"You don't have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step." Martin Luther King 

I'm avoiding writing in my blog. I'm not sure why but part of my Zen practice is to commit to something, almost for the sake of seeing who you 'become' (what lesser known part of you appears) when you don't want to keep, or can't even remember (!) your commitment. I committed to the blog this last time to take note of the feelings that arise as I relinquish food and eating patterns to excess, and I can't say why I'm turning away today from writing about it.

I suppose there is a part of me that wants to think my urge to overeat doesn't exist when I'm not struggling with it, and of course in Zen practice that is absolutely the truth. Suffering cannot exist in the present because when we are present we are attending as fully as possible to our thoughts, feelings, and sensations. Though those might not always feel good or in sync, we are usually able to take them for what they are and not so much see them as an enemy tide sweeping us into whatever unpleasantness conditioned mind would have us lunge toward.

Wishing there were more food on my plate is not in and of itself a crisis. Believing I "deserve" more and that I can't resist the call toward more tips the balance of contentment and pain toward suffering. And the endless debate of "I know I shouldn't but I can't resist," is the ultimate stronghold for suffering because we can spend a lifetime believing that that debate is something other than a pointless sham, designed to pull us out of present awareness into an unresolvable, futile conversation-- a thinly veiled, if very compelling, "damned if you do, damned if you don't".

I now write down what I eat each day and email it to my sponsor. Some folks commit to what they are going to eat ahead of time and send or call that in to their sponsors. I chose the former because that seemed more do-able and it has the benefit of helping me really see what I eat and, even more illuminating how. Many things have been predictable, some have caught me by complete surprise. The revelation that I'm not in need of more than 3 meals a day is huge and strikes me as funny all at the same time. I was so sure I needed a snack between lunch and dinner but that snack was a small meal (!). I noticed instead that having an actual snack, in the form of an apple or the fruit, is more than sufficient to last until a dinner at most any hour.

The largest surprise has been the depth of what I am forced to call affection for food. I am at turns grateful for the realization and embarrassed that something inanimate and eventually deadly when abused can have become an object of adoration for me when I have so much love in my life and within myself. Seeing all of this clearly, without what's called a food fog, is more than anything joy producing because I no longer feel led down the garden path of delusion that eating out of control will solve some sort of emotional deprivation in my current or prior experience and that feels like the way out of emotional bondage. I suppose it's not unlike being in an abusive relationship and then 'one day' waking up to the knowledge that you do not have to keep participating and the future though not certain, is sure to be brighter than the past with this knowledge.

Avoiding writing these things down provides another decoy to really seeing, which of course is the path toward true freedom. Both my 12-step program and my Zen practice speak of 'the key' as willingness. While those keys abound, I figure I'm good.

"It is not my experience that we are here to fix the world, that we are here to change anything at all.  I think we are here so the world can change us.  And if part of that change is that the suffering of the world moves us compassion, to awareness, to sympathy, to love, that is a very good thing." Cheri Huber

See More Food

“It was a very stupid thing to do, I'll admit, but I hardly didn't even know I was doing it.” J. D. Salinger

I flushed my last sweet roll down the toilet. Not just any sweet roll. Not just my last sweet roll. My last, one of my last, my fourth from last roll sweetened with high fructose corn syrup. And OK it wasn’t the toilet. (No need to ring the spousal alarm bell) It was the garbage disposal. I know it doesn’t sound final and of course with 3 left, it certainly isn’t. But it sure felt final. Actually it felt like the most I could manage after finally having it sink in that maybe some of my cravings are physical with my conditioned self gone riot in tow.

That was almost a week ago now. Since then, I dumped one other and ate the remaining 2. I’ve eaten a lot of things since last week, but I’ve also *not* eaten a lot of things. That’s true of most weeks, except here lately I find myself pacing around an idea the way a detective walks around a taped off crime scene, studying the area carefully, long after the body has been removed, and fingerprints dusted, pondering things only she or he can visualize.

My idea, new, if not original, is that I begin attending Overeaters Anonymous meetings as I used to more than 20 years ago, when I was in my 20’s. I’m not sure what makes this idea revolutionary, except that when I stopped attending, I never once looked back and regretted it. I belonged there, and still do because I am a compulsive overeater, even if I bristle against the word compulsive. I don’t mind being called an overeater. I figure this is
pretty obvious at a size 18 or even 20 depending on the clothing manufacturer. Moreso if you consider I’m just barely 5 feet 1 inch tall. But being compulsive makes me feel like a person who can’t stop washing their hands, or must reenter the house through the exact same door from which they exited. Since my youngest days, I can remember feeling very pulled to eat and overeat, LOTS, and often unable to limit or stop even when I wanted to and I think that’s where the word compulsive and I shake hands.

So now we are 17 hours into this experience, and I just ate lunch, but now I want a Snickers bar. I don't just want it, I *am* it- in that I have no life outside my connection to the Snickers bar. I'm not hungry any more. I certainly don't want the apple I packed in my lunch. I WANT THE SNICKERS BAR. Rachael Brownell in Mommy Doesn't Drink Here Anymore written about her first year of sobriety from alcoholism talks of the way in which she began to see 'crisp white wine' everywhere once she gave it up. She saw it in the clouds, her kids' faces, everywhere-- and so it is for me with the Snickers bar.

I want it because there is a physical craving for sugar that follows lunch and can be confused for the need for a nap (a thought to which I am unopposed even though I'm at work). I mostly want it because it feels like a cuddle with a special someone. In my Zen practice, we'd probably define it as the experience of being identified with a small, part of me, a subpersonality looking for a special connection with the larger being that goes around as 'Celia'. Somewhere along the line, probably in childhood, this little self split off from the mothership of other Celia's linked together and came to believe that food, especially 'certain' types of food, was her answer to the lonely, confused, and sometimes bitterly angry feelings harbored by other 'selves' within and outside herself.

So I've spent a lot of time studying this problem-- decades in fact but none of that changes the fact that in this moment it's me and my craving. I'm choosing something different, because I don't want this for myself anymore at this age. I choose something different because although the experience isn't the one I'm having at the moment, I do know what that little self doesn't and didn't know years ago-- there is so such thing as being apart from ultimate comfort and caretaking. There are just very convincing illusions that we are. Nice place to be. Lucky her. Lucky me.

""My faith did not start with a leap but rather a series of staggers from what seemed like one safe place to another. Like lily pads, round and green, these places summoned and then held me up while I grew. Each prepared me for the next leaf on which I would land and in this way I moved across the swamp of doubt and fear," Anne Lamott