Getting to Know New

There’s a certain rhythm to life. A cadence you get used to hearing in your chest, through your fingers and toes. You are centered and grounded in this routine and then. . . the syncopation stops, life becomes lento and you have to start up again, with a blank sheet.

I am a neophyte. Ain’t it grand. I know I’ll be here a few more times in life, or several if I’m doing it right, but it’s been awhile. And I’m wearing the aches and pains of working muscles long dormant. Fear, anxiety, uncertainty, ineptness. . . that last one stings particularly raw. I am Emily, right? I have answers, or I find them. But now I have to ask questions.

I am interning as a counselor at a statewide agency. This is it. I went through hell three years ago, recovered, decided on a path and began. And now I’m at the pinnacle, what I’ve worked for, and I couldn’t be more scared. The questions I ask run the gamut, from a practical inquiry, “How should I counsel a five-year-old?” to a deeply-seeded, raw, “Will I fail?” That inquiry is answered differently everyday, as I try to grow a pebble of confidence into a boulder that can squash negativity and stand for strength leaning toward excitement.

The truth is, I want to feel at home. I liked feeling at home. But transitions are a funny thing.

I read recently that when times are challenging, you know life is getting good, that you’re about to learn something. . . that it will hurt and then heal, making you that much stronger. I keep this with me when my heart is pounding, my eyes are wide awake at midnight or my newly-minted mantra (Be Here. Right Now.) fails me. I am pushing myself to be good at this new profession, the one I started toward years ago. Making my body stand halfway along the bridge in front of me and choosing to run the other way or charge ahead is a constant battle.

I just want to be a good counselor. I just want to know how to do this; be this new professional. But I feel like a toddler out on the dance floor; wobbling and teetering as others strut in time to the beat. My beat is off. Ba dum dum ba dum dum ba ba. It’s hard to listen to and hard to feel.

For now, I know I have to work on being a good toddler, a good newbie and defining what that means, accepting this transition and my panic-prone acknowledging what it is and forging ahead. After all, this is the path toward vibrancy I mention in a previous entry. This is the challenge. This is leaning into or lying down in the fear. Covering myself in it and staying right there, to experience being the most uncomfortable I have ever been.

In Living Color

In my coursework and in the course of my own therapy, there's a lot of talk about leaning into the fear. That somehow, the lean, albeit painful, produces the most color and vibrancy all while adrenaline runs strong and you resist the temptation to backpedal.

During my 31st year, I did a lot of standing upright. Definitely skipped around with the wind and danced with the sun here and there, but there wasn't much leaning. In reading through my journals of the past year, I noticed this. . . noticed the entry from March 3 looking an awful lot like the entry from November 21. Same complaints, same despondency, same hopes and freckled promises. ("I will lose more weight." "I will spend less time online.") By the time I got through the first month, I was tired. It was like reading an dictionary with the etymology of boring on repeat. . . read over and over again.

I am not being hard on myself. I think 31 was a hiatus for me. A dangerous one for sure, but led me to the desire to shake things up. Add color, read my journal like it was a novel of more newness than stagnation. Lean into the fear; of not being able to do it well enough, of failing completely, of hopelessness that things really can change.

So adding color becomes the focus, be it a new painting in our dining room or a new bike route. I want to kayak, and ride horses again. I want to visit the Chicago Botanic Gardens and spend all day taking photos, finally visit the Buddhist Temple on our block and buy produce at Farmer's Markets. I have a cooking class scheduled and write everyday. I told my friend Nikki, "I blog so infrequently because it's important to me that the writing is good." She must have giggled on the other side of the text and replied, "If I waited for that, I would never blog."

All of these wants are low-risk leans but they add up to the biggest lean of them all: regaining confidence, or adding to what exists. It comes from trying and succeeding or trying and at least having tried.

I Want to Be a Mentee

I switched careers officially in April 2009. I felt like a pioneer, shedding the comforts of living in one place to traverse a great landscape; enduring a chuckwagon wheel breaking and going without - food, water, even strength. I took a risk, and I've done the best I can to adapt - until recently. . . where I realized I need something new now. I need support, a number to call, a friendly face that has been through these trenches and can say that the turns I took were right or maybe too cavalier; too reckless. What would my mentor do differently next time?

Where is my mentor?

It's not just reassurance I need, though positive feedback makes me stand tall and feel capable to not only hit the road on an adventure but have the courage to make the return trip too. I crave a critical eye; someone who cares enough about me to be honest. Someone who has been there before and understands the challenge of self-preservation when you're sitting in front of a young woman who has been raped and is recounting her story from last night, still fresh and open. After hearing about trauma, poverty and crisis, I don't intuitively know how to go home at the end of the day and take care of myself. Even in my sleep, I'm still taking care of these beautiful young people.

I feel trapped many days, working under the weight of what feels like a great and global responsibility. How do I continue to admire a client's journey when I resent, at times, his presence in my doorway? Because it will be another crisis, and I'm already brimming with the residue from the last one. How do I not feel that their problems are all the same, and become blasé to what a conversation with me means to them? I realize that all professionals go through this, but being removed from someone's admission that they are homeless feels downright inhumane.

I love my job. I love the challenge, but I need someone to teach me the power (the necessity) of a deep breath and to not neglect my long-term goals, in and amongst holding back the dam for clients. I know part of it is relinquishing: responsibility, onus and the need to be vigilant no matter what. I am entitled to days where my performance isn't profound, this much I know. It's impossible to be present and to take action for every hand reaching out of the sand.

I guess I need someone to tell me that it's ok. That they have done it before and that my sanity and self-care is the most important task I have every day.

So long, $hame

Most recent, and one of the first. . . photos of us.

This weekend, we stayed home. We met deadlines, ate sandwiches on fresh bread, spackled, scanned and laughed at old photos, grilled and talked. Normally, we would not choose to be "confined", rather meet friends for sushi or spirits. But truth be told, we can't afford it. We can't afford much of anything. My new career, school and some changes at our jobs make it impossible. And while we know it's not forever, it's in view for some time to come.

We made good choices (my career switch) and bad choices (charging a trip to Jamaica). We know how we got here and you know what? I'm happier now that I've been in years. Right now. Right this minute on our sofa with the sun streaming in through slatted blinds and hearing quiet in the city. Anticipating Marc's rousing and awaiting a walk on the Lake.

I refuse to be ashamed of my story. The "How I Got Here" to this place where I can't buy a cardigan when I want to. Where I buy mascara at Walgreens and not Macy's. Where I have to get creative with blips of boredom and plant seeds in every sense of the word. It's Father's Day, and I came across more photos of my dad and I when I was small; where I can see the love zipping in between us in sparks and flashes. To dig out that box from under the stairs, and spend time to thumb through old prints, scan them and watch them dance across the screen; that happened because I am broke.

The bedroom fan works because we are broke, and my husband is determined and capable. We eat healthy, al fresco, on our deck because we have to and look what happens? My skin begins to freckle and we see fireworks miles away.

I know there is kinship in this admission because I've surveyed a small sampling of my friends who are struggling. To say "no" to invitations, is to admit that maybe you made bad choices. . . but now you're making good ones. It is to accept your story and then begin to change it to where you want it to go; where you want it to end. It's a beautiful thing that lessons can be learned and reality can be shifted all because of your own will.

I love my home. I love my husband. Being broke, I'm loving me more. Resiliency is such a sexy thing.

The Chosen Ones

On a day to day basis, I don't think about being without brothers and sisters. Born to two parents who had already been through a world of shit and contemplated long and hard about having me. . . just one. . . I really learned how to be among adults as a little person, and adapt to what was expected: don't act out, be pleasant and appropriate, or else.

My parents weren't corporal or demanding. Not by any stretch, but being an only child led me to a realization of grief I never thought to process and experience. I didn't have a place, with my peers, to be myself in all of its occasional ugliness. To express and sit in it and know that a brother or sister, no matter how scorned, would come back to love me. Completely. In thinking about vulnerability, it makes a lot of sense why several folks get the crust but so very few get the core.

And those few are my siblings. My chosen family. Tears come to my eyes thinking how lonely it can be to be "strong" and "exceptional", because it's not my (whole) truth. I am a myriad of wonderful things, and working on finding even more to adore but it's like my basal region is held prisoner. I always wondered why relating was so exhausting, and I was so good at playing the part with those I knew I loved but was gasping for air to love fully.

I stand firmly beside those I have picked to be the ones who see me angry, frustrated, silent, weepy and scorned. They are holding all of my heart and I'm terrified, but I will invest in them buckets of trust and love and know, even if I stomp my feet and pound my fists, that they will say, "Enough" and then love up on me, muscles relaxing and receiving that type of love that I am so ready to take in.

I always said being an only made me work harder to find friends. That is a truth as clear as crystal. I worked at it until I was no longer a tree; instead shaved down to a stick. I made wonderful connections that I still have today. Dozens even. But experiencing those relationships with the lightness of being myself is the difference between flying on an airplane and flying with wings. It's light, natural. . . right. It's where I go from here.

Acupunc? Sure!

I've never done anything prehistoric. I haven't even eaten a barbecued turkey leg at Taste of Chicago. My husband looks like a wooly mammoth right now (preparing to be an extra in a civil war documentary), but truly, that's as close to pre I get. So when Facebook tells me my high school friend is opening a clinic offering acupuncture, I decided to jump into the unknown and get it in with some needles.

I knew acupuncture helped my aunt quit smoking, and if it's been around since BCE (forget BC) then, shit. . . traditional chinese medicine could help me discover some yin or yang.

I didn't know what to expect from the treatment offered my first night (ear acupuncture). I also didn't know what to expect from the focus group beforehand. Needless to say, both elements kept it 100. And I walked away not only proud that I took the plunge but feeling more connected to my community. Who knew?

The focus group was intended to help my friend's fledgling practice get some grounding on marketing, messaging and overall vibe of their delicious loft location. The question was posed to a decidedly HOTTIE HOT HOT group of people (damn you, yogis!), "What does it mean to be healthy?"

I see your wheels turning. Mine did too and then got stuck in the divot of "diet and exercise, of course!" You can imagine how much path was left to traverse in this discussion: a lot. It came around to a discussion of sex, rest, solitude, curiosity, giving, trust and many other illustrative words and phrases that painted health as more than a stick figure. Rather a voluptuous, radiant woman from a Peter Rubens painting, folds, dimples, curves and all. It was refreshing to realize that being defined by the D&E mantra is hardly enough to be healthy. It's simply a fraction of how our building blocks stack up. Divine.

You must have sex.
Be able to trust people and have them trust you.
Have curiosity about what you don't know.
Go to sleep. Take a nap. Relax into daydreaming.
And don't forget to give with passion and receive with grace.

Redefining health feels like taking back all the fashion ads, diet commercials, fat-bashing op-ed pieces and everything inbetween and holding a mirror up for those who judge and confine others (all of us) to look into. I'd hate to think what they would say if they saw me with needles in my head, other than, "That's awesome."

Blooms

Pictured: My wedding bouquet

I live my life in pops of color. Pop of yellow, dash of blue, poof of purple.

It's just more fun that way.

I looked down at my attire the other day, walking to work and marveled at the rainbow, right down to my toenails. So long, monotone. I'm drawn to you, coral, and you, lemon. Especially you, lavender.

After reading a recent article in Psychology Today about people with two careers (aka "The Slashers" as in Carpenter/Surgeon. . . mind the punctuation here), I wondered what my slash might separate/bring together.

I am an aspiring counselor. My mind lives in color because of the cacophony of clients and curiosities that enter my office, causing me to be emotionally and mentally dextrous. It's a palette of grays and blues but colorful nonetheless.

But I want to produce color. And I want to do it with flowers. Of late, I've been drawn to the buckets at Jewel and Dominick's, decidedly uninspiring but after grabbing a couple bushels I scurry home and turn them into something lovely.

I like snipping the stems, again and again, to make sure water uptake keeps things standing up.

I love the smell, and knowing the difference between a rose and a daisy just from the fragrance.

I enjoy seeing an arrangement of mine out of the corner of my eye and staring, imagining the fields (greenhouses?) they came from, or at least believing they once felt fresh air. It's all a marvel.

So I'm committed to a new "slash". One where I get to touch all the natural colors that inspire our lives and our homes. Something like Counselor/Floral Designer. Something vibrant and alive.

Power of the Group

For some time, I've been feeling a shift. It happens to all of us during the truly adult years. (I say truly because let's be real; 18 years old is not an adult. Call me when you've got more bills than fingers.)

It's the shift prompted by the jolt-out-of-bed realization: "Who I am is not working for me anymore." Who I am after a childhood raised with Jim and Ruth and toting along best friends like Cathleen and Naomi. Even Dara and Debbie. And who I am after pleasing, placating and preening friends and associates for three decades. I felt I had to and if they ever saw a bubble of anger or a spritz of honesty well. . . I'd be left in the dust.

I surmise some of it is from being an only child but know that this mode also worked for me for a LONG time. It helped with my career eventually, and certainly got me to a place where I was presented with amazing choices about my future. But now? I know what I want. And I know that saying "no" to something means saying "yes" to something else. And it's just fucking time to take off the helmet, gloves and knee pads and get in the ring; of life, honesty, self, future. Fight for that stuff because it matters.

Naturally, old habits die hard so, next time you see me, you will not see 22-inch biceps and the evaporation of traditionally female physical features. No. I'm still the same person, but the evolution is nigh.

What's tremendously cool about this evolution was watching it unfold in my Group Counseling class last semester. A motley crew of classmates, some fathers, some single ready to mingle and other married and wading in the water. On the surface, we had made judgements about each other; being human this is unavoidable. But toward the fifth week and session of the class well, something shifted. In me.

I spoke up. I told T that he came across as cocky and perhaps that's why his anger spikes.

I told J that he was an ideal boyfriend, so feel good about dating and know that you've got the stuff it takes to be bold.

I told S that I felt I couldn't get close to her because she was showing me a self that she wanted me to see, not her real self.

Now, listen. . . honesty has it's place. I am not about to walk into work and raise a pitchfork and proclaim that a colleague's manner of speaking to me fills me with rage because of how condescending they are. (Shit, maybe I will.)

But there is absolutely nothing like being able to truly be yourself. To shed the skin of preoccupation with others' reactions and know that the honesty you give to others is precisely the fuel for a catharsis. Group counseling is intense(ly rewarding).

I had drinks with my group mates last night. The camaraderie we felt in those 16 weeks was present over beers and burgers too. There's a safety with the group, and a real love that percolates for them. For the first time, maybe ever, I got to really see someone. And that kind of naked experience, with tears and emotions literally at your fingertips, soft and delicate to hold. . . well, it changes you. On a cellular level.

This post is dedicated to my group. I was already picking away at what the next version of myself might feel like. You gave me courage and showed me a bit more how to love myself. I'm glad we can clink glasses and hug each other even outside of the perfect circle. Cheers.

Silver Spoon

Photo courtesy of http://www.whitneydafoe.com/projects/americanmap/

Fortunately, most of my graduate coursework is uncomfortable. Growth is happening. It's less the skills gained and more the introspection that causes the most resistance, and thus reward.

This week, my class got up from their desks, cleared out the middle of the classroom and stood in a line. (Our professor asked us to do this; no anarchy here.) We were prompted to hold hands which caused eyes to dart and palms to sweat. There wasn't an acoustic guitar around. No danger of kumbaya.

Instead we began down the path of privilege. You may not feel privileged. After all, you have bills to pay, mouths to feed and have to work to get that done. But have you ever considered it a privilege to work? I think this past year has taught us a thing or two about gratitude in that regard. I'm reminded of it everyday watching struggle come in and out of my office. And yes, I still drag my boots into the office some days. . . lamenting and tired. No one is immune. Just recognize.

The instructions from the professor were simple. She read statements based on privilege. You took a step forward or back depending on your truth. Starting with our hands held they were soon much too far to reach.

- If your family owned their home, step forward.
- If your family taught you police were to be feared, step back.
- If your family had more than 50 books in the house, step forward.
- If either of your parents did not graduate from college, step back. (High school too.)
- If you are a man, step forward.

And it goes on.

I stepped forward a lot. So much I was out of the classroom, down the hall and near the stairs. Looking back didn't feel bad; but it felt important. To acknowledge and recognize. Privilege. I am privileged because of how hard my parents worked, yes, and because I have worked hard too. But I'm also white. I'm heterosexual.

You see? I was born with these things. Out of the womb I was already hundreds of steps ahead.

Past that, my parents were teachers. Chicago Public Schools. There's no inheritance or gold bars in our family. Their hard work laid a path, instead of a kind of brambled future, able to be traversed but dangerous, murky. . . obstructed by forces of nature. For me, the point and the purpose is simple acknowledgement to start. Of our privilege. Honest acceptance of that truth, and then, with hope, of our role in helping the others take steps forward. And yes, we have a role. America may be the landscape of individualism but even from my mountain top, where I could otherwise stay and swing in the breeze, it's my responsibility to hike down to sea level and start trimming the thicket.

To be the one who challenge a loved one not to slur ("When you're around me, it's not ok to say that."), or the woman who stands up to a man who is standing in front of another woman's self-respect. . . it's terrifying. I'm just considering, as I write this, what it might mean if we puffed our chests up a bit and gave an ounce. That adds up to tons of oppression removed.

Consider it; as I consider my own journey.

Finding Patience

For most of my adult life, I've been afraid: afraid that I don't have the patience to parent. I'm not sure where it came from. I also don't think it's strange. I mean I'm not eating household cleanser (hat tip to "My Strange Addiction" on TLC).

Even fostering a dog, the thought of it, gave me the jitters. Anxiety. Didn't sleep the first night. Thought I might do it wrong. Things are nice, neat and orderly. Manageable. Safe and routine.

And then Daphne arrived, and part of me thinks, for all the aforementioned thought bubbles, it's just the right time. I told my mom today that even after day four, it's pushing my limits. Testing my abilities, with an animal that has ultimate forgiveness.

Truthfully, no one in this condo was more nervous than her.

So I have to lead and be willing to make mistakes, like I did today. Crossing Wabash, I stepped on her paw. She screamed. Daph has been abused, neglected, left for dead; you get the picture. My heart sank. I stepped on her paw because she walked right in front of me, it's cold, we're moving quick. And I scolded her.

She sulked. I lost my patience; felt sad. Wondered if she would ever enjoy walks again (it took a couple days for her to hold her tail up while we strolled). We'd come so far (in four days). Things got tragic. Quick.

And then I came home and sat with her and thought: this will happen. I will make mistakes and I will evolve with this dog and maybe another in the future. I will learn to forgive myself for those mistakes (I should have kept the leash on a shorter lead; had her next to me). Otherwise, I'll never find patience. And Daphne will always forgive me.

I write this with her, in a puddle of black and a red sweater, by my side on the couch. Just breathing. And loving.

For now, I'll follow her lead.

Italian Nook

After I quit my first job in Chicago (did that even happen?) I got quite engaged in the Yelp.com community. It's a perfect site with which to explore the city and share treasures and foibles of what you ate, saw, smelled and touched along the way. I actually met one of my best friends through the user-driven site. Talk about return on investment. But as my life got busier with school and money shriveled away, I stopped writing. After all, I wasn't part of the community to meet people or pass time or make new friends (though I did). I was there to write.

So, this past weekend, I was awarded what many Yelpers covet: The Review of The Day. What? Right. Your review is put on the front page for all to see. I've received it a few times in the past, but found it ironic it was bestowed upon me when I wrote a half dozen reviews last year. I'm no longer Elite (a category reserved for their most dedicated users; there are perks). I'm just a town person, with shoes in need of cobbling and aging teeth.

But I read it, and it transported me back to the experience. It was a wonderful night that neither I or my in-laws will forget. This I'm certain. And therein lies the twang of regret for letting it go. . . wanting to get back in but thinking it's not the medium for archiving those memories. Knowing it isn't.

Regardless, here it is. Cafe Bionda. Total indulgence.

"Guilt, I banish you. Same as anger, it has little use in our lives and yet its a part of our everyday. I shouldn't, I couldn't, I won't. . . and in the name of that our crazy family opened the door to Cafe Bionda and plunged into cozy comfort. It's interior induces a similar experience to the heft of a down comforter on a dreary day. Warm, dark, incapacitating. Because you will be so full, not just with food but experience too, that moving is a touch slow when you finally. . .FINALLY, leave.

The five of us were situated next to a massive wine rack, tucked away out of the traffic. And believe me, if you're in the main thoroughfare I suspect you might get some restaurant rage. It's jammed on Saturday nights so I recommend earlier than later and not being shy about asking for a table you spot and like. It's close quarters mos def, but if you focus on the food (and you will) the periphery melts away.

We started with a special roasted seafood salad, fried zucchini and fried calamari. I've had calamari up, down and sideways like a long-term relationship and this was top tier ovals. No rubberbands, as so many restaurants are guilty of. Bionda does seafood right as was evidenced by my sister-in-law ordering the grouper and the rest of us lamenting our (totally delicious) choices for the rest of the night. Bitch took those leftovers back to Kalamazoo too. *resentful*

In true family style, we passed and ooh'd and aah'd with each fork full. Rigatoni ala Vodka, Aunt Mimi's Stuffed Shells, Rigatoni Genovese and just straight up Spaghetti and Meatballs. The hot sausage was hippity hoppity hot and delicious. There was heat rising from the dishes and from the conversation ("Mom, we think you might be an alcoholic") but in concert with chianti it was all dim and delightful.

Our waiter (what a) Guy, encouraged us to go tiramisu, but we went cannoli and weren't disappointed. It's just such a damn rarity that food is solid throughout the entire episode. The endings of movies and books and long-running TV series (we just finished "The Wire") can be disappointing but Bionda did it up with fireworks.

We left without guilt. I mean you simply can't feel anything but bliss when you emerge from this place. That feeling cancels out calories. It's scientifically proven, I swear. And if you must, walk your fine self back up to Roosevelt to get on the Green, Red or Orange and call it good. Good and guilt free."

Vulnerability

What do you think of when you ponder vulnerability? It always made me feel squeamish, antsy. . . ready to turn on my heels. I am a child of a feminist, strong and mighty; I am an only, out on my own and blazing trails for future generations. Hear me roar.

There's not a lot of room to be vulnerable when your sole purpose is to hide weakness. If you haven't noticed, I'm working on that. It's why I share. . . so maybe you will too.

I had a powerful experience at school this week. New semester and, thankfully, new faces (with such a small cohort it's nice to meet a fresh perspective). I'm enrolled in a Group Counseling course and thanks to the workings of a genius professor, it began with an opportunity to share prefaced with the idea that, in any group environment, there are sweet and bitter things about the setting. Sometimes it's having a loudmouth next to you, hoarding the time allotted; working with others who are closed off causing you to lose interest that the experience can be healing. It's complicated, but it can be oh-so-good depending on your willingness to relent.

And that's just it. The first go 'round of introductions had most folks using caution when addressing what made THEM bitter and sweet. Christ, who wouldn't have hesitation?! Being authentic in such a setting is so hard, after all "What will people think of me?" or "Am I worthy of being listened to?" I've been working on my own authenticity for months, maybe even a year, thanks to a wonderful therapist who has had me, in the words of the great Brene Brown, "lean into the discomfort." For so long, I've been afraid that if I am anything but agreeable, amiable, friendly and inclusive, people will leave me.

It's true. Do you struggle too?

And so, when it was my turn, I threw myself into the discomfort (which isn't so hard anymore). I told this group of folks whom I know only from a safe classroom/textbook environment, that I binge, I'm hard on myself (and therefore hard on others, mostly internally), and I'm taking medication to help me cope with depression. Oh, and I feel great about it. Really great. What's sweet about me is that I am growing into my courage. Again, quoting Brown, I am increasingly able to "tell the story of who [I am} with my own heart."

What's bitter? Please, I still have high expectations. But as I go easier on myself, it expands into allowing me to have really close relationships that make me really happy. And good grief, this is a process. I don't know if I'll ever be fully evolved, but I know the relief that is sharing, like getting used to the cold water you've just jumped into, gets better over time. Especially if the pool is already peppered with folks doing the same.

The Journey

I've got an addiction that I wear, in the open, for all to see. Funny thing is, rare is the person who whispers or yells to me that I need help. Interventions only take place when needles and highballs are involved, it would seem. But, from my vantage point, being fat is a cry for help too. It's just so damn sensitive to talk about. Even now, my fingers aren't moving as fast down the home row.

Many of us have just made resolutions; there are a dearth of fat shows on TV now, not the least of which is MTV's "I Used To Be Fat" which has coincidentally come on twice at the gym while I'm pounding away on the elliptical; and worst of all every woman I know and love seems to feel ashamed or guilty in some regard when looking in the mirror or staring down at the scale.

I'm sick of feeling that way myself.

Marc asked me awhile ago, "Why do you binge?" (As much as I fooled myself thinking it a secret, there's really only one way to get fat.) (Sidenote: I am totally ok with the word fat; I can also use obese if you prefer. . . either way, I own it just fine.)

The answer to that question is a canvas painted exclusively with shame, and remarkably simple. I grew up with food as comfort; food as a way I bonded with my dad, as a treat or a rush and, now that I'm more conscious, as a salve. A salve really for any emotion: stress, boredom, loneliness, happiness, sadness. Sitting in emotions, after all, can seem interminable.

I've lost weight before, though not for the best reasons: boyfriend break-up, death, identity crisis. So it's like a whole new skill to do it now, when I'm happy and focused. Foreign territory and harder to do because you love yourself and know you'll be a better counselor if you're healthy; you'll have the courage to ski if you're healthy.

It's an education, pursuing it because you want to. . . not to lose weight. After all, my ideal body is Queen Latifah. Beautiful Queen Latifah. Meaning tall (though that's everpresent) and strong. Capable.

And wearing J. Crew would be nice too.

I've lost 10 pounds in the past month with that ever-so-simple formula: eat less, move more. It's not simple at all. Each day is speckled with fighting urges, and changing habits. On the block where I work, there is a Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts, Chipotle, Jimmy Johns and Garrett Popcorn. Some days, just walking by those doors is the ultimate feat. Most days.

And on those days I resist because I love myself, I get a step closer to making the journey one propelled by my own motivation and not the need to please. The self-respect I mentioned in a previous post. Some days I'm hiking sand dunes in the Middle East, and others I'm gliding around on a lazy river, able to close my eyes and savor the warmth and health.

It's hard to write about, hard to talk about, but every journey is better when shared.

Hey Good Lookin. . .

. . .Whatcha got cookin? How's about cooking something up for me?" - Hank Williams

A couple of years ago, a friend of mine in D.C. made pizza. No big deal, except she made the dough from scratch, used only the freshest ingredients (think arugula, buffalo mozzarella and prosciutto) and proceeded to grill the goodness on her Weber Smokey Joe. As she cooked, her fingers flipped through the splattered pages of Alice Waters' "The Art of Simple Food". It's not a flashy cookbook. In fact it's about as daring and provoking as a manila folder and, well, that's likely the point. We have gifted this organic gospel to many a loved one and yet I never had one of my own.

Until now.

I made vinaigrette tonight. So what, I know. But the 1:4 ratio was never something I considered or read in the many magnetic cookbooks on the shelves. Juicy cookbooks, with celebrities and splashy graphics. They don't have recipes for vinaigrette. Certainly not the basic one, to which you may add shallot, pureed garlic (as I did), a dash of cream instead of that fourth tablespoon of olive oil. Don't you just love the simplicity?

I hate to wax philosophical on a cliche, but I want to cook my way through this book (hat tip to Julie Powell). Which means salsa verde is next, and I can't wait. I also can't wait until the pots on our deck bloom some fresh herby greenery to snip and sprinkle. Ms. Waters' dogma has opened my eyes to the possibilities of Community Supported Agriculture. So 2010 for many, but for me it's new and makes me giddy. Shit if I know what to do with daikon, but isn't that the absolute adventure of it? Scouring Waters or elsewhere for the recipe that will crack the secret.

I'm nowhere near confident in my skills, but I am so genuinely stoked to make our condo smell of things fresh and clean; sweet and savory, happy to cook something up for you.

Canines

The letter ended with "P.S. If I can't get a dog, I'll settle for a cat." Date stamp: 1986, scrawled on loose leaf, with "Dear Mom and Dad" as its salutation. . . and slid ever so tenderly under their bedroom door while they slept. I made several attempts at this sort of coercion. After all, my happiness was on the line. Nevermind my allergies, I wanted to cuddle with something furry (therefore my parents' suggestion of guppies had me appalled). I am an only child and though friends sprang up on my block like dandelions, I wanted a real companion.

I've often romanticized walking a dog. It may have something to do with a certain Whisperer, but there is a power in a partnership that spans the centuries. The earnest and genuine doting a dog does for its owner, the impossible happiness they feel every day. . . it's simultaneously perplexing and magnetic.

We are thinking about becoming foster parents for an amazing local shelter. Up until now, we've only arrived with leashes, dog treats and poop bags to take a couple bumbling breeds out on the streets of West Loop. Some have caused blisters from tugging and pulling along the way. But the ones who connect with an upward gaze, respond to your tempo and tone. . . those are the ones I want to dognap and nestle in our home. Gertie comes to mind. Nick too.

Fostering seems low risk, and by risk I mean the risk of me getting annoyed and regretting the decision to invite fur, chewing and spontaneous bowel movements to the crib. A way to sample the litter, so to speak. We want to be the transitional parents while the dogs go through quarantine before heading to the shelter.

I did get a cat, by the way. It caused me great pain, as in sinus pain. Wound up having to get surgery after inhaling his dander for years. He was cute and furry, but Marc and I both agree. . . he's the cat, I'm the dog. And so it goes. After a childhood of pining and poking, a job as a zookeeper and every intention to major in pre-vet upon entering undergrad it might just be time to relax and reap the benefits of being around a funny pup in the name of not settling this time.

Mixologist

I love reflecting, though careful to cast the mirror toward me to be in the present as well. What in a day seems like a slogging year, sprinkled with ambition, really is beautiful when surrounded by 364 of its friends. Waking up is beautiful, but it's silly to make it romantic. Life is really hard and 2010 was no exception. I feel more confused and inspired by my evolution than ever, and yet also able to stop and enjoy one single raisin for what it is: a wrinkly piece of fruit once picked from a bundle and now finding mastication. You swallow, and that's it.

I guess I'm saying I can snap back to reality faster than before. What kept me awake at night this year now wakes me and quickly turns to embers so I can go back to sleep. And I've learned the power of being honest, first with me and then with others. The power of being authentic even when people ask, "Are you ok? You seem quiet. Distant." I am learning how to respect myself. As Joan Didion says in the eponymous essay on the subject, ". . . people with self-respect have the courage of their mistakes. . . people with self-respect exhibit a certain toughness, a kind of moral nerve; they display what was once called character -- the willingness to accept responsibility for one's own life. . . the source from which self-respect springs."

She goes on to write that the singular power of self-respect is to "free us from the expectations of others, to give back to ourselves." The circle of giving for me shrunk this year in order to make room for giving to myself. It's still barely a tide pool, a narrow berth. . . but I look to 2011 for a swell causing expansion. Now firmly planted in my third decade I am nibbling at the heels of courage. I think that's what getting older is about; maturity in the least condescending sense.

Maturity to express my anger, my solace, my quiet. It is what it is. No need to suppress. No need to smile because it's "easier." I've always viewed suppression as a means to protect the one I love, in the crosshairs. But it doesn't. Truth is it. And it hurts. I understand with this self-respect I may hurt people, though I hope to lean on my gift of language and connection to only make it pinch, not bruise.

I had a dear friend tell me that she misses me. Wondered where my confidence went. In some sense, I think I had to go back to the lab and deconstruct a few things. My schoolwork brought this out; my marriage too. The rules of the past 31 years don't work anymore so I had to mix and match a new recipe; cause a new explosion.

Though it's still in a trial run, the building blocks have slid into place. I appreciate that the mirror I hold is also held for me by my most treasured relationships. Not letting me skirt or shirk; calling me out and confronting me. With that perspective, the year becomes full of ingredients and possibilities for an evolved formula. A recipe for self-respect.