LIP SERVICE

Upper Iowa University Choir, 2/2015; Robin Jons, Director
 7 Nepalese, 2 Africans, 3 African Americans,
and 1 white kid (Robin's son, Seth)

We all pay lip service when tragedy strikes. 

"What a shame!" "How terrible!"
"We must pray for those unfortunate ones!"

Then we go about our day, secretly relieved it wasn't us this time.

         It was another town, another state, another country,
on the other side of the world.

We watch the horrific images of bodies buried alive,
bloody grandmothers, families under a tarp,
blue toddlers not responding to resuscitation. 

We hear the frantic shouts of men
digging in the rubble with their bare hands
before time runs out on those trapped beneath.

"Oh, how awful for them!" "What a tragedy!"

We go about our business, sweep our floors, do the dishes, 

 feed the cats, figure something out for supper. 

Life goes on.

But this time, it's different.

This time, the faces on the screen resemble faces
 of those I've come to love, to call family.

They are now MY families' homes in ruins.
My loved ones lost and missing in the destruction. 

My prayers are no longer lip service.

This time, it's personal.

This time, I can do something about it.

The Healing Power of Kittens

Another kitten visit for my mom with Clancy, Fiona, and Siobhan. Like Keely and Sean Patrick, they also zeroed in on her painful arm, and stayed there for several hours. 

                                                             Sean Patrick at 2 weeks

                                                                 Keely at 2 weeks

Today I took Sean Patrick and Keely to visit my mom. They're just a little over 3 weeks old, and I wasn't sure how they'd do separated from their mama for the first time. Sometimes kittens this age mew and mew until I have no choice but to return them to their mama and siblings. Mama Nadi had a lovely litter of 6 assorted kittens this time, and she's already taking frequent breaks from their ravenous assaults on her poor nipples. I opened the clothes cupboard where they nest on the bottom shelf and cried, "Here Babies, Here Babies!" in my expert kitten-calling voice. Sean Patrick came "running" which looks like a drunken stumble at this age-very adorable-and then Keely came wobbling up to me. I showed Nadi I was taking those two and putting them in the cat carrier, and she flapped her paw at me, and said, "Whatever. Just have 'em back by 9 pm or so. I'm gonna take a long nap on your bed."

I put a pair of Steve's pajama pants in with them since they'd been sleeping on them for 2 weeks, hoping the familiar smell would soothe them, and loaded the carrier in the car. They mewed a little, but were fairly chill on the drive over. I got them into my parent's house, and my mom looked up from her recliner at the grocery sack I was carrying and asked, jokingly, "You got KITTENS??" I showed her the cat carrier and her face lit up. "I got kittens!!" I said.

I opened the carrier door and calmly got them out and they immediately snuggled up to Mom's chest. Keely went to sleep on Mom's injured arm, and Sean Patrick wandered around on Mom a little, giving her kitten kisses, and then he went to sleep, too. Mom said, "This baby is making my arm feel so much better!" She kept talking to them and petting them, and her face was filled with the wonder and bliss that proximity to babies always gives her. And they just stayed there, absorbing her love and absorbing her pain.

I noticed my dad's face soften as he looked at her, and my constant desire to ease her chronic pain eased up a little.  Mom was able to join us at the table and eat the gluten-free lasagne I'd made, enjoying a second helping, and finishing off with the delicious gluten-free vanilla cheesecake pie Dad had made. She then went back to her recliner for more kitten time. They were content to lay quietly on her while we had a nice visit, talking of nothing in particular, in that satisfying roundabout way that we do.

Mom has had an even rougher week than usual. She suffers daily from polymyalgia, severe arthritis, tummy troubles, and often getting out of bed proves too much for her. She had a bad fall last Thursday, and has been in horrific pain since then, especially her elbow, arm and ribs. She had an MRI Monday to check for stroke damage in her left eye. Good news-no new strokes, just scar tissue causing a blind spot. She had a cat scan yesterday to see what the damage is to her elbow, arm, and ribs. Is it any wonder that her spirits are often low, and she constantly fights depression and despair?

I know that my cats and kittens are as effective as a valium when I am anxious or depressed. They get my endorphins and serotonin levels up, and I totally bliss out when I'm handling kittens. It did my aching heart so much good to see those 2 little kittens do the same for my mom. Dad told me as I went out the door that that was the longest she'd been out of bed and in her recliner all week.

Great miracles can come in tiny little packages: adorable, fluffy, calico and ginger packages. Thank God for the healing power of kittens.

CHOOSE BEAUTY

Robin, age 1

                                                                Summer, 1980, age 18

                                                                  Headshot, 1990

                                 "Angie," female lead, The Yoofo Club, independent film, 1996

                                                                    Winter, 2015

Fall Glamour Selfie, 2015

         

Fall 2015, age 53

Beauty, then and now: when I was 18, it was all about the packaging. I spent hours on my hair and make-up, my nails were always flawless. and my wardrobe was fashionable and color co-ordinated. I starved myself into a size 5, and I never left the house without full make-up and perfectly styled hair. It was exhausting! And still, I never really believed I was beautiful. If I gained a pound or two, I'd panic and feel sick to my stomach. My sense of self-worth was all based on my weight (105), my size (5), and my looks (Perfect 10 wannabe).

I started to get chubby in first grade, and that is when my shame regarding my looks set in. Add thick, coke bottle bottom glasses, and I knew I was not pretty. I spent hours fantasizing about the great beauty I'd become when I grew up, and felt I was just marking time until that transformation occurred. Meanwhile, I discovered I had brains and talent, which gave me value, but also set me apart from my fellow classmates. Since I couldn't fit in, I derived some satisfaction from being better at music than anyone else, but grade school was a long and lonely road.

Food became my comfort and my secret friend, and I obsessed about when and what I could eat next. My mom was concerned about my weight, so I never felt permission to eat my fill at dinner, and would sneak sweets whenever I could work up the nerve.

In 6th grade, I went to see a handsome young doctor that told me how pretty I'd be if I lost weight. I was 5 ft. tall and weighed around 107 lbs. He put me on a diet, and I discovered the the high I could get  from withholding food from myself and watching the pounds drop off.  I got down to 97 lbs, grew breasts, got contacts, and suddenly the ugly duckling was a swan. A swan with really low self-esteem, because by then I had learned I'd never be good enough no matter how hard I tried.

I managed to stay under 110 lbs in high school, though it was touch and go. I'd starve myself down to 98 lbs, then binge and shoot up to 110 lbs. The numbers on the scale determined my mood, and I was on a constant roller coaster ride.

The summer I was 18 was the only time in my whole life that I felt satisfied with my looks. I was tan and fit from picking up rock* in my bikini, my hair had grown out and was blonde from lemon juice and sunshine, and I was TOTALLY in love** for the first time. Oh, life was SO sweet! Too good to last. And it didn't.

Flash forward: College. Emotional trauma. Gained 50 lbs. Believed I was hideous. Junior year: got engaged, got down to 133 lbs for the June wedding, gained 8 lbs on my honeymoon, and was back up to 159 lbs when I found out I was pregnant in October. I was over 200 lbs when I delivered Andy, and by then I had begun My Life As A Fat Lady. The Horror! The Shame!! I had let myself go, and I never came back.

'Til now. I'm back! I'm full-figured, fat, voluptuous, and absolutely gorgeous! That is, when I FEEL gorgeous. When I feel fogly (fat, old and ugly) I look fogly. My top weight around 12 years ago was 315 lbs. As of today, I weigh 261 lbs. They're just numbers. They have no power to destroy me. Lower numbers mean I feel better, and my body is getting healthier, but the numbers do not define my beauty.

I used to think my desire to be beautiful was just vanity. Now I realize beauty is something I can create; it's a state of being. I know how to create beauty in my art, and my music, and my home. I know how to bring out beauty in people I love. As I take selfies on my computer, I see my face totally change depending on what I'm thinking, and how I feel in that moment. It's not about my features-it's all about the look in my eyes. Pure joy lights me up from within, and despair drags everything down.

So, to each of you, fat or thin, young or old, pretty or ugly: CHOOSE BEAUTY.


*Rock picking: a typical job for a NE IA teen. You walk the fields and pick up rocks and put them in a loader and pile them at the edge of the field. This was so the rocks wouldn't get stuck in the machinery when the farmers worked the land. After all these years, I still see a rock in a field and get the urge to pick it up!

**Still in love with that handsome redhead, Steve Jons. He's a FORMER redhead, now, but man, he makes bald look GOOD!!!!

WORDS TO LIVE BY (NOTE TO ANDY)

Prepare The Temple

Prepare the Temple

Can't you see how sliding down 
that slippery slope destroys you?

It robs you of health, wealth, peace of mind, and joy of life.

Every time you feed those cravings, those addictions, 

you attract a multitude of similar energies 
that glob on and enjoy the ride, 

urging you to succumb with every choice you make.

This is life or death...

and the death is a slow one as your vitality 
bleeds out by milliseconds

until you're snuffed out like a quivering candle flame.

God calls us to LIVE.

He's given us that double-edged sword of free will.

We can do it our own way, under our own steam,

beating ourselves into behaving, 
then delighting in our naughtiness.

We think we're getting away with something.

No one can tell US what to do!

So we unwittingly invite Guilt, Shame, 
and Rebellion to reside within us,

 and they run the show.

Guilt makes us feel we can do nothing right.

Shame makes us feel everything we do is wrong,

and Rebellion tells us we can do no wrong.

Once this Terrible Trio takes over, you're doomed.

They duke it out, fighting over your life force 
like bitter spouses in a custody battle,

tearing your integrity to pieces.

And then, Control comes waltzing in.

Control tells us if we follow these rules, cross off our to do lists, do good works, keep up appearances, impress the neighbors, keep our houses clean, raise perfect children, excel at our jobs, do our 20 minute workouts, run our 5Ks, rescue the messed-up, 
judge the screw-ups, 

and play our part to perfection, 

we will be worthy.

It is never enough.

   We starve our minds of positive input.

   We starve our bodies of necessary nourishment.

   We ignore our emotions.

   We neglect our spirits until we feel dead inside.

  Then we indulge ourselves as we desperately try to fill 
that God-shaped vacuum within us.

I have seen a glimpse of another way of being.

I have breathed it in.

I have felt it in my bones.

I have lifted my face to the sun and thought, “It is good.”

I have been bathed in bliss.

I have laughed with joy.

I have rested in peace.

I have lived in a constant state of love.

I know I'm there when I see 

that my eyes sparkle, 

my hair shines, 

my skin glows, 

and my smile is radiant.

I'm content in the knowledge 
that I am called to be a blessing, 

to have a willing servant's heart, 
to offer comfort and healing, 

beauty and grace, giggles and belly laughs, 

and to inspire transformation.

Every moment I surrender to God's will.

Every choice I make, I ask for God's guidance.

Every breath I breathe in the Holy Spirit.

Ask, then listen.

Seek, then see.

Find, and receive.

Prepare the Temple.

My Life as a Super Plus Sized Woman

Some of my Supersized Woman Pics. I weighed around 295 lbs, and wore 6X-7X size clothes.

The most "likes" I've ever gotten on Facebook is when I've posted any significant amount of weight loss. Along with words of encouragement, so many have asked me, "What are you doing?" I'm shrinking! I'm embracing my tiny little pixie fairy hobbit self instead of trying to be larger than life. I'm not biting off more than I can chew, I don't have too much on my plate, and I don't find things difficult to swallow. I'm comfortable in my skin, I love my face, and I cherish my circa 1961 body. I sleep when I'm tired, sometimes 8 hours a night, sometimes 12 hours, depending on how much energy I've expended during the day. I drink water or tea when I'm thirsty, I eat when I'm hungry, I move when I have energy, I rest when I'm drained. I listen to my body. 

I've learned to feed my hunger, not my cravings. When you feed your cravings, you simply crave more. You're never satisfied. 
  
When you're trapped in a 315 pound chrysalis of fat, life is very difficult. Your body is incredibly inconvenient and a bother, and upkeep simply wears a person out. Imagine draping a waterbed over your shoulders, front and back, 'til it hangs down to your knees, and then try to walk in that thing. Try to get in and out of cars, booths in restaurants, bathtubs, tiny public bathrooms, or even an MRI machine. I was constantly dissociating myself from the painful experience of being in my body. It hurt physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. My beautiful soul felt trapped in this unwieldy vehicle, and I longed for escape.

The act of eating has caused me immense guilt and shame since I was around 6. At some point, I decided to quit feeling guilty about every bite I put in my mouth, and just ate what I wanted. I did succeed in breaking my feast or famine approach to food. I chose to feast, though not as much as you might think. I feasted mildly, but consistently, not usually binging, but also not limiting my food choices or intake. Desperate to alter my moods, I usually chose the sedating effects of carbs to calm me down. The more I ate, the more I'd crave, and the cycle continued until I became an insulin dependent diabetic. Then things got really crazy! The higher my blood sugar, the more insulin I'd take. The more insulin I took, the more my body craved sugar. I was on the diabetic roller coaster ride from hell, and I couldn't get off.

I had several wake-up calls, including a horrific trip to the E.R. after drinking too much whiskey which caused my blood sugar to plummet, which is a very dangerous condition. I knew I was looking into the abyss of an untimely death, and I realized I was not ready to die.

So the first thing I had to do was to admit I had a death wish. 

The second thing I had to do was choose to live.