See the Birthing

The end of the school year is always a crazy time for me as a teacher.  This year was no exception, as I discussed in a previous post.  Aside from all the logistical hoops through which I had to jump, there was also the poignancy of saying goodbye to my flock of third grade graduates, to whom I'd become deeply attached.  I thought that this year I might not have much time to dwell on the transition, due to my impending departure (tomorrow!) to Israel...incorrect!  I always, always have time for Transition Anxiety because, if I'm going to be honest, "change" isn't really my thing.

Sure enough, not even one day after closing up my classroom for the summer, I felt the anxiety set in.  For ten and a half months of the year, work is my world and "teacher" is my identity.  My colleagues are my "other family," and each year my heart grows just a little bit larger to hold a new class of students, all of whom become "my kids."  When I am at work, I know who I am and I like that version of myself.  I thrive on the structure of my days, and I know how to deliver what is expected of me.  No matter how much I need summer vacation, it is always a tough adjustment.  I usually feel a bit lost without my usual routine, I miss the easy social connections I have with the other teachers, and I definitely miss the kids.  At the bottom of all of this is the unspoken question, Who am I outside of teaching?  It's murky territory, and I don't like it.

Coincidentally (or not?), when I picked up my copy of, Toward a Meaningful Life:  The wisdom of the Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson, this past Shabbat, I opened directly to the chapter titled, "Upheaval and Change."  To be fair, most of the Rebbe's teachings in this chapter are intended to refer to global upheaval and catastrophic events, but I think they can be applied to personal life changes and transitions, as well.  Put generally, the Rebbe says that when things around us are changing, we can use our relationship with Hashem to ground us.  Upheaval gives us the chance to separate who we are from our material world, to get in touch with that which is at our cores and does not change.  Additionally, he teaches that change is an opportunity for growth:

"Our sages teach, 'Who is wise?  The one who sees the birthing' [Talmud, Tamid 32a]--not just the darkness, but how it leads to light.  Growth occurs in three stages:  an embryonic state, a void between old and new, and a state of transformation.  Upheaval is the middle, chaotic stage.  From our human perspective, it may appear as an abyss, but in the larger view, it is the first sign of something new, a birthing."

I think recovery is definitely this way--the "letting go" stage, when we release our hold on the eating disorder but don't yet have anything positive to cling to, certainly can feel like a frightening abyss.  But, as the Rebbe says, that chaos leads to transformation and growth into a fuller, more authentic life.

I can also apply it to where I am in this moment:  the transitional space between "teacher mode" and summer.  It is hard for me to let go of teaching and the comfortable routine it brings.  But when I stop and think, I know that I am the same "me" whether I am working or not, that who I am is more than my profession, and that maybe this time away from work will give me an opportunity to develop some of the other aspects of myself that get a bit lost during the year.  Tomorrow I will fly to Israel, where I will get to spend time with people dear to my heart, learning texts I love in a place that is my second home.  If I allow myself to expand beyond my identity as a teacher, if I let myself fully inhabit the experiences of this next month, then I know I will grow in ways I can't yet anticipate.  Getting to that growth requires some traveling through uncertainty, but if the choice was either, a) consistency and stagnation, or,  b) disruption and transformation, I know I would choose "b," hands down.

So, for all of us staring down some sort of transition or change and the anxiety it brings, I share the words of the Rebbe and our sages as a reminder that if we can weather the bumps in the road, we will be rewarded with a birth into new beginnings.  I will certainly continue to write and share with you what I am learning on this next adventure!

(For skeptics who need a bit more convincing--or if you just like good music--the Indigo Girls reinforce the Rebbe in this song.)

Purim...Unmasked

Last year at this time, I explained why Purim has never been one of my favorite Jewish holidays.  This year as the holiday approached once more, I felt myself sighing a little bit internally in anticipation.  Recently someone asked me what I was going to dress up as for Purim, and my instinctive first thought was, "Well, nothing."  I do not enjoy wearing costumes; if I'm not performing on a stage, I don't do it.  I just don't think it's fun, and maybe it's my rigid streak talking, but I don't like pretending to be someone I'm not.  Which, when I think about it, strikes me as incredibly ironic, because I feel like I have actually spent--and continue to spend--quite a bit of my life pretending to be someone I'm not.  I tend to present myself in a way that I think other people will find appealing.  This doesn't mean I adopt a completely false persona, but it often does mean putting myself out there so that only selective parts of myself are revealed.  A political science professor whose course I took during my freshman year at college had a favorite saying: "It is not truth that is important, but that which is perceived to be."  I think, consciously and unconsciously, in the past I applied the same principle to my own life.  It didn't matter what was actually true about me; it mattered what other people thought was true about me.

Which brings me to Purim, and the custom of wearing costumes and masks.  Recently I learned that the words, Megilat Esther, themselves reveal a lot of the meaning behind this tradition.  The word megilat -- מגילת -- comes from the root גלה, which means to uncover, to reveal, or public.  In contrast, the name Esther -- אסתר -- comes from the root סתר, which means to cover, to hide, or private.  During Purim, wearing disguises helps us remember that we all have our public selves that we present to the world.  Beneath those exterior displays, however, are our true selves that we often choose to keep private.  Purim is a reminder that no one is completely as he or she appears to be.  We each have a hidden inner self that, though often afraid to make itself known, deserves to be seen.

The most elaborate mask I've ever worn was the mask of anorexia.  For years, I never took it off, lest anyone see the scared, lost me who cowered underneath.  As a result, every interaction I had during that time was with someone who only saw my outward persona.  Every connection was superficial because no one got to know who I really was. In fact, I kept the mask on for so long that I forgot who I was.  A central piece of my recovery has been finding ways to "go natural."  I began by taking off the anorexia mask in private (or in therapy) and giving myself time to figure out who I was underneath.  Then, I started identifying people with whom I felt it would be safe to be more genuine, and I began to let them know me.  Over time, that list has grown longer and longer, to the point where I now feel that while I still throw a tiny bit of a disguise on once in a while, overall the self I'm presenting to the world is me. 

In an article titled, "Being You -- A Purim Insight", Sara Tzafona writes:

"We can't possibly discern our purpose while attending a masquerade ball within our personal worlds.  We're not listening to G-d's message, or even trying to find it, if we are spending our time creating false personalities or attempting to become replicas of others rather than focusing on who we are meant to be.

It's pointless, because the world doesn't need replicas of others; the world needs authentic people who aren't afraid to reflect the G-dly soul that was given to them, who aren't afraid to go natural in this razzle-dazzle world that ridicules morality and ethics and authentic purpose.  

We have an obligation to shrug off the artificial masks that we present to the world, because each of us has a job that can be performed by no one else.  There can only be one me, one you, and one Esther.  We must all do our jobs.  And all jobs are created equal, though not the same.  All jobs provide a vital piece to the mosaic of this world, a vital channel to its healing."

This Purim, I wish for all of us the ability to enjoy the festivities...and then, when it's over, to find a safe space in which to take off our masks.  I hope that each of us can find a corner of the world in which we can shine our true light, as only our authentic selves can do.

Tricky Number Ten

As parshiot go, this past week's--Yitro--was a Big One.  Amid tremendous spectacle at Mt. Sinai, Hashem revealed to the Israelites the Ten Commandments.  Although the rest of the Torah would not be given until later, this first phase was monumental in its own right.  For a full translation of the Commandments, visit this page...but, for the sake of brevity, I'll give a quick recap:

1.  I am Hashem, your G-d.
2.  You shall have no other gods besides Me.
3.  You shall not take the Name of Hashem in vain.
4.  Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy.
5.  Honor your father and mother.
6.  You shall not murder.
7.  You shall not commit adultery.
8.  You shall not steal.
9.  You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
10.  You shall not covet.

Commandments 1-4 are pretty essential to the essence of Judaism, so it seems logical that the list would lead with these.  Regarding Commandments 6-9, these are critical guidelines for morality, not to mention vital to the safety of the community and the maintenance of public order.  Although I'm sure no one enjoys a completely conflict-free relationship with his or her parents, it does make sense that (except in the most extreme circumstances) it is a child's duty to honor his or her parents by respecting them and providing them with what they need, materialistically and emotionally, as they age.

But what about Commandment # 10?

Personally, I find this to be the trickiest one of all.  It is the outlier on the list because unlike the rest, which primarily govern our actions, this one is directed at our thoughts.  While it is relatively easy to control what we do, it is a lot harder to control what we think--especially when the thought is fueled by such a common emotion as jealousy.  Is it realistic to think that a person could honestly live in a culture such as ours and never allow herself to feel envious of someone else?  Furthermore, let's say I do feel jealous...as long as I don't go out and actually steal the thing I want, or murder someone to get it, is the feeling itself really so bad?

Well, although I'm no master scholar, I've learned enough Torah to know that nothing is in there by mistake.  So, I decided to look a little closer at Commandment # 10 and see if I could figure out why it merits being on the same list as "You shall have no other gods besides Me," and "You shall not murder." I started by thinking about the role that "coveting" has played in my life.

Interestingly, my first memory of coveting something of my neighbor's dates all the way back to preschool, when I was fiercely jealous of my friend's long, silky, braided pigtails.  I watched the way she would whip those braids around her head with confidence and flair, something I knew I would never, ever be able to accomplish with my standard-issue bowl cut (which, although adorable in retrospect, seemed at the time to be most unfortunate).  I looked at my hair in the mirror in dismay.  If I could just have those braids, I thought, I would be a better version of me.  I was four years old.  What an early age at which to start seeing myself as "less than" someone else!

This sense of never measuring up favorably, of wanting someone else's skills, style, or demeanor, only continued.  I was jealous of my friends' athletic talents, singing voices, and fashion sense; I envied their social ease and confidence.  When I was struggling with anorexia, I strove to make my body smaller and smaller until I could win the much-sought-after title of "sickest girl"--something I never seemed able to attain.  The side effect of all this coveting was that I never stopped to appreciate what I did have--the skills I possessed, the achievements I'd accomplished, the character traits that made me special.  I was so busy focusing on what everyone else had, and what everyone else's life must be like, that I neglected to nurture my own strengths and validate my own journey.

For me, coveting has rarely been about material items, but it has nearly always been about personhood.  Simply put, I was never satisfied with who I was, and I felt that if I could only have whatever "it" was that other people internally possessed, I'd finally be a person worthy of positive attention, a person who mattered.  I think this mindset of self-negation is what makes coveting so dangerous.  When we want something someone else has so badly that we convince ourselves that we need it in order to be worthy/happy/successful/etc ourselves, we invalidate our own value as the people we actually are.  Additionally, coveting leads us to forget that Hashem designed each of us to fill a unique space in the world.  We are not meant to all look the same, act the same, or all have the same things.  When we covet that which is not ours, we are essentially saying that we know how our lives are supposed to be better than Hashem does.  This is NOT to say that we should just sit back and passively take whatever comes our way with the understanding that Hashem will provide us with everything we need.  On the contrary, we should take an active role in our own lives, but we should do so in a way that is authentic to who we really are--not in a way that tries to make us into someone else who we assume, "has it all."

I have by no means mastered the art of Thou Shall Not Covet, and I have a feeling that it is going to be a work in progress for a while.  But, I do feel that I am more aware of when I slip into that mindset, and I understand better the harm it causes to my relationship with myself and to my relationship with Hashem.  I wish for all of us--myself included--the ability to replace thoughts of, "I don't have enough ________", with the thought (and belief) that not only do we HAVE enough, but we ARE enough--as is.

Sing Your Inner Song

This past Shabbat was Shabbat Shira, the Shabbat on which we commemorate the miracle of Hashem splitting the sea and of the Israelites crossing through it, on dry land, to freedom.  Central to parashat Beshalach is שירת הים, The Song of the Sea.

This week I learned that there are differing views as to when the Israelites sang the Song.  At the end of the Song comes Shemot 15:19, which reads:

"When Pharoah's cavalry came with his chariots and horsemen into the sea and Hashem turned back the waters of the sea upon them, the Children of Israel walked on the dry land amid the sea."

According to Ibn Ezra, this verse is part of the Song; the crossing of the Israelites is included in the list of miracles that Hashem performed for the Israelites.  However, other commentators (including Ramban and Sforno) offer a different view.  They hold that this verse came after the Song, and therefore the Jews sang the Song while they were still in the process of crossing the sea.  I can see the validity of both positions, but personally I prefer the latter.  The idea that after all their years of slavery--years in which their bodies and spirits were pushed to the breaking point, years in which they nearly lost all hope--the Israelites still had within them the power of song, strikes me as poignant and powerfully moving.  Despite all their anxiety and fear, the Jews recognized that they were on a journey of liberation, and so they celebrated even before their passage was complete.  From this we can learn a valuable example of how to keep our inner song alive through difficult times, and how to emerge from periods of personal darkness with our voices strong.

Personally, I found that the darkness of my eating disorder was accompanied by silence--both external and internal.  Not only could I no longer hear my own song, but I also had lost the ability to express myself in any way other than monotone.  Singing (or at least singing well) requires emotions and a sense of connectivity to the present moment and the world at large.  Recovery is about reopening those channels of connection and reawakening emotions from the eating disorder-induced state of dormancy. I know that I often found this process a bit overwhelming, and it was frightening to get back in touch with the power of my own song (who was I to try to add my voice to this world?!)...but what I discovered is that my song had never really gone away--I just had to release the "mute" button.  I find that to be both comforting and remarkable...the idea that despite everything, my heart never forgot the words to its own song and was just waiting to be allowed to sing once more.

Just as the Israelites did not wait to finish crossing the sea before they began singing, neither should any of us believe that we must be "done" with recovery before we can begin to use our own voices.  What merits celebration is not only the finish line, but also the journey--the willingness to take step after step in faith toward a fuller, more authentic life.

One of my favorite poets is Mary Oliver, who explores this theme of the resilience of the inner song in several of her poems in the collection, Red Bird.  I'm including here one that I particularly love...I hope it resonates with some of you, as well!

I will try

I will try.
I will step from the house to see what I see
and hear and I will praise it.
I did not come into this world

www.fineartamerica.com

to be comforted.
I came, like red bird, to sing.
But I'm not red bird, with his head-mop of flame
and the red triangle of his mouth
full of tongue and whistles,
but a woman whose love has vanished,
who thinks now, too much, of roots
and the dark places
where everything is simply holding on.
But this too, I believe, is a place
where God is keeping watch
until we rise, and step forth again and--
but wait.  Be still.  Listen!
Is it red bird?  Or something
inside myself, singing?

On Being Authentic

Happy 2013!  This past week I savored a much-needed school vacation and was fortunate to spend it in the company of good friends.  I had many conversations with a wide variety of individuals, some familiar friends and others whom I had just met...and a persistent theme kept recurring: authenticity.  Despite our differences, what we were all talking about was our desire to honestly represent ourselves, to be seen for who we truly are.  Some of us are in situations in which that's relatively simple; for others it is much more challenging.  However, we all identified with the struggle of trying to remake ourselves in the image of others and how, at a certain point, self-respect wins the day and we no longer have the patience to be anything other than what we are.

Not surprisingly, this is a major theme of my personal journey through recovery.  In the early stages, my mantra was, I will be whoever you want me to be.  I actually remember telling my therapist that if other people would only just tell me what they wanted from me, I'd gladly do it, as long as they'd then be my friends. (Needless to say, any "friendships" I made via that strategy never lasted very long!)  It took a lot of time and energy in therapy before I began to really understand myself and what my values, strengths, and passions were.  At some point, I changed my mantra to, "This is who I am...if that's okay with you."  I was willing to represent myself honestly, but only if I felt sure that the other people involved wouldn't have a problem with the way that I was.  I had a sense of self, sure, but it definitely wasn't worth getting into a conflict--if I sensed any disapproval, I reverted back to my former stance of pretending to be the person I thought others wanted.  It wasn't until relatively recently, in the late stages of recovery, that I've finally begun saying, "This is who I am"--with no qualifiers attached.  To be sure, I'm still self-protective and don't go looking for confrontations--if I feel pretty confident that who I am will not be well received by someone, that's probably someone I'll avoid hanging out with.  But, I'm no longer willing to lie about myself, either.  Speaking my truth has become an aspect of my self-respect.  I believe I am worthy of being seen--and respected--for who I actually am.  I recognize that not everyone will respect me for who I am, but that doesn't mean I need to change fundamental aspects of myself.  I am fine the way I am...and although some people won't appreciate that, enough people will.

So, what does Judaism say about this?  Interestingly, I recently read a commentary on this week's parasha, Shemot, in which Rabbi Zelig Pliskin attributes the Israelites' enslavement in Egypt at least in part to their own lack of self-respect.  He cites Rabbi Chayim Shmuelevitz as saying that once the "important" generation of Israelites (Joseph and his brothers) died out, the Jewish people lost a sense of themselves as a people worthy of respect.  Once this happened, the Egyptians had no problem subjugating them and making them into slaves.  What I take from this is that when we cease honoring ourselves, we permit other people to cease honoring us.  When we stop saying, "This is who I am", we allow other people to make us into whatever they want us to be...and this certainly is a form of enslavement.

Truth and honesty are Jewish values.  When we are honest about who we are, we elevate our own integrity.  If we misrepresent ourselves, we give other people a reason to question our truthfulness in general.  I would also argue that because each of us was made b'tzelem Elohim--in Hashem's image--we have a responsibility to live honestly as He created us.  We are who we are for a reason, and when we honor ourselves by being authentic, we add a needed spark to the world.

In closing, I'll offer the words of Rabbi Tzvi Freeman, who wrote the following based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe:

What is your job in this world?  It is to become truth.
How do you become truth?  By not lying to yourself.  
It is not that you must do whatever you do with sincerity.
Sincerity itself is the work you must do.
It is what you must become.

Wishing us all a sincere, authentic start to 2013!

This Little Light of Mine...

A few moments ago, I lit the menorah for the third night of Chanukah.  As I write this post, the candles stand upright and proud in their holders, casting small yet hardy flames into the air above them.  True, Chanukah isn't considered among the holiest of days in the Jewish calendar, but it does carry powerful messages for us to consider as we try to find our path in a world that often seems cast in darkness and shadows.

One of the central themes of Chanukah is the victory of the small band of Hasmoneans against the much larger Syrian-Greek army.  As a classic culture, the Greeks had a lot to offer, and they were eager to share their Hellenist rituals and beliefs with the Jews--but the Jews weren't interested.  Simply put, the Jews didn't want what the Greeks were selling.  They appreciated many things about Greek culture--in fact, Judaism has often praised the ancient Greeks for their linguistic and philosophical contributions to the world.  But although they were able to see the virtues of the Greeks, the Jews didn't want to be Greek--they wanted to be Jews, and they had to fight for their right to remain true to themselves.

This is a predicament that continues to face us today.  As we grow and develop into ourselves, there is no shortage of people who are waiting to give us advice and tell us how they think we should live our lives.  Sometimes, outside influence comes in the form of family or close friends who tell us what we should consider, what we should prioritize, what we should value.  Other times, input comes from our surrounding culture that informs us, in no uncertain terms, of how we should dress, how we should speak, how we should behave.  It is easy to be intimidated and confused in the face of all those "shoulds," and when we let those "shoulds" dictate our choices, that's when we start to lose ourselves.  As a person who tries hard to avoid confrontation, I fully appreciate the challenge and scariness of bucking the trend.  But, I also know that I spent many years of my life believing there were only two options--conform, or disappear--and neither of those was entirely successful (or satisfying).  Slowly, I began to wonder if there might be a third option...and Chanukah teaches us that there is.

Chanukah is about the fight that we all must undertake to live by our own light.  It's about remaining true to ourselves in the face of intense cultural pressure and not losing sight of our own priorities and visions.  Chanukah reminds us that this is indeed a fight worth fighting, and that if we are willing to go through the struggle that growth entails, we will emerge stronger and more vital.

We light the Chanukah candles in accordance with the tradition of Beit Hillel:  one candle for the first night, two for the second, and so on in an increasing manner.  Hillel based his ruling on the principle of ma'alin ba'kodesh ve'ayn moridin--one increases in matters of holiness, and does not diminish.  So it is with ourselves--if we do the work of living authentically and speaking our truth, our strength and virtue will increase, as will the light that we are able to share with others.

This Chanukah season, may we all have the courage to use our own light to guide us out of whatever darkness in which we find ourselves.

!חג חנוכה שמח

Outgrowing the Flower Pot

People who know me well could probably think of a variety of adjectives with which to describe me, but I'd be willing to bet that, "daring," would not be one of them.  (I base this assumption on the high frequency with which I have been described as, "risk-averse.")  In some ways, my cautiousness is an asset--it protects me from danger and unnecessarily risky situations.  However, lately I have been thinking that although it keeps me safe, it also undeniably keeps me stuck.

On the one hand, if I have to be stuck somewhere, the life I currently lead isn't a terrible place to be.  I have a job doing what I love to do; I live in a satisfactory apartment in a safe, clean neighborhood; I have amazing parents whom I get to see almost every weekend. I have in place many of the pieces that make up the picture of a functional, fulfilling adult life.  And, for nearly a decade, this has been enough for me.  In fact, for a long time this stable life of mine was all I wanted--as I worked my way through early recovery, I couldn't imagine that I would ever be able to do anything truly daring, nor did I want to.  Even once my recovery was more secure, I felt it would be foolish to uproot myself from the support system I'd put into place--surely, such a move would cause me to unravel.  So, I've stayed put, safe in my little flower pot of sorts, growing as tall as I've been able with roots that are limited in how far out they can extend.

But now...I think I might have outgrown the flower pot.

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to just throw away everything I've worked so hard to build, but I can't deny that I feel constrained and restricted to a life that is just okay, as opposed to a life that is great.  But, herein lies the problem:  moving from okay to great requires change, uncertainty, and a willingness to take chances.  None of that dovetails so nicely with my lifelong history of risk aversion.  When I think of making dramatic life changes--moving, changing jobs, etc--part of me feels alive, excited, and smiley while another part yells things like, "It's stupid to leave a stable situation!"  And then, there is the quiet yet persistent voice that whispers, "What makes you think you deserve to be any happier than you are?"

My recent struggle with safety-vs-growth has led me to reexamine the Midrash about Nachshon, the Israelite who was brave enough to venture into the Red Sea before it split, thereby proving to Hashem that the Jews were a people of courage.  As risks go, that was about as significant as it gets, and the other Israelites probably thought Nachshon was crazy to leave dry land to plunge headlong into roiling, uninviting waters.  But in the end, it was Nachshon's courage that allowed the Jews to survive.

This doesn't mean that taking big chances is always a good idea.  For sure, some risk-takers are met with disappointment.  But it's also true that a life of positive growth requires a willingness to step into the unknown.  An article I read on the Midrash of Nachshon explains,

"Surely risks must be calculated and carefully planned, but without an element of uncertainty nothing can be accomplished.  There is no authentic life choice that is risk-free."

Recovery, for me, is about living an authentic life, about believing that I do deserve to feel more complete and satisfied than I do right now.  What have I done all this work for, if not to grow up and out as much as possible?  As I start to make plans for the future, I hope that I am able to channel some of Nachshon's courage to take risks (calculated and planned ones, of course).  As Rebbe Nachman said:

"The whole entire world is a very narrow bridge.  And the most important thing is not to be afraid."

Go Against the Flow

This week's parasha, Lech Lecha, is so chock-full of rich material that I've already written about it two times!  But, since there's always the possibility to discover something new in Torah, I decided that this week I would try to find a new angle from which to approach this parasha.  An article by Rabbi Max Weiman from aish.com inspired me to begin by taking a close look at Abram--what was it that separated him from the rest of humanity at that point?

In the very beginning, Hashem spoke to Adam, who passed on the teachings to his children and their descendants, including Noah.  But, by the time of Abram, society had once again deteriorated.  Abram lived in a culture of idol worshippers, yet somehow he heard the call of Hashem, the one G-d.  How did this happen?  Some say that he was so enchanted with the beauty of the world, that he knew there had to be one Creator overseeing everything.  However it unfolded, the bottom line is that Abram challenged the status quo and dared to follow what he knew to be true.  He rejected the culture of the majority and instead took a different path--which, as we know, had profound implications for the history of the Jewish people.

Abram wasn't afraid to go against the tide--he went in the direction of what he knew was authentic, even as everyone around him was doing the opposite.  What does it take to be the sort of person who is brave enough to do this?

It takes a lot of work to swim against the cultural stream.  In recovery, this comes up all the time--with the incessant social buzz about diets and weight, it is almost impossible to follow a recovery meal plan without feeling like you're fundamentally at odds with the rest of the Western world.  When people around you are trading stories about workout regimens, it can be hard to remain confident in your decision to cancel your gym membership.  And, when your friends or family members are gossiping about someone else who just lost/gained a noticeable amount of weight, it can be very daunting to look them in the eyes and say, "So what?"

But, this is what recovery demands.  We must be willing to distance ourselves from the commonplace, yet mildly distorted, thinking that pervades our surrounding culture with respect to food and body.  We don't need to buy into the myths of "good" and "bad" foods, and we don't need to believe the falsehood that any one particular body type is the gateway to happiness.  The last time I checked (which wasn't too long ago), no one food will singlehandedly make or break your health, and happy people come in all shapes and sizes.

In the book Reviving Ophelia, by Mary Pipher, there is a chapter called, "Worshiping the Gods of Thinness."  Isn't this what so much of our society is doing?  We have a choice in front of us:  we can either join the majority in their idolization of a phony ideal, or we can be strong enough to follow what we know in our cores to be true.  One of the gifts of recovery is that we can see the falseness of the cultural myths and the misalignment of societal priorities, whereas people who haven't done this work are not always able to do so.  We need to be brave enough to voice our own truths and prove that there is a more genuine way to live.  May we all be blessed with the courage and vision of Abram, and may we spread the light of authenticity to those around us!