I am a better person when I have less on my plate. – Elizabeth Gilbert (Eat, Pray, Love)

This may surprise you, but being tall and big-boned, loving food and ranging from a little to a lot overweight through the years caused me to build a ridiculous defense to the above type of statement. I’d think, So, because I typically have more food on my plate than you do, you’re a better person than I am?! In my defense, people can be brutal! I’ve experienced both sides of the spectrum, having been small enough to get “special treatment” (mainly from the menfolk), then being big enough to be treated poorly because of it. There really is a drastic difference. (I’ve always been a bit over-sensitive, so I admit I’ve probably been affected by this more than others might be.) Needless to say, I’ve wasted quite a bit of energy feeling angry about this sort of thing. I can’t stress enough just how many of these comments and situations I’ve stacked on my shoulders.

Luckily, I’m getting older. And with getting older, I’m getting wiser. You see, I automatically assumed the speaker of the quote above was judging me by saying that statement. But, she wasn’t comparing herself to me! She was comparing herself to the version of her that was out of control. This woman doesn’t even know me! Ok, well. When I look at it that way, she’s totally not being bitchy or judgmental at all.

You see the problem here? I do. How selfish of me to think she would even care how much food I’m eating. I’m so caught up in my own insecurities and guilt, that I’m missing the whole point. Fact is, if one is the type to get out of control when eating food, then the above statement is totally valid. And furthermore, the statement is totally true about me!

I’ve lost some weight and guess how I did it? By having less food on my plate. I’m healthier and happier when I’m in control. I am a better person.

I’m sorry to all the people I’ve felt unwarranted anger towards. You most likely could care less what weight I am and if I tower over you.

I really need to get a grip.

I find the times I can most vividly feel a memory is when it’s provoked by a scent, site or sound.

On Monday Mojito nights, I’m immediately taken back to age 5 & 6, when I would crawdad fish with my brother in the creek out back of our old house. The scent of the mint leaves was so strong out there that even the faintest hint of them today can bring me back as if it was yesterday. I instantly picture the steep, dirt slope we’d have to climb down to get there, the fishing poles we’d make out of sticks and strings and even the disappointment we felt when the creek bed was dried out, though we never seemed to run out of things to do.

Places do the same thing to me. I can drive down almost any street here in Concord and have a million tiny memories rush over me at once. Living in the same city for over 20 years is to blame.

A kind of major (and admittedly, silly) thing happened a couple days ago. My childhood friend and I attempted to visit our favorite Indian restaurant. Let me explain. My dad grew up a missionary kid in India. Naturally, when he met and married my mom in Bible college, they felt called to go to India as well. To prepare, my parents used to take us to Indian social gatherings to mingle with those from that culture. We didn’t end up moving to India (you can read more about that here) but needless to say, Indian food has been a major part of our lives. It became a tradition of sorts to meet at a local Indian restaurant called Namaste almost every Sunday afternoon for lunch. Sometimes it was just our family and sometimes we were joined by up to 15 friends. I frequented as a grade schooler, a high school student dating my future daughter’s father, a young married mother with a newborn baby, and most recently, the single-mother of a 7 year old might-as-well-be-a-teenage daughter. Many, many memories in this place. I say my friend and I “attempted to visit” this restaurant because sadly, it was completely empty when we showed up! Nothing could have stopped our over-reaction. It was as if someone died. Although neither of us shed a tear, the flood of memories was overwhelming. Knowing we could never visit Namaste again was painful. We snapped a few pics and drove away for the last time. (See? Totally silly!)

Anyhow. Lastly, we all know that a song can instantly take us to a time and place like no other. Mariah Carrey time warps me to the stage of my elementary school multi-purpose room where I performed a dance routine with some friends for a 3rd grade talent show. Pink Floyd has me covering my eyes and yelling at my sister for shutting the lights off while playing “Is there anybody out there?” and “Yellow” by Coldplay makes me feel like a Canadian college student again. I could go on and on.

Ohhh, the power of music and the gift of hearing! My brother-in-law posted this video a couple days ago on Facebook. It shows an 8 month old baby hearing for the very first time after having his Cochlear Implant activated. How amazing is his reaction!? I’d like to reiterate my thankfulness for our advancements in technology and the capabilities we have because of it. This baby will now be able to hear a song when he’s 25 years old that will instantly bring him back to his childhood!

Love is inconsistent. It’s a marathon or a game of tug-of-war. You’re either trying your damnedest to catch up, or you’re looking back, waiting for your partner to. Every once in a while, when you do catch up to each other, the passion overflows. Eventually though, the balance tips one way or the other and the wait begins again. It slowly teeter-totters back and forth, giving each person the chance to pursue the other with moments of renewing passion in between. How amazing is that?! Most people in committed relationships don’t even realize how lucky they are to be running this love-marathon. All they can (very humanly) see is the frustration they feel when they’re either the pursuer while the other is distant, or they’re being pursued when not really desiring it. But this is necessary! If there was constant passion, it would be impossible to appreciate it. Am I right?

I’ve seen too many relationships fail, simply because they expected the passion to be constant. I say, embrace the inconsistency! The distance gives us time to reflect on ourselves and grow strong as individuals. Just let the natural pattern happen cause I’m convinced it happens for a reason.

I secretly love the wait. I love good things in small doses. At the moment, I’m not involved in a committed relationship, but I hope to be someday. I look forward to the opportunity to pursue and be pursued on a regular basis.

And that’s saying a LOT coming from me.

Having been raised in the belief that technology quite possibly means the end of the world, I had to battle some pretty heavy anxiety through the years. During my freshman year of high school, we were shown a movie of a woman who was “left behind” during the rapture, being hunted down to receive the mark of the beast, but after refusing, was decapitated. I had a class my senior year that was devoted to analyzing the current state of our world and applying it to the book of Revelations. One student would stand up each week in class and read an article they found that pointed to the end times. I often wonder what impact my school could’ve made, had they put their energy into teaching love and acceptance, rather than this bullsh!%. Back at home, on the rare chance I overheard the news on TV (which I avoided at all costs), something would be mentioned to send me into a panic. New micro-chips being developed that are small enough to fit under your skin! — That one always got me. All these things, along with the local mega-church presenting a play titled “To Hell and Back” in which they performed their version of what hell would be like. You know, people on stretchers screaming as their limbs are being pulled in all directions?! Interesting, they didn’t even touch on what heaven would be like for those “chosen”. I came away with such a dark feeling towards that place.

It’s been freeing – to say the least – letting go of all of this. We have no sure answer. Hell could simply be a term used to describe the life you’ll be living if you do this or that. I know I’ve lived in my own version of hell from time to time.

Death has had me in a sweaty panic many a times as well. For a long time – whether death meant going to heaven, hell, or neither – I’d end up in a pile of tears, taking deep breaths, trying to pull myself back to reality. After years of this, I’ve finally come to accept that there’s nothing I can do about it! Many, many years have passed. Generations upon generations of human beings, all born from their mothers and eventually dying after living their version of life, has finally become a beautiful thing to me.

I guess I just wanted to say this with confidence:  I don’t want to be a part of a belief system that scares or guilt-trips anyone into acting a certain way. I want to freely and peacefully live. I don’t belong to a religious group and I have no title for myself. If I strive to do good and love those around me, I truly believe I’m doing the right thing. Why would I be punished for living this way?

And technology. Praise GOD for the convenience of making a check deposit from my iphone while having dinner with friends. Thank baby Jesus I can watch Talladega Nights or a couple episodes of The Office while in line at the DMV. On a serious note, I truly am thankful for the blessing of talking to my sister face-to-face in England despite our 8 hour time change.

Bring it on, micro-chips!

•     •     •     •     •     •     •     •     •     •

I’d like to conclude by saying that none of this is a reflection on my parents. This all comes directly from the organized churches and schools I was a part of when growing up. On the contrary, my parent’s lives were devoted to helping people and being accepting of anyone, no matter their past or present circumstances. I don’t blame them at all. I actually believe my parents are the reason I have the courage  to question these topics. They raised me in what they believe to be the truth and I’ve learned a lot about how to be a good person because of that. Despite our differences, they love and accept me.

It’s really hard to avoid superficiality. I’ve been thinking a lot about the prospect of being at a healthy weight again. I know I’ll never have the 16 year old body I once had. 10 years have passed and my body has changed drastically. There are those things I can control (diet and exercise) and there are the things I can’t control, like the scars left on my skin. Even if/when I lose weight, the scars will still be there. I can choose to hate them or I can see them as a reminder of a challenging, yet rewarding phase of my life. I look back on this time with a foggy memory – as if I had some sort of confused-goggles on. I don’t feel angry and I don’t regret it. It was all worth it in the end.

I was 18 years old when I took a pregnancy test in my parents house, my boyfriend waiting outside the bathroom door. We were home alone, something we’d only recently been given permission to do. After all, we were children. We grew up together. He was my childhood “boyfriend” and we started officially dating when I was 16 years old. We’d had a pretty rough relationship up until this point. Very passion-filled during the good times and the bad. Lots of love, some unnecessary guilt, many fights and not enough space to breath. I came out of the bathroom crying, showing him the two red lines. We went to the hospital to get a blood test and they confirmed the pregnancy. There wasn’t a second thought about keeping the baby. Even if we’d given ourselves the choice, we would have never chosen the alternative.

We were raised that marriage was necessary in this situation, so we followed suit and planned a (shot gun) winter wedding in under 3 months. After we were married, we couldn’t afford to move out on our own, so we lived at my dad’s house. My time consisted of cleaning, crying, doctor’s appointments, enjoying the feeling of something growing inside of me, morning sickness, organizing, setting up the baby’s room, sewing, watching movies, and working temp jobs off and on. My husband spent his time in fire school and working night shift in the critical care unit at a hospital. He’d had his mind set on becoming a firefighter since he was a kid. He worked very hard to get there, too, which left very little time for him to be home. The relationship continued in the direction it had been heading, which wasn’t a good place. We grew further and further apart, putting up walls and building resentment. When I look back on it now, I see that we got married before we had even grown into ourselves. The choice wasn’t there. As I said before, we were just “following suit”. As time passed, we were becoming two totally different people who didn’t fit together. At such a young age, we simply didn’t know how to react to that. The outcome was a lot of hurtful words and actions that couldn’t be erased.

On June 9, 2003 at around 8am, we arrived at Alta Bates Medical Center in Berkeley, where I was induced into labor. Two and a half hours later and – due to the short labor – without the option of an epidural, I gave birth to an 8 lb, 5 oz healthy little girl. The pain was extremely intense, but I look back on that day with very positive feelings. I was proud of myself and overjoyed to finally meet my daughter, Katie Sue.

When Katie was about 6 months old, we moved into our first apartment. After a very rocky year or so, we separated for a few months. Then in an effort to try to “make things work”, we moved back into a house together. We did have some good times as a family (these will always be treasured memories) but as time passed, the bad started to outweigh the good. It wasn’t a healthy place to be. In June 2005, I decided the best thing was to move out. Our divorce finalized in November 2006.

I can honestly say, I’m glad we gave it a shot. I would’ve always wondered if it would have worked and I’m glad I have my answer. He’s a very special person to me, even now. I talk to him often and we share our lives with each other. I know he cares about me and I care about him deeply. He’s family. He’s just not the man for me.

(He did end up getting his dream job as a Firefighter/Paramedic. I’m very proud of him and I know Katie is too!)

Fast forward a few years. Katie is 7 now. She’s a beautiful, creative, independent, outgoing and loving little girl. Finding the words to describe the love I have for her is impossible. I’ve tried. I don’t have the guy I married or the body I had at the age of 16, but I do have Katie! Something I would never have had if I didn’t push through this time of my life. It was worth the pain, frustration, sadness and scars because the happiness she brings me outweighs all of it.

I found this card today at a thrift shop and was like, “That’s ME!” The one on the left… doesn’t she look like me?

Who am I kissing though? I tried to think of someone and couldn’t figure out who she reminded me of. But… I’ve settled on this: she represents all of my friends that are so so special to me (girls AND boys!). Recently, I’ve noticed that I’m not as affectionate as I used to be*. My insecurities take over and I stay in my own personal space. I want to give more hugs and kisses! Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something? All I know is that I wanted to climb into that picture, wear those exact same clothes, and step onto my tippy-toes to kiss my good friend who loves kitties. (Then, after walking around in the Shire a bit, we’d head back to our Hobbit houses.)

*This does not include my daughter, Katie. She gets TONS of smoosh-her-face-kisses.

The most common motive behind taking a picture is to remember a given moment, right?

When we look at a photo from our own past, the emotion that was felt when it was taken seeps through as if we just experienced it all over again. This could be joy, love, peace, pride, or even grief, sadness, pain, or anger. But no matter what, we’re in some way appreciating a moment that has passed.

Yesterday, when visiting an antique shop, I was immediately drawn to a bin of random old photos. I picked up a stack and started flipping through them. The moments were so real, and most likely completely forgotten. I decided to try and pull myself into the time and place each photo was taken so I could sense the feelings, thoughts and experiences of the people I was looking at.

Let me just say, appreciating other people’s lost memories might become my newest hobby (someone has to do it!). It was amazing to stand there and for those few minutes (ok… maybe not so few) completely forget about my own life.

I was a seamstress, pausing from my work to take a group photo (see me way in the back?)

And I was a daughter, laughing, while dad gathered wood.

And in this one, I was on a dock, taking photos of my niece, but stopped to pet the deer (?!)

I’m going to keep these, and will most likely gather more random old photos through the years. I’m adopting these people’s memories because they deserve to be appreciated.

There’s an excitement that comes with visiting a foreign city or town. I’m able to look around and really see everything with untainted eyes. I tend to feel a longing to just up and move there, just to have a different life than the one I have now. A life that might actually be fulfilling. I figure I’d have better opportunities and I’d be more motivated to change the things in my life that need to be changed. I’d be in a city full of new experiences to be had, new people to meet. Maybe I’d open a cute little shop and be super relaxed and laid back about everything. I’d be a better mom. I’d keep my house perfectly clean with flowers in a vase on my counter every day. I’d wake up smiling and hop out of bed, throw on my tiny pre-mom jeans and go make a healthy breakfast…

Wait. I think I’ve watched too many movies.

Today, I woke up at 10am to my daughter wanting help playing Build-A-Bear on her Nintendo DSi. I played with her for an hour, then packed her a bag to go camping with her auntie and cousin for the next couple days. Her dad showed up to pick her up, I kissed her goodbye and sent them off. Then I jumped in the shower and dressed myself in a comfy shirt that doesn’t make me feel insecure, jeans, and flips. Threw on some makeup and jumped in the car to head out. I parked in the garage near the square where I spend most of my free time. I got out and walked downtown in the city I grew up in. The city I still live in to this day. Everywhere I look, I have a memory, whether good or bad. It’s like I’ve touched every single piece of this place. Right now, I’m sitting in my favorite coffee shop in a big, comfy, brown, leather chair. The doors and windows are all open and the breeze is blowing in at a perfect temperature and speed. I can see the playground in the park from where I’m sitting with kids crawling all over it. There’s upbeat music playing and I’ve just devoured a decaf iced mocha and a muffin while writing this. I’m looking around, trying to see my surroundings as a visitor. Pretending that I have this strong desire to up and move here because it’s so exciting. I feel peaceful. Lucky. Content. All in this usually blurred (cause I’m in a hurry), typical (cause it’s so routine), stressful (cause I’m human) city that I grew up in.

Of course, I’d still love to make a huge change and move away to a new city some day (we only live once!), but until that’s possible, I’ll try to sit back and enjoy the way I can predict the traffic flow on any given day, or the smell of the staircase when leaving my apartment complex, or the buildings I’ll pass on my way to work. I’ll try to improve what I can improve and find a way to accept what is out of my control. I want to live my life as if I’m finally getting the chance I’ve been waiting for.

Now I’m off to go shoot some photos of a special friend of mine, simply because I want to.

I watched the movie The Namesake the other night. It was a crazy reminder of how different cultures can be. The movie showed the contrast between the East Indian and American culture. Neither being better…just different. The main female character expressed her love for both countries for different reasons after spending half her life in each place. Ultimately though, she felt “free” in her homeland, India.

My dad grew up in India, and my mom in Africa (both children of missionaries overseas). I think they both moved back when they graduated high school and they met in college. So much happened in my life before I graduated high school! I’ve heard their stories, but I’ll never fully grasp how they experienced their lives before moving here.

Left – Dad (far right), siblings, & friends on the train to boarding school in India.
Right – Mom (middle) & boarding school classmates in Africa.

When I was born, my parents were on deputation, raising money to be missionaries in India. The organization they were with put them in the inner city of San Francisco, CA instead, “temporarily”. Well, that turned out to be a few years in SF running a community center for children, and about 15 more years in Oakland, CA where they ran a drug and alcohol rehabilitation center and shelter for the homeless. That is my childhood. I believe I am very lucky for having experienced the reality of the inner city. But what if we DID go to India? My life would be so drastically different. Who would I be? Would I have a better understanding of life, being raised in a third world country? Or has living here in California given me a clear understanding of life? I have no answer to these questions.

Places I need to visit: India & Africa.

I think going to these countries would help me to have a better connection to my parents and why they are who they are, and why I am who I am. My house has been decorated in African and Indian artifacts, fabrics, and photos my entire life, and still I don’t know the feeling of BEING there. I’m ready to go.

I left the car in the forest and climbed down a cliff, scraping up my shins and feet. At the bottom was a large, open riverbed surrounded by trees. There was happiness in the freedom and perfect company. I found a rock.

If I had known it was a wishing rock, I would have used it in fear of losing something I love.

Last night, I read a book to Katie.
Page 7 read…

Then again,
you might find a rock
with a stripe running
all the way around it.
Trace the line
with your finger–
it must circle all the way.
You have
a wishing rock,
and you whisper
what you want
before you throw it.

I should have thrown it. Instead, I brought it home to remind me.