person -- not that there's much there to lose, honestly, but I tend to cling to those shreds tightly. I might face danger in a room full of angry, experienced students who resent my intrusion. And, more likely than any of the others, I might get stuck in a backward bend with the heels of my feet stuck to my ribcage and not be able to get up ever again.

I'm a confident (and flexible) person, so I knew these catastrophic eventualities were unlikely. I was headed to the YMCA, not The Studio for Professional Yogis Only, for crying out loud, and it was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. Most regulars were probably in the park.

Because I was willing to risk looking stupid, because I was willing to face the hostility of an imagined clique, and because I could delineate these threats beforehand, I could see that I was taking a risk. And recognizing that I'm willing to risk metaphorical sticks and stones hurtled at my being makes me realize how much stronger I am than I think. And how much more I could do if I just let myself believe.

So here's my challenge for you: what's something that you've wanted? Something you've been jonesing for but have allowed small risks to stand in your way? Go and do it. Have it. Be it. Take the risk. It might fail miserably, but at least that way you'll know.

(And for the record, while the heels of my feet did almost touch my ribcage, they didn't get stuck there, and I felt so well-cared-for at the yoga class, I want to become a regular myself!)

It's time for April!

When I started this Year of Yes (well, ok, the 14 months of yes) project, the qualities I had grouped together for this month were "adventure, thrill, risk, and aliveness." And I had visions of myself hang gliding, shooting guns, climbing rock walls, and otherwise having all the adventures a girl can have in the city.

But as I've revisited the topic over the last week and a half, I've discovered that I am likely to do those things anyway (albeit in a warmer month, perhaps), and so exploring the quality of "Adventure" might not benefit me as much as something else. So I've shifted focus a little, and am now looking at Risk. What am I willing to risk to have what I want? What am I willing to risk to be who I want to be?

In my daily practice, I sit and write five things I'm grateful for, five things I get credit for, and now, five or so things I'm willing to risk to be who I want to be. They're often things like "looking like a fool" or "rejection," things that I am already unconsciously willing to risk, but I find that bringing them to light and intentionally putting them on the line makes my choices more rich.

For example, I reached out to someone I had stopped communicating with and asked if being friends would be possible. What was the worst he could say, no? Ok, I was already willing to risk that. I was willing to risk an awkward conversation, possible rejection, hurt feelings, and/or an uncomfortable friendship on the chance that what I'd get in return was a rewarding connection with someone I find funny and intelligent. I'm finding that risk is really rich -- it's not about risking my neck (as my mother has already pleasantly worried), but rather bringing focus to those things that I cling to for comfort, and being willing to let some of them go.

Because I never know what will be on the other side of them.