ONE: SPRING

She came into the world on an early Tuesday morning in spring, just as the sun began to stretch itself over the horizon. She once read in Oprah magazine how the season you are born in will always be your favorite. Your power season, the article called it. She doesn’t read Oprah anymore, but she likes to think that’s why she likes spring.

She considers spring and fall “shoulder seasons” to the more intense winter and summer. Although she never minds the cold and wet of winter as much as some of her friends, too much darkness can plunge her headlong into a deep, untouchable place. A place where she often loses track of herself and forgets the way out, like the longest mountain trail full of switchbacks and slippery boulders. Calling for help is a last resort and one she rarely considers. But no season feels more oppressive to her than the end of summer. Statistically, more homicides are committed in the unrelenting dog days of summer, a statistic she understands. The end of August is spent draped in front of an oscillating fan, imagining rain and staying away from annoying people and sharp objects.

If spring isn’t her favorite, it’s a close second to autumn.

Childhood birthdays on 60 degree days splashed with cotton ball clouds. Her favorite yellow gingham culotte and navy blue saltwater sandals. Picnics on the lake shore, sipping from cans of cream soda and ripping crusts from tuna sandwiches to feed to the ducks. And her favorite birthday dinner–Kentucky Fried Chicken, before the food rules became a staple in her life. Before the shame set in.

As soon as the tender, green shoots of the crocus push through the dirt, her heart quickens and the world feels less heavy. In spring, she can smell things growing. The smell of dirt erupting with new life. Even the rain has a different scent in springtime–like a cleansing baptism rather than a daylong deluge. Roadside medians and neighborhood gardens peppered with pops of violet primroses, yellow narcissus and later, clusters of pastel hyacinths, resplendent in their intoxicating perfume.

Spring weather is mercurial, like her moods. Nothing annoys her more than people commenting on the weather in spring. Can you believe this crazy weather today? they exclaim while she thinks to herself, well, what did you expect? Spring does its thing as it should–a brilliant spectrum of meteorological events from pelting hail to thunderous lightning to blinding sunshine and double rainbows, all within a few hours in a day. There’s a beautiful lack of monotony to a proper spring and she wonders why everyone is always so surprised when it behaves accordingly.

And year after year, the lilacs bloom on her birthday. She slips out to tug the branches close to her nose and breathe in their fragrance. That’s it, she thinks every year. That’s the smell of spring.

From an early age, she learned that spring was what hope smells like.

TWO: FLYING

It took twenty-three years and a new boyfriend before she flew on an airplane. Partly because her family never traveled much and mostly because her roots grow long and deep into her home soil, she was never inclined to give flying a try. But the onset of early adulthood and the inklings of a fresh love brought with it the potential of adventure. For once, she wanted to be brave.

Her father loved flying and loved to regale anyone who would listen with stories of his flights back east to visit family. His normally tired eyes danced when he spoke of the roar of the jet engines. She watched him carefully as he demonstrated how to let one’s body go limp during takeoff. So you can fully absorb the energy pull he’d say. She wonders if she inherited her love of hydroplanes and drag racing and punk rock from her father’s fascination with expressions of energy.

While her mother warns her of the perils of flying, her father offers to drive her to the airport for her red-eye flight. Puffing on his Benson & Hedges as he drives, he meticulously checks off each detail of boarding passes and departure gates. Her stomach roils with nerves. She looks at her lap and fidgets with the hem on the skirt of her ivory wool suit–a special splurge charged on her Nordstrom card for this inaugural flight. It was late August–the week before Labor Day–and she hadn’t even considered the steamy east coast weather when she planned her flying attire. These were the days when people still dressed up for air travel. The days before shoe bombs and pajama pants and TSA body scans.

She sits at her gate and remembers Saturday nights spent at the airport with her older sister, watching planes take off and land, over and over and over again. Like magic. Chocolate and vanilla swirled Diary Queen soft serve cones on the way home.

She grabs her blue duffel bag as the boarding agent calls her row. Her father doesn’t offer a hug, but instead presses three Xanax into her palm and promises he will stand at the window and watch her plane take off. Just to make sure. Just to be safe.

She always feels her father with her when she flies.

THREE: NEW YORK CITY

It took twenty-three years and a new boyfriend before she made it to New York City. She had never before ventured off the west coast but New York City had forever held a certain allure for her. Her father, born in a coastal town of Oregon, often spoke of his time as a young man in Manhattan. Boasting of his proficiency at navigating the New York subway system, spinning tales of his studies at Union Seminary, admitting his confused delight at being propositioned by gay men in Central Park. So many stories. Her father possessed an east-coast aesthetic that paralleled his liberal west-coast leanings. It was a combination that always made sense to her.

Her spiritual teacher once taught her to pay attention to visceral reactions to certain places. Notice what happens in your body, her teacher urged. She thinks of her aversion to Los Angeles and Arizona and places in the desert where life can’t be supported without artificial means. She begins to notice the waves of sadness wash over her when she visits friends in those arid regions. Every journey back to the Northwest her eyes predictably well with tears as the brown, lifeless hillsides transition to the rich, green forested peaks of her hometown. She remembers the way her shoulders and jawline release and how her breath feels fuller and richer when she spends time on the wild coastline of the Pacific. Her body is her teacher, if she allows it.

A lump of emotion rises in her chest at the first glimpse of the Manhattan skyline and the green sprawl of Central Park. The first time it happens she’s in an airplane and it startles her. She chalks it up to her relief at landing soon and brushes the tears from her eyes. But then again, on subsequent trips by bus and train. She doesn’t quite understand it like she understands the softening of her shoulders at the ocean’s edge or her exhale at the sight of her green forests.

Back west, she studies maps of New York City and learns its neighborhoods and boroughs. From faraway, the city skyline seems to dazzle with promise and sparkling secrets. Once on its streets, she leans into the city’s grit and guts. This is her favorite part. Feeling at once at home and completely lost, she dreams of a way to explain this to the people she loves so they understand. So she understands. She walks through Chinatown and Little Italy and into Soho, breathing in bouquets of rotting fish heads and capicola and flat loaves of ciabatta, pulled fresh from brick ovens. The people are friendly and straightforward. She feels seen but unseen and that brings her comfort.

Manhattan is perpetual motion. To idly stroll in Manhattan means to risk being swallowed. She appreciates the city that encourages her purposeful gait. She doubts she could ever live there, but imagines spending a week or two each year, perhaps in the springtime when the lilacs bloom in Central Park and she could wear more clothes and have time to linger at every painting at The Met.

Her children grow up and fall in love with the city as she did. Walking behind her son through Greenwich Village on a warm evening in late June, she glances up and recognizes the long legs and familiar stride. The purposeful gait. Tears puddle in her eyes. She remembers to listen to her body and feels at once hopelessly lost and at home.

She sees her father in her son on the sidewalks and subways of New York City.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ONE: PIE

“Pie is the food of the heroic. No pie-eating people can ever be permanently vanquished.” ~ New York Times, May 3, 1902 (from “Pie & Whiskey”)

I fancy myself a respectable baker, but pie is my Achilles heel. Cakes, cookies and breads are a breeze. Cheesecakes, even–a speciality of mine. But pie? Pie strikes fear in this baker’s heart.

Most baking is chemistry. Dry and wet ingredients, precisely measured and weighed. Fat for a tender crumb, leavening for lightness. Eggs, yeast, baking powder or soda. A specific formula mixed together and then, heat and time. A bit of love and attention.

I love the process of baking.

And yet each November, I dread and struggle with my simple Thanksgiving pumpkin and pecan pies. Single crust, what could go wrong?

Everything. Every damn thing.

Pie dough that cracks and splits as I attempt to transfer it to the pie dish. Too thick, too tough, lousy flavor. I’ve tried every “no fail” pie crust recipe with every “secret” ingredient and failed every single time. I bought a fancy marble slab to roll dough on. A heavy-duty pastry blender. A stainless steel rolling pin, kept chilled in the freezer. Once or twice, I cheated and sheepishly used the pre-made pie crusts already rolled out between waxed paper in the refrigerated grocery store cases. The results were uniformly dreadful.

Enter “Pie & Whiskey: Writers Under the Influence of Butter & Booze”. If there had ever been a book that spoke directly to my soul, it was this.

A Christmas gift from my son, “Pie & Whiskey” is a collection of writing about, well–pie and whiskey. Born in 2012 in Spokane, Washington, Pie & Whiskey began as a reading event where writers gathered to read and listen to each other’s prose, accompanied by some good booze and freshly baked sweets. Five years later, a collection of essays and recipes was published into book form and landed in my floury hands.

I was immediately smitten. And inspired.

Paging through the essays, I learned an important point about pie: although making pie is baking, to do it well requires less precision and far more poetry. Making pie crust is a feel, a sense, an intuitive process. I had been going about it all wrong.

My dear friend and cooking comrade, Erin, turned me on to another resource, Art Of The Pie. Its founder, Kate McDermott, lives in Port Angeles and is the author of “Art Of The Pie” as well as another cookbook coming out in the fall of 2018. Her website is packed with reassuring instructions on pie making, including her recipe for pie crust. As I read through the recipe, I noticed a familiar theme. Simple, high-quality ingredients, no fancy equipment needed. Clean hands, warm heart and a whole lotta soul.

Pi Day came around last week and I was inspired to give my renewed pie hope a test drive. I chose rhubarb because it’s my favorite. With no fresh rhubarb yet in the stores, I found a bag of frozen fruit that I figured would work just fine. I studied Kate’s encouraging recipe. I chilled my ingredients. I gave myself a pep talk and got to work.

My pastry blender stayed in the drawer as I dove in with my bare hands, rubbing flour into butter until I had small bits of dough. I sprinkled ice water into the bowl and again, used my hands to mix until the dough just began to hold a shape. I wrapped two “chubby disks” of pie dough in plastic and tossed them in the fridge to rest. I exhaled.

An hour later, I began to roll. Kate assures me that pie dough wants to please me, so I kept a running banter with my dough, encouraging and coaxing, reassuring it of my belief in its success. It didn’t crack, it didn’t stick and I was able to drape the bottom crust gently in the plate and let it relax into its shape. I sprinkled flour and sugar over the crust, added the fruit, more flour and sugar and lightly blanketed it all with the top crust. I cooed soft, kind words and fluted the edges. The pie slid into the oven. I exhaled again.

The crust? Magnificent. The pie? A resounding flop.

Between the frozen fruit and my misbehaving oven, the filling was dotted with chunks of uncooked rhubarb. Biting into uncooked rhubarb is an unhappy surprise. Much of the fruit was still firm and hadn’t been cooked down into its typical soft-tart-sweet-thick filling.The crust though! Beautiful and golden. Flaky and buttery. Almost perfect.

I decided to deem my efforts a success, even with its tough, partially baked, fruity flaws.

This year is Tracie’s Year Of The Pie. I might even spring for one of Kate’s Pie Day Camp Workshops. Armed with my Costco-sized jug of Bulleit Bourbon and a few reliable pie mentors, I can’t wait to see what comes out of the oven.

If pie is the food of the heroic, let’s all be heroes.

TWO: CORNED BEEF

Every St. Patrick’s Day, my mother made corned beef and cabbage. I’m not sure why, considering our Scandinavian DNA, but it showed up on the dinner table like clockwork each March. Stringy meat with weird globs of fat and a watery broth filled with limp cabbage and soft carrots. The only redeeming thing on my plate were the little red potatoes that sat beside the rest. The next day, I’d find a corned beef sandwich in my lunch, smeared with mayo and grainy mustard. Lifted out of the previous night’s nondescript soup, the corned beef sandwich was my favorite part of our lackluster St. Patrick’s Day observations.

Once I had a couple of young kids of my own, I did the same thing. Without thinking much about it, I tossed a brisket in my shopping cart each March, added a head of green cabbage, a bag of red potatoes and a couple of carrots. My kitchen filled with the familiar fragrance of the corned beef, braising in a briny bath for hours in the oven, served with the same thin, pale broth. And every year, my reaction was the same. Meh. Sometimes I’d toss the leftovers out, pausing only briefly to wonder why I made this same uninspired, unenjoyable meal year after year.

Why do we do the things we do?

It was only four years ago that I had the epiphany that I didn’t have to ever make corned beef and cabbage again. Sometimes I am a slow learner.

Knowing that the Mister was built from some sturdy Irish stock and therefore my kids, too, I was still compelled to acknowledge St. Patrick’s Day. For a few years, instead of corned beef, I brewed a pot of thick, Irish stew followed by a rich Guinness chocolate cake. Much better, I thought. Last week, I was strolling through Costco during sample time and tried a bite of the pre-cooked corned beef they were hawking for the holiday. And just like that, the familiar taste, the Marches of my youth, all that corned beef came flashing back into my memory.

I kinda liked it.

I didn’t buy the pre-cooked, microwaveable stuff I had sampled, but found the brisket just around the corner and stuck it in my cart. I chuckled at myself for doing it again, but decided this year, I’d do it differently.

A new recipe–one that doesn’t immerse the meat in water for hours, but a roast cooked slow and low in just a wee bit of Guinness stout and vinegar. A lid of garlic, sugar and spices and slid under the broiler at the very end to create a crisp crust. Cabbage, sliced into steaks, brushed with olive oil and roasted until the edges darken and caramelize. A few potatoes, steamed and mashed with cauliflower to round things out. No watery broth, no lifeless cabbage in sight. It was the best St. Paddy’s meal I’ve ever had.

Tradition. Reimagined and improved, mindfully.

THREE: THE MORAL OF THE STORY

So why do we do the things we do?

Every once in awhile, I’ll notice an interview with a young woman–perhaps the celebrity of the hour, maybe 30-ish or not quite. She’ll talk confidently about self-discovery and how she is making strong, brave decisions now that she is an evolved, mature woman. She has finally come into her own, she’ll announce.

And I’ll think, well, good for you. And then I’ll also think, but really?

All the women’s magazines I was still reading in my twenties assured me that my thirties was where it was at. I’d come into my own and be flush with confidence. The reality was my thirties were spent raising two young humans and adjusting to life in the foreign world of a stay-at-home mom. There wasn’t any part of me coming into my own. I couldn’t have told you what my own was. I spent that decade scrambling to be a decent mom, a good partner and fit nicely into to my very suburban neighborhood. I played a role, of sorts. The truth was I hadn’t found myself at all, but was getting lost much deeper in the woods.

In my forties, I tumbled into a heady love affair with yoga which began to reconnect me to myself. But even then, whatever rare free time I had was spent chanting kirtan with groups of yoga friends and draping myself in mala beads and om shantis. I wasn’t sure why or really what I was doing. But I desperately wanted to fit in. I wanted a tribe. To belong. I spent money on the right yoga clothes, the right mat, workshops with yogalebrities and teacher trainings that wrung me out and left me as limp as a wet noodle.

I still made the damned corned beef and cabbage every March. And I couldn’t tell you why.

Yoga began the journey back to myself but it also led me down the slippery slope of saying yes. “Be a yes!” was a familiar refrain throughout much of my teacher training. Even the now-despised Lululemon bags were emblazoned with pseudo-spiritual platitudes that encouraged (mostly) women to say yes to everything. Saying yes was the road to fulfillment. Enlightenment, even. When I began to question that philosophy, I was told I was growing cynical and closed-minded.

Just say yes! Really though?

It’s only recently that I’ve discovered the power that comes from a well-placed no, thank you. Saying no doesn’t make a person closed off. Saying no when something just isn’t right creates healthy boundaries. Growing older gives us the gift of experience–we learn to trust what feels good and right and fulfilling rather than constantly questioning our instincts or worse, believing we don’t deserve to feel good and right and fulfilled. We learn to identify what depletes us and how to say no without apology. I’ll admit I’m a late bloomer, but I’m not sure most of us have that capacity at thirty. Maybe not even forty. This life stuff takes time and introspection.

Why do we do things we do? How much of our time is spent creating a life we think we should want rather than taking time to mindfully consider what it is that genuinely curls our toes?

How long are you going to keep making the same corned beef, year after year?

I’m happy to report I don’t care so much about fitting in anymore. Sometimes my tribe is a party of one or two and that suits me fine. I make the corned beef because I took what I liked and made it into something much better. Kirtans don’t really float my boat anymore–and maybe they never really did. A mindful, well-timed no, thank you opens up space for more honest and enthusiastic yes, pleases.

Like pie, life yields the best results when intuitive. Less precision, more poetry.

I don’t know about you, but this is my Year Of The Pie.

 

 

 

 

I am a woman of my word. As promised, here is Part Two of Three Things this yoga teacher would like you to know.

THING FOUR: COME AS YOU ARE

Inflexible. I can’t touch my toes. Too fat, too old, too type-A for yoga.

Tired. Weak. Cranky. Overwhelmed with grief. Overwhelmed with life. Depressed.

Imagine having a friend who not only accepted you in all those states, but met you there, too. A friend who didn’t show up and try to cajole or trick you into feeling something differently so that they can feel better, but a pal who met you right where you are.

That’s yoga.

We are conditioned to put on a happy face when all we want to do is cry. At an early age, we learn that it is preferable to do things well, rather than struggle and risk falling on our face. We learn what shame feels like. Some of us get proficient at denying how we feel in an effort to stoically soldier on–no matter what–and that denial becomes a way of life. And yes, there are plenty of days when we have to drag ourselves out of bed and fulfill our responsibilities, even when we would rather not. That’s called being an adult. But being a yogi means showing up for yourself without the mask.

Yoga asks you to show up as you are. It couldn’t care less that you were once a star athlete or presently overweight or can’t begin to touch your toes. Instead, it asks you to bring your whole, messy, imperfect self to your mat and see yourself as you are.

I once took a yoga class in which the teacher was constantly encouraging us to smile. She oozed saccharine-sweetness and spoke in a singsongy voice and it was irritating as hell. I never went back and I wondered about the woman right behind me whose mat was tucked in the back corner and wept softly in savasana. How had she felt about the cheery promptings? In my teacher training, my teacher would always insist that I set up smack-dab in the middle of the room, rather than my preferred corner pocket. I understood why she did that–taking me out of my comfort zone time and time again taught me invaluable lessons and helped me grow. But in my class, come as you are. I promise I won’t ask you to smile or insist you not tuck yourself into the corner on those days when that’s exactly what you need.

I will trust that you are taking care of yourself and I’ll be really glad you came.

Come as you are in your paint-stained Target yoga pants with the holes in the knees. Come as you are with red-rimmed eyes and a heart so heavy you worry it might spill right out of your chest in child’s pose. Bring your soft belly and your shaky thighs, your sinus headache and unwashed hair. And on those days when you’re exhausted and can’t imagine moving a muscle, come then too, and see where it takes you. Maybe nowhere. Maybe somewhere surprising.

Your ego says “fix yourself up, be presentable and proficient.”

Your yoga practice laughs and reminds you that you, right now, as you are, are enough.

THING FIVE: YOGA IS NOT A LINEAR PATH

I spent my younger days as a runner and then later, as a pretty serious weight-lifter. There was something wonderful about knowing that if I put in the disciplined effort, my muscles would get stronger and I could run longer and faster. I was all about setting, meeting and blowing through goal after goal after goal. I thrived on gritting my teeth and working harder. While there is nothing wrong with hard work and setting goals for oneself, the “more is better” mentality conveniently fed into the same compulsive nature that my anorexia did just a few years prior.

Yoga doesn’t work that way. Yoga is like peeling an onion.

The onion analogy is a common one because it’s accurate. As we begin a yoga practice, we unpack our stiff muscles and find a deeper breath. After a month of regular practice, we feel more steady on our feet, our legs stop that uncontrolled quivering and we might even sleep better. We fall in love a little bit and begin to use words like “magic” and “amazing” when we chat with skeptical friends. And then it happens: we stick with it long enough to peel back that next layer, we dive in just a bit deeper and we are brought to our knees, sometimes quite literally.

Arms shake where they were once steady. Breath catches where it used to flow. We struggle where we used to feel competent. What once was blissful becomes unfamiliar and uncomfortable. And we might begin to avoid our practice.

Don’t stop.

Don’t stop, but don’t force it, either. Harder physical effort is usually not the answer when we reach that place–that tender layer beneath. Don’t stop, but do slow down and pay attention. What lies beneath? Is it an old injury rearing its head? A place of trauma? Does it feel like fear? Grief? Don’t stop, but listen and trust that something is happening–working out, working through–even when you lose your flashy arm balance or suddenly traditional pigeon pose feel counterintuitive.

I believe this non-linear path of yoga is one of the reasons we often say yoga is not so much of a work out as it is a work in. Yoga is a holistic practice, meaning that it incorporates not just our physical self, but mind, body and spirit. Sure, you might stretch your hamstrings so you can touch your toes, but it will also shine a light on those more deeply embedded places within you–those fragile, eight-year-old-you wounds and other scratchy abrasions to your soul that are crying out for a bit of healing.

And what lies beneath? Often, a new layer of freedom. Perhaps a glittery gift of dissolved tension, the release of that nagging pain. Maybe that morning waking up without the shadow of dread peeking around the corner.

One layer at a time.

THING SIX: SOMETIMES YOU CRY IN SAVASANA

The yoga studio was packed wall-to-wall with aspiring yoga teachers and a couple dozen other folks looking for their Saturday morning yoga fix. It had been a sweaty practice, as it always was at that 90-degree studio, and I had felt strong and confident and zoned-in to my zen. The teacher cued us through our final twist and then we laid back on our mats for savasana, our final rest. Music began to play and as the first few chords rang out, I felt a bubble of emotion rise up in my chest. The bubble floated up to my face and my lips twisted as tears stung my eyes. I held my breath in fear of letting out a loud, gasping sob. I covered my face with a towel and tried too hard not to cry.

What is happening? I screamed to myself. I had felt so good, so balanced, so strong. It hadn’t been a weepy practice; the teacher hadn’t even said anything particularly profound that morning. Why, why, why?

When I was in second grade and being teased, I would start to cry and begin to panic when I felt like I couldn’t stop. Which was often. Wave after wave of sobs. Gasping for air. Shaking sobs. I felt out of control and ashamed of myself.

After the yoga class, I sat up and wiped my face with my towel, convinced that the sweat and tears and snot would be indistinguishable from each other and no one would know how close to losing control I had come. I quickly gathered my things and escaped to a nearby park. In the middle of the grassy clearing in an empty park on a hot July afternoon, I sat alone and let myself lose control.

Do you ever get the feeling that sometimes you’re releasing really old, almost ancient shit? my massage therapist once asked when we were discussing emotional releases in the physical body.

Sitting cross-legged in the park on that summer day, I let out some rusty, corroded, moss-covered shit. So ancient, so buried beneath the facade of coping well that I couldn’t even begin to identify it. I wept openly, my tears like a baptism, purging and releasing. Afterwards, I stood up, smoothed out my yoga pants and felt renewed.

Years earlier, as my mother lay dying, I pulled one leg over the other in a reclining twist at the end of another yoga class in a different studio. My mother’s face, so clear and smiling, popped into my vision. Not quite an apparition, but not quite of this world. I felt startled, but the twist rippled through me like a sigh, like a deep breath out after so much pain. It was fresh and identifiable. Lying in savasana, I sensed the warm trickle of subtle tears sneak out the corners of my eyes as I mourned my mother slipping away from me.

Our bodies are clever little devils. Our tissues, the very fibers of our being hold on to emotions–good, bad and otherwise. Emotions bubbling up in any type of body work–yoga, massage, acupuncture, etc., are common, healthy and important responses. Left unchecked for too long, buried shit eventually turns into disease and chronic pain.

I really like yoga, but I stopped going because every time we laid down at the end, I started to cry and I was embarrassed, a friend once told me. Oh honey, I replied. Keep going! You are doing such important work.

And sometimes you cry in savasana.

Sometimes we all do.

 

 

 

 

What a week this was–Christmas and its aftermath. Traditionally, one of my favorite weeks of the year. I typically take time off from work and let my eyes go all woozy and unfocused at the Christmas tree. I might crack a new book or two in between a few long, muddy hikes and spend at least one full day padding around in my pajamas. This year, however, the last week of the year was punctuated with extended-family drama, a smattering of snark and a dusting of disappointment. Family dynamics can be complicated. Some years are like that.

Which brings us to today, New Years Eve. Only second to the Fourth of July as my most despised holiday. As a rule, I don’t go out on New Years Eve and I’m not much of a resolution girl. Once I kicked resolutions to the curb, I spent years talking about New Years “intentions” in my best soothing yoga voice. It wasn’t much later that I realized intentions were just resolutions dressed up in yoga pants. Now, I keep it simple. I think of a few words to shape the year ahead. Here are my three words for 2018.

WORD ONE: SUBMISSION noun \ səb-ˈmi-shən \

This blog was born nearly eight years ago. Eight years! That’s a long time. Over those years, I’ve had a couple different hairstyles, both of my kids graduated from high school, one kid graduated from college, the other has entered college and here I’ve sat, writing more off than on, a little here and there but rarely regularly. Until this past summer, that is. It was late July when I challenged myself to develop a real, honest-to-goodness writing practice. For accountability, I splashed it all over social media each week. You know what? It worked. I have posted a new Three Things blog for 24 weeks now–that’s nearly six months. I’ve generated tons of content, wrote a lot of shitty first drafts as well as a few things that have the potential to be shaped and shifted, edited and expanded into something better.

Something worthy of submission.

It’s been five years since I submitted any of my writing for publication. For most of this year, the mere thought of submitting anything anywhere would set my insides to churning. The phrase “my next step is to start submitting work again” would get stuck in my throat like a pokey little chicken bone. I like to think that my writing has improved over the past six months. It’s not rocket science–you just show up and write, each day, week after week, badly at first and then, maybe a little better. Just as my biceps begin to bulge with consistent training, my writing guns are finally beginning to show.

It’s scary as hell. But I’m doing it anyway.

WORD TWO: REJECTION noun \ ri-ˈjek-shən \

Rejection is as necessary of a step in the life of a writer as is the actual writing. That’s not hyperbole, just a real life fact. A writer with whom I’ve taken a workshop recently shared that she received 38 rejection letters for a book that was eventually published, received acclaim and has now been optioned for a movie. Thirty-eight. And that’s probably below the average. A year ago, I wasn’t ready.

I’m ready now.

Rejection sucks. We can all agree on that, yes? I’ve wasted many years of my life worrying about whether or not people like me. I have shrunk and silenced and molded myself to suit others at my own expense. I worried more about ruffling feathers than unfurling the brilliant expanse of my own. I bet you have, too. It’s part of the human experience–we all just want to be liked, to fit in–at least somewhere. A quick glance at social media will confirm that.

Not that I’m a total rebel–I still want to be liked. The difference today is I’m unwilling to make myself smaller or better behaved to get there. The difference is that I accept the necessity of rejection on my path to a life well-lived. Getting older is not all moans and groans–this clarity of conviction comes with having trodden many years on this earth. The best writers–all artists, actually–have always been a bit disruptive and provocative.

You know those “vision boards” that became popular awhile back in the new age, Oprah-influenced, woo-woo circles? I love a good collage as much as the next person, but I never felt the urge to sit around with scissors and glue, cutting and pasting magazine pictures onto poster board of stuff I wanted to “attract” into my life. Instead, I’m planning on hanging a “rejection board” on the wall of my office, where I do most of my writing. I’ll make it aesthetically pleasing–maybe one of those soft, fabric-covered boards with criss-cross ribbons meant for tucking lovely notes and photos in. On mine, I’ll post each and every rejection letter I receive. If the board fills up, I’ll know I’m doing my work. To submit means to be rejected and to be rejected means I’m on my way.

The thought of exposing myself to this necessary rejection still makes my innards rumble and roil. But I’ll do it anyway.

WORD THREE: ACCEPTANCE noun \ ik-ˈsep-tən(t)s\

This is a big one.

Sure, I’d like to think that somewhere amidst all the submitting and rejecting of my work, there might be a tiny speck of acceptance tossed in there. If it comes, I’ll tape that letter of acceptance smack-dab in the center of my sweet rejection board. I mean, how great would that be? (Really great.) But when I think of acceptance this year, I think of it mostly in terms of accepting what I can and cannot control.

Acceptance that I cannot control other people’s reactions. I cannot control whether or not they like or understand me. I cannot control their acceptance of my writing, no matter how much of my naked self I’ve exposed to the harsh, unforgiving light of the world.

I accept that I can control what steps I take to prepare for the life I want. And most of all, I control my reactions to everything that happens to me–all the yummy, sweet, love-soaked stuff as well as the hideous, bitter, angry rejection stuff.

Through it all, I’ll remind myself (and you, every now and then) that every last bit of it is an important part of life–this messy, achey, swoony, hard-as-nails, breathtaking life.

It’s so hard. But I’ll do it anyway.

Happy New Year, lovely people. Celebrate safely. I need all of you around to write about.

Now, tell me your three words.

Let’s stop talking about women’s bodies.

THING ONE: ME

My job is bodies.

I am a yoga teacher and I also work in the weight room at a gym. I’m not a personal trainer, but a “wellness coach.” I’m your pal at the gym. Your cheerleader. A friendly face when you can’t figure out how to dislodge yourself from the leg press. I like to think I keep things relatively clean and free of chaos, plus I know a little bit about muscles and sweat.

Tall and blonde and personable, she strode into the fitness office to fill me in on the latest exam she’s studying for. She often stops in to chat with me and bemoan her harried life as an older student and mom of two young kids. An important part of my job is connecting with our members, so I’m always happy to talk. This day she tells me how worried she is about her daughter. “She needs to start working out.”

Her daughter is six years old.

She goes on to tell me about her own body image issues and assures me it’s all about “being healthy” for her daughter. I ask the woman if her daughter’s pediatrician is concerned. “Well, no. But I see problems. She needs to work on her core. And off-court conditioning for basketball. I’m worried because all she wants to do is read.”

Her daughter is six years old.

It was early spring and I was ten years old when Mrs. Frater called my mom into my fourth grade classroom for an after-school meeting. “I’m worried about her weight,” Mrs. Frater told her, as if my mom had never noticed me. My fourth-grade teacher, with her ashy-blonde hair piled high into a stylish bouffant on top of her head and her collection of impeccable floral shift dresses with matching low pumps was likely intimidating. Her polished, feminine image was the very antithesis of my mom’s artsy smocks and slacks. I watched as my mother sat across from my fourth grade teacher and nodded silently in agreement. I couldn’t tell if she was embarrassed or relieved. Probably both. I was now Mrs. Frater’s project and I was mortified.

My body was a problem.

It wasn’t the diet I was immediately put on that was the biggest issue. It was the weekly weigh-ins. Each Friday, right before lunch, the school nurse would call me into her office to record my weight. There was nothing subtle about it. “Where do you go?” my classmates asked. I lied and made up some sad story about having an important job helping out the school nurse.

The diet worked. And then it didn’t, as all diets do. Summer came and I was set free from the humiliating weigh-ins and Mrs. Frater’s constant monitoring. In the fall, my fifth-grade teacher didn’t care about my weight, or at least didn’t seem to. She was a large, boisterous woman who raved about my writing and encouraged my imagination.

I wound up losing a great deal of weight during the summer before ninth grade. Not because anyone wanted me to–I just did. I was the queen of transformation. The accolades I received going back to school in the fall were intoxicating. The attention I got fueled my fire and I lost more and more and more weight over the years and into my twenties. My ribs and hipbones protruded. I had sores on my body from repetitive, compulsive exercise that didn’t heal. I ate spoonfuls of mustard in lieu of meals. I hated myself. And all the other girls wanted to be me.

My body was a problem.

I’ve lost more weight than you. While I was at it, I managed to disconnect from all hunger impulses better than anyone else. It was my superpower. It’s not the hardest thing I’ve ever done, nor am I especially proud of myself. Because at my most socially acceptable body size, I was the most fucked up on the inside.

Back in the fitness office, I listened to the mother as she continued to tell me all the reasons why her six-year-old daughter needed to start working out.

“Maybe she should just go out and play for awhile,” I suggested with a weak, forced smile. Inside, the ten-year-old in me crumpled.

You’re so skinny! Look at your stomach! I wish I had her legs. What do you eat all day? I’m so proud of you. You’re so pretty, I didn’t even recognize you. Look at her arms. OMG, she’s a stick. OMG, she’s gained so much weight, she must have issues. 

THING TWO: MINE

When I had kids of my own, I vowed they would never hear me say “Oh my god, I look so fat! I feel so fat today!”

I kept my promise. It’s one of the things I’m most proud of as a parent.

Bodies were not a topic of discussion in my home while my kids were growing up. Or even now. I made sure of that. Both were athletes and during their childhood their weights went up and went down, and then up and down again as body weights naturally do throughout the course of growing up and beyond. Because I insisted on not making food an issue of good versus bad, they often ate a startlingly unbalanced diet comprised mostly of yogurt and fruit and spaghetti and cheese. Despite this, they both managed to be strong and healthy.

Their bodies–in all their incarnations–were never a problem.

My daughter was a competitive gymnast and played recreational club soccer. On her soccer team, she often played goalie and enjoyed it. I overheard a conversation on the sidelines where a few of the moms refused to let their daughters play goalie because they wouldn’t be running enough. The mothers were worried their daughters might get fat.

Don’t let your body become a problem.

My daughter learned through team sports that her body is strong and able and capable of many things. I am thankful that she learned that her body is not just for other peoples’ consumption and commentary. But I am most proud of the fact that she never heard her mother apologize for and hate her body. And a funny thing happened along the way of not berating my body out loud to my family: I stopped berating my body to myself.

My mother’s body was a problem until the day she died. She dieted, she drank laxatives, she covered up, she apologized. Left unchecked, mothers tend to pass down these issues like unwanted heirlooms.

Don’t eat too much. Order the salad. Count your calories. What a cute figure! Leave a little something on your plate. Shouldn’t you be exercising? Take up less space. Who’s getting chunky? Suck in that gut. Don’t let him see you eat that. 

THING THREE: YOURS

After years of taking yoga workshops and teacher trainings (where my body was always an issue) I was excited to attend a writing workshop. The teacher of the workshop–an author of some acclaim and a staunch and vocal feminist–spoke about the marginalization of women. She was known to be a champion of women’s voices, an empowering writing mentor. I was ready to stretch my muscles in a brave and bold way.

As she introduced herself, she went on to talk about her past as a college athlete and how it informed her writing. And then, just like that, she apologized for her body. I could sense the self-deprecation happening before she even began. Inside my head I screamed at her to stop, but she went on, as most women do. “You’d never know I had been a competitive athlete by how thick and fat I am now.” The group of women chuckled uncomfortably. My heart sank. Suddenly, I was no longer brave and bold but self-conscious, comparing my body to hers. In my eyes, she wasn’t remotely fat. If she felt the need to apologize for her body, where does that leave mine?

Your body is a problem. You should probably apologize for it before anyone else notices.

Later that evening, she noticed a former student who had lost a significant amount weight since she had last seen her. The bold feminist writer pointed it out several times, incredulous that this student looked different. Part of me grew envious of the accolades as I felt myself disappearing into my 17-year-old anorexic brain. The other part of me just wanted to hear what this woman wrote, and for our leader to stop praising her shrinking body. How are we supposed to stand up and use our voices when we are shown that taking up less space is to be applauded? Even here, I couldn’t escape the message that our bodies are a problem.

This was her issue. This was my issue. This is our issue.

The fitness instructor who uses her social media page to publicly apologize to her classes for her weight gain and then thanks them for “sticking with her” until she managed to lose it again. (Her body is a problem.)

The coach of a high-school volleyball team who made all the teenage girls document each piece of Halloween candy they ate and then made them work it off, piece by piece, calorie by calorie. It was their penance, meant to teach them a lesson. (Their bodies are a problem.)

The young woman, experimenting with her sexuality and fashion, slut-shamed because her dress was short and tight. (Your body is a problem.)

The celebrity who doesn’t lose her baby weight fast enough. Or, ever. (Her body is a problem.)

The television viewers who tune in every week to watch overweight people sweat and weep in exhaustion and public humiliation on a TV show competition. (All their bodies are a problem. And our entertainment.)

My job is bodies.

Every day, I look closely at bodies. My yoga classes are filled with every body type imaginable. And although I don’t fixate on which one is larger and which one is smaller, I often look out and see a roomful of disembodied beings. Disconnected from their physical self because to be connected would be far too painful. A reminder of the problem.

If I listen to my body, it will betray me. If I give it what it wants, I’ll eat candy all day. Resting is a waste of time. I don’t deserve to eat. I need to push through every pose, jaw clenched, trying harder and harder and harder.

Stop. Just stop.

My body is not a problem. Your body is not a problem. They are glorious, miraculous variations on a theme.

Move and nourish and rest and live fully and confidently in your body, as it is, right here and now. Your body can be trusted, if you just give it a chance.

Let’s stop talking about women’s bodies. And see what happens.