Oprah's Weight Gain & a Spiritual Lesson

I recently read an article about Oprah's recent weight gain. She was quoted as saying, "It's embarrassing . . . I know all the things I need to do [eat right, exercise, etc.]" (paraphrased).

Dear Oprah,
Guess what? Some problems exist despite what we know and despite our best ambitions. Contrary to our cultural mantra that we "can accomplish anything we set our minds to," some areas of our lives are not fixed by sheer will power. This is the spiritual lesson.

It may be a harder lesson to learn for an Oprah Winfrey or Tom Cruise of the world-- that is, for those many people who seem to view their successes as having come about due to their own, personal will power, drive, and ambition (all of which, I believe, a person is born with to a great degree).

Sometimes we have to accept there are things we cannot change (an oft neglected part of the Serenity Prayer).

Other times, the problem is that we fail to accept the up-and-down cycles of life. Instead, we view our "down times" as moments in which we must fight our way through. However, "what we resist will only persist" (A Course in Miracles, paraphrased). We fight "it" and "it" just digs in its heels. During these moments, a gentler, more spiritual way of coping is to acknowledge, "Ah, yes, this is my weak spot, my down cycle, and I will observe it and let it ride out its course, managing but not fighting it, until the eventual upswing occurs again."

my favorite spiritual mantra

Be still

and know

the joyous Freedom

of belonging in God.

Uncurable Wounds

Sometimes my wounds are dormant. Sometimes they rear their ugly heads. Some of my wounds are minor and some quite rotten. When they're active, eruptive like a seething volcano, I battle them with blood, sweat, and lots of tears of frustration because they never fully go away. I cry out that I can't cure them! Why, oh WHY does the Divine not help me finally cure these old sources of soul torture?

And then a thought comes-- a whisper of an answer: Perhaps these ugly wounds are not meant to be cured.

If these wounds are kept alive, I am rendered humble. I must face that I am utterly human, flawed, no better than anyone else.

Groupees of the Sacred Feminine Held Hostage

Well, if there were ever a blog entry that showcased my edginess, here it is. I'd like to apologize in advance, but it would be insincere. You see, I have a bone to pick. (Uh-oh, fasten your seat belts; here it comes . . .).

As you can tell by the entire point of this blog, my own spiritual platform is to advocate for a "real" spirituality, one that both admits and allows for warts, wrinkles, and half-baked commitments, yet still strives for spiritual betterment. If my version of spiritual development were a graph it wouldn't be a straight line shooting upwards, it would look more like a heart monitor's spikes: up, down, but still progressing however slightly. Spiritual perfectionists need not apply. And this brings me to (drum roll, please):

The very unique group of usually Christian women who are into "The Sacred Feminine." While there are outliers and exceptions, I too often have experienced that these women bother me. There, I said it. (Where is the lightning bolt that will now strike me down)? And so, I have decided to hold them virtually hostage until they cave to my list of mischievous demands:

1. Speak normally --not in a whispery voice as if you are the heroine of a Victorian novel who is in love with your own words.

2. Love womankind without demanding that everyone massage each other's feet or meet to dance in the moonlight topless.

3. Find new phrases and metaphors that don't involve feathers, quilts, or being vivifed and renewed.

4. Confess something really naughty, not just stealing a cupcake.

5. And for Pete's sake, embrace a bit of bawdy passion. For example, instead of always using the clinical term for genitalia, just call it a "pecker!"

I will hold this group virtually hostage until these demands are met and until they engage in rip roaring laughter in which most wind up peeing in their pants.

How did women's spirituality become a dour, academic, perfectionistic, and overly mature thing? Being in the flow of uninhibited, childlike joy is my kind of Sacred Feminine spirituality.

This is IT? THIS is my life?

This year I would have choked to death if it weren't for my husband, who thankfully was not away on business, but happened to be next to me. I had gotten up to comfort my son in the middle of the night, went back to my bedroom, put a square throat lozenge into my mouth to quell an annoying cough, and the square slipped down my throat and cut off my airway. I woke up my husband who tried to perform the Heimlich maneuver but performed it incorrectly: he did it using open hands instead of making a fist with one. I tried to tell him but he didn't understand. Over a minute passed with his failing efforts. Since I wasn't helped quickly, I had to wonder if "this might be it."

It actually wasn't my first near death experience (the other being a bad car crash years ago), but it was the first time that in the midst of it, I had time to think in surreal, slow motion. An odd and very sad thought came during this suspended moment. I thought incredulously, "This is IT??! THIS was my life?"

I hadn't made my mark, left my legacy, made a difference. My life was dull, mundane, average. To cut it off at that moment would have been akin to pulling the plug on the television during just some inane commercial for hemorrhoids. That was IT? No "on the verge of greatness?" No crowds left behind to wail and mourn? My life was like a tiny light switch that Fate was about to randomly flip to the "off" position. No big deal.

I've sat with the unsettling experience for a few months. It subsided, but now resurfaced with a vengeance because I'm hitting my first, official midlife birthday. Apparently, approaching midlife raises those questions all over again. What is my life about? Is this it? I revived my old panic again because midlife is in some ways a continuation of that near death experience. Once again, I get to think in surreal, slow motion about my life as it takes a turn toward the end.

Before I depress anyone, let me state this quickly: I have come to peace with this haunting fear about my little life being totally insignificant in the large scheme of things. Of course, my spiritual panic ought to have been quelled by doctrinal, religious assurances, but instead I find my comfort in something practical, utterly this worldly, and ironically mundane.

I am no longer undone by the utter averageness of my life because I realize that an average life is a deeply privileged life. Millions of people wish they had "just an average life." Is my life just about cleaning and cooking? Oh but how many wish they owned a vacuum, or a washer, let alone a home? How many wish they had food to cook every day? Is my life just about engaging in an ongoing power struggle with my child? How many bereaved parents wish they had just one more day to hear their child's voice? Is my life's excitement just a good book, an interesting conversation, a scenic drive, or a new bud on a garden plant? If I could have asked my parents when they were growing up in Europe in World War II, they, like many others, would answer that they could certainly appreciate the luxury of a completely quiet, uneventful life.

And so, is this it? Is THIS my life?

It is.

This is my life. . . and I am lucky to have it at all.

I'm Glad It Happened to Me

I believe it may have been a good 15 to 20 years ago, when I glimpsed on the news a woman who was being interviewed due to the rare but fatal illness she had. She was older, but not old. She had wild gray curls, was a bit chubby perhaps, and had a young smile. While my memory fails to recall the details of her name, location, or even what type of disease she had, I explicitly and clearly remember one thing:

In response to the question about what it's like for her to have this disease-death-sentence, she earnestly said, "I'm glad it happened to me and not to someone else who couldn't handle it like I can." To this day, her response stuns me into humbled awe.

A clinical cynic might say, "Well, she clearly had processed through the stages of denial, anger, and grief and simply accepted her condition." I'm sorry, Cynic, but it is one thing to accept your horrid situation and quite another to be glad of it for altruistic reasons.

Whoever she was, she stands in my memory as an inspiration. I share the story, so that perhaps she can continue to be an inspiration for others as well.

Thanks for the Sh--!

Somewhere, I've read this simplistic but difficult message: Instead of just being grateful for what you think is "good," be grateful for the "bad" stuff too.

In practice, this is a very tall order, but not if you start out small. I embrace my spiritual-kindergartener status: I must begin with saying, "Thank You!" after getting a knock to my funny bone. You know what? Being grateful for the bit of pain was oddly freeing.

I try again. This time with a much, much harder challenge for me: traffic. After I curse the driver who cuts me off (sorry, but I'm not yet able to restructure that bad habit), I calm down a minute and then through clenched teeth I utter, "Thank You for that asshole that cut me off." And then I laugh at my resistance. But the laughter means something is working here! That's exactly the point of being grateful for the bad stuff: lighten up & suspend judgment of what you think is so bad.

I may never be able to exhibit gratefulness for the really big stuff, but that's okay. Life is made up of mostly the little stuff anyway.