Month: February 2019

by

Me

I top off the air in the tires, squeeze them to be sure they are full, and set the pump back on the shelf. Headphones in place and podcast queued up, I push off and begin pedaling, settling myself on the bicycle seat as I head down the familiar road towards the beach.

Overhead, the trees shade me from the sun, dripping Spanish moss down to create a canopy of texture and sound. I feel my hair begin to curl in the humid South Carolina air and smile as I bid goodbye to the twelve wasted minutes I spent straightening it earlier.

I hit play on my podcast and Oprah’s voice fills the silence. I’m in the middle of a podcast series with her and Eckhart Tolle, the author of one of my favorite books, A New Earth. They are discussing the book chapter-by-chapter and they are the perfect companions for my ride.

“The primary cause of unhappiness is never the situation, but your thoughts about it,” Eckhart is saying. “Be aware of the thoughts you are thinking. Defining yourself through thought is limiting yourself.”

I hit pause to let his statement soak in. As I turn it over in my mind, I remember the last time I was miserably unhappy. It was just a couple weeks ago on a hotel balcony in Costa Rica.  

Then, after 48 hours of tension and raw discussions with my husband on our honeymoon, I’d retreated to the balcony, exhausted, deflated, and quickly spiraling into a dark place. Curled up with a box of kleenex in a swinging chair, I let the tears fall. Earlier, he’d expressed a list of hard-to-hear, but valid, insights about me and about our relationship. Those had mingled with a harsh follow-up critique from my inner perfectionist and sent me to a familiar pit of despair. Every negative thought felt so true and real they crushed me with their assessment of my character.

Now, riding my bike toward the beach, I realize that defining myself through my perfectionistic thoughts limits who I am and is the primary cause of any unhappiness. What if I hadn’t been so attached to who those thoughts say I am? Would I have felt such a strong need to dig in and defend myself for two days? Would I have sunk into such a dark place after? Probably not.

Overhead a crow caws his agreement as I hit play on the podcast, anxious to hear more.

Tolle continues: “Ego takes everything personally. Emotion arises, defensiveness, perhaps even aggression. You are defending yourself, or rather the illusion of yourself…If there is awareness in you, you will be able to recognize that voice in your head for what it is: an old thought, conditioned by the past. You no longer need to believe every thought you think. ”

I rewind and listen again, remembering my awful thoughts in Costa Rica. That night, I twisted what my husband said and convinced myself I was a bad friend, a bad wife, an endless work in progress who would never be good enough.

But I also remember, that as my tears ran out, I felt the breeze and heard the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. I noticed the canopy of stars stretching endlessly above me. I became aware of my breath and the feel of the wall under my feet as I pushed off to keep my chair swinging. My emotional exhaustion had returned me to the present moment.

Was that the awareness Eckhart spoke of? The feeling of being so present in the moment that my thoughts still?

“How to be at peace now?” Tolle asks, before answering his own question. “By making peace with the present moment. The present moment is the field on which the game of life happens. It cannot happen anywhere else…It is when we are trapped in incessant streams of compulsive thinking that the universe really disintegrates for us, and we lose the ability to sense the interconnectedness of all that exists…Only if we are still enough inside and the noise of thinking subsides can we become aware that there is a hidden harmony here, a sacredness, a higher order in which everything has its perfect place and could not be other than the way it is.”

Arriving at the beach, I turn the podcast off, and hear my bike tires rumble over the boardwalk below. Countless times, over 35 years, I’ve ridden this way, knowing the smooth sand of the Atlantic shore will greet me at the end. I return because riding along the ocean in this familiar place soothes something inside me. Here I can always drown out the voice in my head; the one Eckhart is talking about.

But, while it is easy here, I must remember the peace of being in the present moment is always available to me, regardless of my location or life events. And being in the present moment quiets my thoughts and reminds me I am not who they say I am. I am something more.

I turn my bike into the sun. A flock of small sea birds flitters past, alighting on a tide pool just ahead, only to take off immediately as I reach them. We move from tide pool to tide pool as I pedal down the beach. A pelican flies overhead, turning its head to look down on me. For a brief moment, I stare into its big brown eye and hold my breath. The waves crash rhythmically, consistently, the soundtrack for my ride. Ahead of me, a golden retriever plays in the waves, soaked from nose to tail. He turns to his owner and barks. The owner responds by throwing his ball down the beach towards me. He bounds after it, dodging waves and screeching to a sandy halt, having the time of his life.

The voice in my head goes quiet. For the first time in a long time, I feel calm, connected, peaceful, and content. I am the true me, not who my limiting thoughts say I am.  

And it’s beautiful.

by

Surf’s Up

The alarm’s brash sound cut through the peaceful morning, setting my heart racing. I’d been restless all night, never fully falling into deep sleep, yet still it managed to startle me.

I stumbled to the bathroom, turned on the shower to warm the water, and glanced in the mirror.

“You excited about today?” my husband Kris yelled from the other room. I could hear him rummaging through his suitcase, opening the curtains to let in the morning sun, and turning on the portable speaker.

“Mmmhmmm…” I mumbled non-committedly.

Soon Michael Franti’s reggae happiness filled the air as I stepped into the spray and let the water cascade over me.

“I say hey, I’ll be gone today, but I’ll be back all around the way….” the song reverberated off the tile and I tapped a toe to the rhythm. I was anxious about the day. We were heading to the beach to learn to surf.

In the past when the opportunity had presented itself, I’d sat happily on the sidelines watching. Neither a fan of the water nor of new activities for which I had no skill, I’d been content to let others go, cheering them safely from the shore.

“It seems like everywhere I go, the more I see, the less I know…”

But this was a honeymoon, so I was the only other person available to go. While Kris would have gone alone and enjoyed his time, I knew he would love it more if I tagged along. So gamely I’d agreed the night before.

“But I know one thing, that I love you…” his head poked around the door as he sang along, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

I smiled. His excitement was contagious.

An hour later, standing on the shore next to surf boards that towered over me, I was less certain.

“I didn’t realize they were so big,” I said to our instructor, Alejandro.

“You’ll do great,” he smiled back. “Pura vida. All is well, I will help you.”

We spent what felt like a frighteningly inadequate amount of time practicing on the shore and soon after I found the board strapped to my ankle and shoved under my arm as he turned and pointed me to the sea.

“We’ll be right behind you. Just don’t let the board get in front of you once you reach the water or it could crash into your face with a wave. Very bad.”

“I can do this,” I muttered to myself. “These waves are tiny, how bad can it be? And if I fall, the water is shallow and I can at least say I tried it.”

I made my way into deeper water, trying to pass through the water break into the calmer sea beyond.

“Be brave, not perfect. You only need to try it. No one cares if you fall. It’s your first time. If nothing else, you’ll have something to write about.”

Finally in calmer water, I turned to wait for the other two students and our instructor who were making their way towards me. In the distance, the group photographer waited on shore, camera poised waiting to catch every moment so he could sell them to us later.

“These photos will be priceless,” I thought to myself as I waited for the others to close the gap between us.

“Ok Sara,” said Alejandro, “hop on like we practiced. You’re up first!”

“Me?” I asked. “Surely one of the others should go first, I’ve never done this before.”

“I’ll be right here,” came his answer. “I’ve never had a student not get up. A few tries and you’ll have it. Up you go.”

I grabbed the edges of the board, not sharing his enthusiasm or his certainty, and half jumped half flopped my body onto the end of it. I pulled myself forward, stretching the length of my body in the center of the board, settling my toes towards the edge, and prepared to wait for a wave, taking a few deep breaths to steady my rapid heartbeat.

“Here it comes, ready?” he called.

“Wait…already? What do I…”

“Now!!!” he yelled. “Paddle! Paddle! Paddle!”

My arms flailed at my sides, trying to catch traction in the water around me as I scrambled to follow his directions.

“Up! Jump up!” he called.

I could feel the momentum of the wave but couldn’t process fast enough. The routine we had practiced on the sand slipped immediately out of mind. Frantic, I pulled myself onto my knees, wobbly and unsteady. I could hear voices cheering me in the distance. I planted one foot in front of me, looked to the shore, and steadily tried to get the second one balanced beneath me on the board, distributing my weight evenly.

“Wait. I’m standing.” I thought. “And I’m moving still. Am I surfing? Why am I not falling? I should be falling.”

My legs shook beneath me with the effort and adrenaline. I heard my name in the distance.

“Sara!! Sara!!! Look over here!!!”

I turned my head to the sound, spotted the photographer waving at me with his camera and smiled.

“Oh my gosh!!! I’m actually surfing a wave!!!”

I raised my arms triumphantly over my head. The moment captured on film, I turned my attention to the beach rapidly approaching.

“Shit,” I thought, “how do I stop? We never talked about stopping. We only talked about getting up. What do I do when I reach the shore?”

I started to panic. I was running out of water as I sped towards shore. Making a gametime decision, I stepped off the board and into the shallow water, intending to run gracefully to the shore. Insead, unable to keep up with my momentum, I sprawled into a spectacular crash, bouncing along the bottom of the ocean, tearing up the side of my leg and inhaling a gallon of seawater. Eventually screeching to a stop, I sat up and looked around.

Everyone was clapping and smiling.

“You did it!” I heard Kris yell. I waved in acknowledgement as I took stock of my body parts.

“I’m good,” I said under my breath, “A bit banged up, but good. And I did it, I actually did it!”

I collected my board and hoisted it under my arm, and turned back to face the sea. As the sun warmed me from above and the surf crashed around me, I paused to soak in the moment. “Be brave, not perfect,” I thought, “look how far I’ve come.”

“Well done,” Alejandro called.

“We really need to talk about the dismount!” I yelled back.


by

Chubby Unicorn

I have a terrible memory. I find myself standing in the middle of a room wondering what I’m there to retrieve at least once a day. I have an alarm on my keys that tells me where my phone is and an alarm on my phone to tell me where my keys are. I might add one on my sunglasses too so both my keys and my phone can tell me where they are.

Appointments and childhood memories also slip away more often now if not written down. It’s a problem.

But there is a silver lining.

My husband, Kris, is so used to my poor memory that when I do remember something and surprise him with it months later, it’s a movie moment deserving of rising orchestral swells and happy tears.

This Christmas, I remembered a t-shirt he mentioned months ago just in time to get it wrapped and under the tree. The t-shirt shows a picture of a rhinoceros standing in front of an African sunset with the words “Save the Chubby Unicorn” printed underneath.

He finds it hilarious.

That Christmas morning I won the “Gold Star Wife” award, one I cherish even more than the silent praise I give myself when I get the dog’s name right the first time I call for him.

A few weeks after my moment of triumph, his colleague at work was wearing the same shirt.

“Oh my gosh! Don’t you just love that shirt?” he said. “Sara got me the same one and I chuckle every time I read it.”

“Sure,” she answered, “it fits who I am perfectly.”

Kris paused a moment, confused.  

She continued, “A few years ago, I was slim and trim and in the best shape of my life. It makes sense that my husband would get this for me now. I am definitely a chubby unicorn.”

“What did you say?” I ask him later that day as he tells me the story.

“I don’t even know,” he answers, “I was so caught off guard and things felt so awkward, I mumbled something about checking our flight gear before our next call and wandered off.”

“Hmmm…” I respond, lost in thought.

“I would never think this shirt is actually a statement about me,” he says. “It’s just funny. The rhino is the chubby version of the unicorn. Don’t you get it? They both have a horn.”

“Of course I get it,” I answer.

And I do.

And yet I also understand why her mind went there. As women we are so hard on ourselves, especially about our physical bodies. I wrote about how chubby I feel just last week and if the shirt had been a gift for me from him, I likely would have responded similarly.

On our Christmas morning, joy surrounded that shirt. On hers, did it bring shame and self-loathing instead? I doubt her husband was sending her a message, but she created one in her head.

This makes me sad for girls and women. We have been raised so differently from boys and men that where they see a funny t-shirt for exactly what it is, we have learned to use it as a weapon to judge and belittle ourselves.

As I write this, I’m sitting on a balcony in Costa Rica next to my husband. We both are writing and drinking beer, lounging in our swimsuits, enjoying the peacefulness of the countryside. To look at us, you would see near mirror images. And yet there are differences below the surface.

One of us is sucking in her stomach in case it makes a slight difference in her profile.

One of us is worried about the judgement of the people walking by who wave happy greetings.

One of us fully understands the pain behind his colleague’s chubby unicorn shirt assumption. That pain is refined and ingrained over decades with every magazine and tv ad celebrating perfection and happiness with a body that doesn’t look like mine.

One of us lives that same self judgement day after day.

But one of us is also determined to change that, for girls and women everywhere. And for herself. So that one day girls the world over can open that same t-shirt and simply laugh at the funny joke it was meant to be, finally free of the cultural messaging that twisted it in the first place.  

by

Battling the Bulge

“Ok, I need to do this. I’ve put it off long enough.”

I grimace at my naked reflection in the mirror. I’ve grown pudgy around the edges. I barely recognize myself; the result of not breaking a sweat in nearly a year and taking a good six months off from paying attention to what I’m eating.

“Sigh. It’s time. You need a jumpstart and a starting point. Just get it over with.”

I kick the “on” button with my toe, toggle to my settings, and place a timid first foot on the scale.

“Here goes nothing,” I mumble.

I step my second foot on, distribute my weight evenly, hold my breath, and say a silent prayer. I look down. My jaw drops.

I officially weigh the most I’ve weighed. Ever. In my life. It sucks. Big time.

While I knew it would be rough, I’m still surprised. My shoulders slump as I step off, defeated.

I reach for my undergarments as my self criticism kicks into high gear. One of the most challenging things about perfectionism are the negative voices. They are immediate, they are relentless, and they are cruel.

“You are ugly. You are fat. You are unattractive to everyone. Soon your husband won’t even desire you.”

“Why can’t you just stop eating so much? I mean come on, people have normal relationships with food all over the world. Why can’t you be more like them? Stop reaching for food in every circumstance, it’s clearly not your friend.”

“And for God’s sake, break a sweat. You are so lazy. You sit all damn day. How hard is it to get up once in awhile a walk around? No wonder every part of your body hurts, you’ve completely let yourself go.”

I grab the closest pair of pants that still fit and pull them on, lost in the rampant perfectionist thoughts. I feel deserving of them.

Behind me the bathroom door opens as I tug a t-shirt over my head.

“Hey babe, I brought you coffee,” my husband says as he sets it on the counter. Next to the cup he carefully places three small sticky notes. “I know I usually leave them downstairs but today I thought I would bring them to you as I head out.”

His sweet words break the berating of my inner voice. I look at him and smile. “Thanks baby,” I say as I lean in for a kiss, “this is just what I needed this morning.”

As he heads out to work, I take the first sip, and look down at the notes.

“I’m so lucky to know you. Who’s blessed? I. AM. LUCKY,” the first one reads.

“I love your stupid face. Stupidly….AWESOME face. You are amazing,” reads the second.

“I notice how awesome you are. I do. I see it in everything you do. I’m proud of you,” says the third.

My eyes tear up a little.

I hang the notes on the mirror as I start to dry my hair to prepare for the day. I read them again and again, letting them sink in.

Yes, I have a little work to do to feel more comfortable in my skin again. But as these notes attest, I am still loved. I am still blessed. I am still awesome. I am still valuable.

No matter what the scale reads.

And you are too.