Back when I was a young, slim thing attending college, I got asked on a date that would create reverberations throughout my life. No, it wasn't with Husband; if you'll remember, I didn't date Husband at college. In fact, I didn't date him at all during our nine months of engagement. But that's another story, and I've already told it.
No, this date was with a boy I had known when he was an LDS missionary back in my home state in the North. I guess he called me up after he finished his mission and we went out a couple times. Nothing ever developed from those two or three dates we went on, but one night he took me to an exclusive concert held in one of his friends' homes. There were a group of young men and women around my age who attended, although I didn't know any of them (they were my date's friends). We had a casual dinner, and I remember feeling distinctly shy and somewhat uncomfortable. They were friendly enough, I think, and I was as outgoing and chatty as I could be, given the fact that I am a natural introvert and hadn't yet learned the extrovert skills that would help me on my own mission.
During the concert, Anthony (my exceedingly handsome date) put his arm around me and then held my hand a bit. I don't know who was more surprised, I or his friends. I caught the girls constantly casting glances our way and I suddenly had the impression that maybe he was using me to get someone's attention. But when the pianist was playing, I forgot everything else and just soaked it in.
This young pianist, a tall, skinny newly married man who had brought his glowing, pregnant wife with him, was so skilled and so entertaining that he made a deep impression on me -- enough so that I went home and wrote his name in my journal when I described the evening. Nearly 20 years later, I heard his name again, and I eagerly attended a concert he gave for our stake a few years ago. But it wasn't until late last year that I got to speak to him in person when he came to our little town and gave a concert in our local music store. You may or may not have heard of Jon Schmidt, but he's got some YouTube videos that feature him and the extraordinarily talented cellist he collaborates with. The videos are produced by The Piano Guys.com.
Anyway, after the concert, the attendees were able to go and buy his CDs and music books and get them autographed, and since there were only 30 or so people in the room, I didn't feel bad about taking a few moments and telling Jon that I had seen him play way back when at that little concert in Anthony's friend's house. He laughed and joked that it was probably a pretty bad concert, since he had been so young. No, I had thoroughly enjoyed it, despite the weirdness of the rest of the evening (which I didn't even mention, of course).
If you ever get the chance to meet him, he's one of those genuine, friendly, and very humble people you warm up to in a moment. During his concerts, he talks to the audience, laughing and joking even while his fingers fly up and down the keyboard. He reminds me a lot of my next youngest brother, in fact.
As for Anthony, he stopped calling me soon after that date. I called him once when I was in his town watching one of my roommates sing in an opera, but he was so distant and cold, I got the hint pretty quickly. If my impression at that little concert was right, I hope he got the girl's attention and lived happily ever after.
Here's Jon Schmidt playing one of his most popular compositions:
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
The Bunnies Hopped to Their Little Home in the Woods, Ate a Good Supper, and Went Straight to Bed. The End.
Sian just passed her driver's license exam. She is officially a licensed driver. I hope she's happy, since I am now sending her on every errand I can just so I can sit home and watch movies all day. Well, okay, not really. I don't watch movies all day, but I can still send her on all my errands for me and she actually enjoys it. I'm getting used to this really fast.
The other day, as I was reading Little Gary into sleepy oblivion, Husband walked by and said, "When is the last time you read a fiction book?" Yes, I was reading Slouching Towards Gomorrah: Modern Liberalism and American Decline, by Robert Bork, out loud to my four-year-old. In my defense, Little Gary often enjoys listening to me read my books aloud because the sound of my voice soothes him when he just wants to take a nap -- especially if I'm speaking gibberish as far as he's concerned (there are times when he only wants stories about bunnies in the woods or monkeys on the bed, you understand, and won't be satisfied with the idea that the welfare state is only getting more support because of envy). I, on the other hand, spend a lot of time not being soothed by my reading material. Bork's book isn't exactly easy fare, either intellectually or emotionally; however, I feel compelled to educate myself as much as possible. At least when I read non-fiction I can get stuff done while I digest ideas. When I read good fiction, nothing at all gets done until I finish.
Case in point: I finished Bork's book and picked up The Lovely Bones, by Alice Sebold. When I finished it the next day at around noon, I was still unwashed and in my pajamas, the kids were talking about eating their own shoes for nourishment, and I had to swim up and out of the story for what seemed like hours. In fact, my emotions were extremely close to the surface for a long time afterward. That's what happens when I read fiction. It's just a mercy that The Lovely Bones is fairly short or Husband might have had me committed.
Book report: Slouching Towards Gomorrah, though written in 1996, is incredibly insightful and applicable to events going on today. Bork intelligently interprets cause and effect for the radicalization of American institutions and the reasons behind our slackening morality as a country. I think Bork is as much a prophet as Tocqueville, whom he quotes extensively. There is so much I would like to say about his points, and maybe I will in future posts (this is your only warning). Even if he sometimes sounds like the Grumpy Old Man, I would love to be able to write as well as he does.
And, as a bonus, it puts four-year-olds to sleep quite nicely.
Just now, I sent said four-year-old with his older sisters to get an ice-cream cone from the grocery store. How sweet is that?
The other day, as I was reading Little Gary into sleepy oblivion, Husband walked by and said, "When is the last time you read a fiction book?" Yes, I was reading Slouching Towards Gomorrah: Modern Liberalism and American Decline, by Robert Bork, out loud to my four-year-old. In my defense, Little Gary often enjoys listening to me read my books aloud because the sound of my voice soothes him when he just wants to take a nap -- especially if I'm speaking gibberish as far as he's concerned (there are times when he only wants stories about bunnies in the woods or monkeys on the bed, you understand, and won't be satisfied with the idea that the welfare state is only getting more support because of envy). I, on the other hand, spend a lot of time not being soothed by my reading material. Bork's book isn't exactly easy fare, either intellectually or emotionally; however, I feel compelled to educate myself as much as possible. At least when I read non-fiction I can get stuff done while I digest ideas. When I read good fiction, nothing at all gets done until I finish.
Case in point: I finished Bork's book and picked up The Lovely Bones, by Alice Sebold. When I finished it the next day at around noon, I was still unwashed and in my pajamas, the kids were talking about eating their own shoes for nourishment, and I had to swim up and out of the story for what seemed like hours. In fact, my emotions were extremely close to the surface for a long time afterward. That's what happens when I read fiction. It's just a mercy that The Lovely Bones is fairly short or Husband might have had me committed.
Book report: Slouching Towards Gomorrah, though written in 1996, is incredibly insightful and applicable to events going on today. Bork intelligently interprets cause and effect for the radicalization of American institutions and the reasons behind our slackening morality as a country. I think Bork is as much a prophet as Tocqueville, whom he quotes extensively. There is so much I would like to say about his points, and maybe I will in future posts (this is your only warning). Even if he sometimes sounds like the Grumpy Old Man, I would love to be able to write as well as he does.
And, as a bonus, it puts four-year-olds to sleep quite nicely.
Just now, I sent said four-year-old with his older sisters to get an ice-cream cone from the grocery store. How sweet is that?
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Why Bollywood Has My Vote
This morning when I went to collect the whites from the dryer, I found a dead mouse. It was all wet and bedraggled, stuck to the metal next to the lint catcher, a smear of dark blood trailing down to its body. I admit I squealed in surprise when I realized it wasn't lint, and then I fetched some tissue and disposed of the broken little carcass. Somehow, poor, wee mousie got himself in with the wash, where he died a horrible death. His revenge, however, was in getting blood all over the whites while he whirled gaily with them in the dryer, so now I have a pile of clothes that need to be hand washed for blood spots before being re-washed in the machine. I have the blood of a mouse upon my garments. Well, I actually have the blood of many mice upon my garments in the more figurative sense. I do feel bad for them, the little vermin. I usually say something over the body before disposing of it; something like, "You were the perfect mouse, doing exactly what a good mouse should do. I'm sorry you had to die, but we are at cross purposes here, since good mice are exactly what I don't want and can't have in the house. You poop and pee indiscriminately on everything and make nests in all the wrong places, which is horribly unhygienic. You also have a creepy way of rustling about at night and scritching on the drywall. I hope you're frolicking in pleasant fields now, where there is nary a cat to hunt you or evil humans who desire your demise."
I guess that's not so much a eulogy as an indictment and justification.
So I've found that Bollywood movies are smashing entertainment when I'm on the treadmill. They're perfect because they're often silly in a lighthearted and fun way, colorful, full of music, romantic, and lengthy (thus prolonging my workout). Plus, the English subtitles can sometimes be hilarious. I have always been fascinated by India, and while these movies aren't often extremely deep, they're surprisingly insightful. They usually revolve around a boy and a girl and love. I'm a sucker for love stories, but unlike the shallow, amoral, and insipid fare of American romcoms, Indian romances Bollywood style are good for the whole family. They convey a sense of morality and duty to family. They compel you to root for the triumph of the love of the two main characters, which is always threatened by something dire -- whether the threat is from family or circumstances -- or both -- but you want them to triumph in the right way and not take the easy way out.
In American romances, the movie ends when the hero and heroine finally overcome the obstacles and share love's first kiss (or its equivalent). In Bollywood movies, it is forbidden for the hero and heroine to kiss on the mouth, so that first kiss never happens (though they tease you with it constantly). Instead, the hero and heroine declare their love and do a lot of dramatic hugging. You'll probably also get a music video at that point. Then, just when you think it's over (because that's where an American romance would end), a Bollywood movie provides a thoughtful intermission, following which you're off and running into the second half of the film, where a new set of obstacles arise and must be overcome. It's like getting two movies in one.
And the dancing! So fun.
They're insightful because they give you a glimpse into what Indians think of themselves in relation to the world (remember, they spent a long time as part of the British empire, and that had a huge impact). You also get a sense of what honor means in their relationships with family and in the romantic arena. Bollywood, of course, produces just one type of Indian films. There are plenty of exquisite Indian movies that are beautifully filmed and highly dramatic, sometimes extremely disturbing and heart wrenching, and exhibit the real pain of life. Bollywood concentrates on humor, music, and comic romance, but they're still very interesting. Plus, it's hard to walk on the treadmill when you're crying too hard; exercising while laughing is just so much easier.
I guess that's not so much a eulogy as an indictment and justification.
So I've found that Bollywood movies are smashing entertainment when I'm on the treadmill. They're perfect because they're often silly in a lighthearted and fun way, colorful, full of music, romantic, and lengthy (thus prolonging my workout). Plus, the English subtitles can sometimes be hilarious. I have always been fascinated by India, and while these movies aren't often extremely deep, they're surprisingly insightful. They usually revolve around a boy and a girl and love. I'm a sucker for love stories, but unlike the shallow, amoral, and insipid fare of American romcoms, Indian romances Bollywood style are good for the whole family. They convey a sense of morality and duty to family. They compel you to root for the triumph of the love of the two main characters, which is always threatened by something dire -- whether the threat is from family or circumstances -- or both -- but you want them to triumph in the right way and not take the easy way out.
In American romances, the movie ends when the hero and heroine finally overcome the obstacles and share love's first kiss (or its equivalent). In Bollywood movies, it is forbidden for the hero and heroine to kiss on the mouth, so that first kiss never happens (though they tease you with it constantly). Instead, the hero and heroine declare their love and do a lot of dramatic hugging. You'll probably also get a music video at that point. Then, just when you think it's over (because that's where an American romance would end), a Bollywood movie provides a thoughtful intermission, following which you're off and running into the second half of the film, where a new set of obstacles arise and must be overcome. It's like getting two movies in one.
And the dancing! So fun.
They're insightful because they give you a glimpse into what Indians think of themselves in relation to the world (remember, they spent a long time as part of the British empire, and that had a huge impact). You also get a sense of what honor means in their relationships with family and in the romantic arena. Bollywood, of course, produces just one type of Indian films. There are plenty of exquisite Indian movies that are beautifully filmed and highly dramatic, sometimes extremely disturbing and heart wrenching, and exhibit the real pain of life. Bollywood concentrates on humor, music, and comic romance, but they're still very interesting. Plus, it's hard to walk on the treadmill when you're crying too hard; exercising while laughing is just so much easier.
Monday, January 2, 2012
New Year, New Treadmill
As you can see from my last post, my routine got a little upset during the holidays, and I didn't keep up with my mental exercises from The Four Day Win. I was observing to myself this morning how quickly I reverted back to old thinking patterns. The Dictator wiped off her red lipstick and started shouting obscenities and insults about my plumpness and Wild Child purposely re-tangled her hair and went back to launching pizza cravings as retaliation for the mere thought of counting calories. The moral: the mental exercises really, really work, but only when conscientiously undertaken.
Husband and I bought ourselves a Christmas present, which we had had on layaway for a while. We'd been in the market for a number of weeks, but on Black Friday, we decided to shop around for a good deal on a great treadmill -- even though we didn't get around to shopping until late afternoon. Amazingly, we found an amazing deal, so last week, we brought home our new NordicTrack in the back of the van. Somehow, we hauled it up the stairs (I nearly blacked out, it was so heavy; as it was, I couldn't walk for quite a while because my thighs were completely jelly), and it's now the newest addition to our bedroom furniture. The idea was that Husband would exercise in the early mornings before leaving for work and I would use it for regular morning workouts and then as a means to take much-needed breaks from sitting at the computer for hours a day, writing. Further, I could multi-task my exercise with mental downtime by watching a show on Netflix. Although we haven't yet managed to move everything in the room to facilitate television watching with treadmill exercising, I have had a lot of success with reading and using the treadmill at the same time. What I never expected (and what veteran treadmill users are probably completely familiar with) is the sea-leg feeling you have after completing a workout and walking again on non-moving ground. Weird.
While Husband has enthusiastically dived into the workout/counting calories mode of getting fitter and healthier, I've had to be very careful about where I let my thoughts stray. His enthusiasm is contagious, but I know all too well that I need to continue moving through the mental preparations before I start actively limiting caloric intake. Seeing the success I've already had with changing my thoughts, I'm much less inclined to allow The Dictator to guilt me into what I know has never worked for me in the past, even if that's what nearly all the professional diet advise urges. We'll see how it goes.
For now, the entire family is enjoying our treadmill. Even Little Gary informs me he has to exercise and then walks a quarter of a mile to half a mile at a time.
Husband and I bought ourselves a Christmas present, which we had had on layaway for a while. We'd been in the market for a number of weeks, but on Black Friday, we decided to shop around for a good deal on a great treadmill -- even though we didn't get around to shopping until late afternoon. Amazingly, we found an amazing deal, so last week, we brought home our new NordicTrack in the back of the van. Somehow, we hauled it up the stairs (I nearly blacked out, it was so heavy; as it was, I couldn't walk for quite a while because my thighs were completely jelly), and it's now the newest addition to our bedroom furniture. The idea was that Husband would exercise in the early mornings before leaving for work and I would use it for regular morning workouts and then as a means to take much-needed breaks from sitting at the computer for hours a day, writing. Further, I could multi-task my exercise with mental downtime by watching a show on Netflix. Although we haven't yet managed to move everything in the room to facilitate television watching with treadmill exercising, I have had a lot of success with reading and using the treadmill at the same time. What I never expected (and what veteran treadmill users are probably completely familiar with) is the sea-leg feeling you have after completing a workout and walking again on non-moving ground. Weird.
While Husband has enthusiastically dived into the workout/counting calories mode of getting fitter and healthier, I've had to be very careful about where I let my thoughts stray. His enthusiasm is contagious, but I know all too well that I need to continue moving through the mental preparations before I start actively limiting caloric intake. Seeing the success I've already had with changing my thoughts, I'm much less inclined to allow The Dictator to guilt me into what I know has never worked for me in the past, even if that's what nearly all the professional diet advise urges. We'll see how it goes.
For now, the entire family is enjoying our treadmill. Even Little Gary informs me he has to exercise and then walks a quarter of a mile to half a mile at a time.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
The Gift of Air
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. One's late and the other is timely. I think I may get my Christmas cards out in spring, if I can manage to continue thinking about getting it done after another week or so. I'm not holding my breath.
Speaking of breath, asthma shaped our Christmas celebrations this year. Sophia, who was having a slumber party for her 13th birthday, dragged herself up the two flights of stairs from the family room early last Friday morning and sat outside my bedroom door, crying and trying to breathe. I thought I heard an odd noise, sort of a mewling sound, and went to investigate. There I found the poor girl, gasping for air, fearful tears running down her cheeks, her lips blue. My brain, which does occasionally kick into useful action, told me to get her to the emergency room right away. Since the hospital is only a five minute drive from our house, it would have taken longer to call an ambulance, so I put her in the car and away we went. Her birthday party guests, some of whom had driven in from The Big City, were left abandoned. I only shouted to Sian on the way out the door that I was taking her sister to the hospital.
The doctors didn't let her out for four days,but Husband and the other kids hauled the presents to Sophia's room on Christmas morning and we opened them under the kind and watchful eye of the respiratory therapist, who had to give Sophia her breathing treatment. Otherwise, Sophia's hospital experience was kind of pleasant, even if she was hooked up to a bunch of tubes. No one fought her for TV control, and she got to pick whatever she wanted to eat from the hospital menu. By Monday, however, she was pretty done with it, and we were very glad that she was released and allowed to go home. She's been fine ever since.
And her birthday guests did eventually get home, poor things.
Speaking of breath, asthma shaped our Christmas celebrations this year. Sophia, who was having a slumber party for her 13th birthday, dragged herself up the two flights of stairs from the family room early last Friday morning and sat outside my bedroom door, crying and trying to breathe. I thought I heard an odd noise, sort of a mewling sound, and went to investigate. There I found the poor girl, gasping for air, fearful tears running down her cheeks, her lips blue. My brain, which does occasionally kick into useful action, told me to get her to the emergency room right away. Since the hospital is only a five minute drive from our house, it would have taken longer to call an ambulance, so I put her in the car and away we went. Her birthday party guests, some of whom had driven in from The Big City, were left abandoned. I only shouted to Sian on the way out the door that I was taking her sister to the hospital.
The doctors didn't let her out for four days,but Husband and the other kids hauled the presents to Sophia's room on Christmas morning and we opened them under the kind and watchful eye of the respiratory therapist, who had to give Sophia her breathing treatment. Otherwise, Sophia's hospital experience was kind of pleasant, even if she was hooked up to a bunch of tubes. No one fought her for TV control, and she got to pick whatever she wanted to eat from the hospital menu. By Monday, however, she was pretty done with it, and we were very glad that she was released and allowed to go home. She's been fine ever since.
And her birthday guests did eventually get home, poor things.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Why it Takes Four Days
I made myself stand on the scale this morning, just to see. Lo and behold, I've lost six pounds, and that's without actively cutting my caloric intake. I've been a lot more thoughtful about what I eat simply because I am not fighting cravings now. If you've never had the overwhelming guilt that comes with your weakness against food cravings, you don't know the relief I'm feeling. To let go of that constant tug-of-war between rational thought and irrational wants is like taking a vacation in the most peaceful, relaxing location where there are no cell phones, no insurmountable expectations to fulfill, and no guilt. I'm sitting on a beach, watching and listening to waves crash on the shore. I'm in the shade (since I'm not a sun lover) on a cool, deep patch of grass (hey, it's my dream. I'll have grass on the beach if I want it) under a palm tree.
Another side effect of all this mental work is that I'm dealing with stress better. Not perfectly, but better.
As promised, here is the reason why Martha Beck called her book The Four Day Win. Through her own studies and those of others, she noticed that beginning to make a change takes about four days. It's the first four days that are often the hardest, but after that, it's an exponential rise to making a habit if you don't quit. Habits take about 21 days to cement, so going through a series of five 4-day exercises plus one day will help you create a new, healthy habit. Since we humans really, really resist change -- even when the change is good for us -- it's easier to make these ridiculously easy daily goals for four day increments than it is to focus on the long term. Each day you achieve your ridiculously easy daily goal, you get a reward. You get a slightly larger reward for accomplishing four days of that goal. Setting ridiculously easy daily goals helps you ease into change without resistance.
One of her examples of how these four day increments can really work is from her own experience. When she wanted to begin working out, she knew that it would take a bit to get used to going to the gym and doing a workout routine. Based on her past failures to maintain a workout regimen, she started ridiculously easy. After the kids were dropped off at school, she drove to the gym and sat in the parking lot for the length of one song on the radio. Then she drove home. She did that for four days, and after four days, she was used to driving to the gym right after dropping off the kids. Then she went into the gym and walked on the treadmill for the length of one song. Then she left. After four days, she walked for the length of two songs. Suddenly, after all these extremely small goals were met, her body decided it really liked to work out, and she found that she was completing full length workouts with no resistance and no need to make that daily decision (do I go or don't I?). After 21 days, when the habit was cemented, it had become something that was difficult to change. The key was to start easing into that new habit without causing a "fight or flight" reaction inside.
Oooh, the latent psychologist inside me has been grinning from ear to ear.
Another side effect of all this mental work is that I'm dealing with stress better. Not perfectly, but better.
As promised, here is the reason why Martha Beck called her book The Four Day Win. Through her own studies and those of others, she noticed that beginning to make a change takes about four days. It's the first four days that are often the hardest, but after that, it's an exponential rise to making a habit if you don't quit. Habits take about 21 days to cement, so going through a series of five 4-day exercises plus one day will help you create a new, healthy habit. Since we humans really, really resist change -- even when the change is good for us -- it's easier to make these ridiculously easy daily goals for four day increments than it is to focus on the long term. Each day you achieve your ridiculously easy daily goal, you get a reward. You get a slightly larger reward for accomplishing four days of that goal. Setting ridiculously easy daily goals helps you ease into change without resistance.
One of her examples of how these four day increments can really work is from her own experience. When she wanted to begin working out, she knew that it would take a bit to get used to going to the gym and doing a workout routine. Based on her past failures to maintain a workout regimen, she started ridiculously easy. After the kids were dropped off at school, she drove to the gym and sat in the parking lot for the length of one song on the radio. Then she drove home. She did that for four days, and after four days, she was used to driving to the gym right after dropping off the kids. Then she went into the gym and walked on the treadmill for the length of one song. Then she left. After four days, she walked for the length of two songs. Suddenly, after all these extremely small goals were met, her body decided it really liked to work out, and she found that she was completing full length workouts with no resistance and no need to make that daily decision (do I go or don't I?). After 21 days, when the habit was cemented, it had become something that was difficult to change. The key was to start easing into that new habit without causing a "fight or flight" reaction inside.
Oooh, the latent psychologist inside me has been grinning from ear to ear.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
The Watcher
The Watcher is neutral and stands apart from the constant tide of thoughts and emotions running through my body and my mind , but The Watcher is full of nothing but compassion and love for Wild Child and The Dictator.
Following Martha Beck's instructions in The Four Day Win, I've been practicing becoming The Watcher. It's not very easy at first. You have to be able to step back from all the millions of big and little thoughts that race through your head and all the ups and downs and sidewayses of emotions that attend those thoughts. When I have sufficient quiet time, I have successfully achieved this state. Then I look kindly at Wild Child and The Dictator and tell them how much I love them and am grateful for them. After all, each of them is only trying to protect me in her own, extremely specialized way. As The Watcher, I speak to both Wild Child and The Dictator, thanking them for the role they play in my life and then asking how they can work together instead of fighting each other. I've had some incredibly insightful experiences doing this, and this visual has really helped me "see" the changes that have been made. Wild Child is starting to comb her hair and The Dictator has taken to wearing bright red lipstick. The Dictator is learning to ask rather than demand, and Wild Child is learning to trust.
Another exercise Beck has me doing is to communicate directly with Wild Child. Since my dominant brain hemisphere is the left side (I'm right handed), and I have begun to pay even more attention to the language of Wild Child (emotions), I'm teaching Wild Child my language as well. First, with my right (dominant) hand, I write down a question. Then I switch the pen to my left (non-dominant) hand and answer it. Here's what happened the first day I did this (Wild Child's answers are in italics, and she doesn't believe in punctuation):
How are you?
confused scared hurt
What can I do for you?
give me time don't judge don't starve
I won't starve you. What do you want to eat today?
bread olive oil apples
If we eat those, will that help you start trusting me?
We'll see need proof HCG was awful like a war zone don't do that again
I have no intention of doing that again. That was awful. I want to eat plenty of foods that make us feel good (healthy) but never deny us anything.
Good. I'll cooperate if we don't go hungry
What's crazy is that as I've been doing this, I have begun to lose serious cravings. I'm always reassuring Wild Child that I will not deny her anything, and because she's content that she won't be forced to go hungry, she doesn't make me fixate on how yummy a pint of ice cream would taste or linger on the smell and texture of pepperoni pizza. Peanut M&Ms haven't even been an issue. I love pie, but I haven't been compelled to seek it out. With most foods, I can take it or leave it. There's no temptation to binge.
I keep checking to find out if I'm hungry, rate how hungry I am, and then decide (as a committee with The Watcher, Wild Child, and The Dictator) what to eat. I keep tabs on how my hunger is doing as I eat, too. It doesn't take very long and I don't spend inordinate amounts of time doing it, and at this stage, I haven't actively begun limiting caloric intake. Though I'm still in the pre-contemplation stage, it's already put me farther ahead mentally than with any diet I have ever attempted (or any non-diet guilt trip, for that matter).
I do know how weird it sounds to refer to myself as multiple people, but I know it's all just different aspects of me. Creating visuals for each aspect and referring to them as "she" helps me identify those pieces of me that are in conflict and give them a chance to have their say.
Tomorrow, in my final installment about this book and my preliminary experiences with it (until I want to report something again), I'll explain why it's called The Four Day Win.
Following Martha Beck's instructions in The Four Day Win, I've been practicing becoming The Watcher. It's not very easy at first. You have to be able to step back from all the millions of big and little thoughts that race through your head and all the ups and downs and sidewayses of emotions that attend those thoughts. When I have sufficient quiet time, I have successfully achieved this state. Then I look kindly at Wild Child and The Dictator and tell them how much I love them and am grateful for them. After all, each of them is only trying to protect me in her own, extremely specialized way. As The Watcher, I speak to both Wild Child and The Dictator, thanking them for the role they play in my life and then asking how they can work together instead of fighting each other. I've had some incredibly insightful experiences doing this, and this visual has really helped me "see" the changes that have been made. Wild Child is starting to comb her hair and The Dictator has taken to wearing bright red lipstick. The Dictator is learning to ask rather than demand, and Wild Child is learning to trust.
Another exercise Beck has me doing is to communicate directly with Wild Child. Since my dominant brain hemisphere is the left side (I'm right handed), and I have begun to pay even more attention to the language of Wild Child (emotions), I'm teaching Wild Child my language as well. First, with my right (dominant) hand, I write down a question. Then I switch the pen to my left (non-dominant) hand and answer it. Here's what happened the first day I did this (Wild Child's answers are in italics, and she doesn't believe in punctuation):
How are you?
confused scared hurt
What can I do for you?
give me time don't judge don't starve
I won't starve you. What do you want to eat today?
bread olive oil apples
If we eat those, will that help you start trusting me?
We'll see need proof HCG was awful like a war zone don't do that again
I have no intention of doing that again. That was awful. I want to eat plenty of foods that make us feel good (healthy) but never deny us anything.
Good. I'll cooperate if we don't go hungry
What's crazy is that as I've been doing this, I have begun to lose serious cravings. I'm always reassuring Wild Child that I will not deny her anything, and because she's content that she won't be forced to go hungry, she doesn't make me fixate on how yummy a pint of ice cream would taste or linger on the smell and texture of pepperoni pizza. Peanut M&Ms haven't even been an issue. I love pie, but I haven't been compelled to seek it out. With most foods, I can take it or leave it. There's no temptation to binge.
I keep checking to find out if I'm hungry, rate how hungry I am, and then decide (as a committee with The Watcher, Wild Child, and The Dictator) what to eat. I keep tabs on how my hunger is doing as I eat, too. It doesn't take very long and I don't spend inordinate amounts of time doing it, and at this stage, I haven't actively begun limiting caloric intake. Though I'm still in the pre-contemplation stage, it's already put me farther ahead mentally than with any diet I have ever attempted (or any non-diet guilt trip, for that matter).
I do know how weird it sounds to refer to myself as multiple people, but I know it's all just different aspects of me. Creating visuals for each aspect and referring to them as "she" helps me identify those pieces of me that are in conflict and give them a chance to have their say.
Tomorrow, in my final installment about this book and my preliminary experiences with it (until I want to report something again), I'll explain why it's called The Four Day Win.
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