Category Archives: Seeking Life Now

Shame, Shame-Double Shame

16 Wednesday Mar 2016

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When you’re fat, overweight, obese, plump, “big-boned”, curvy or whatever it is you like to call yourself when you are much heavier than you should be, shame is a constant companion.

According to the Wikipedia article on shame, “The roots of the word shame are thought to derive from an older word meaning “to cover”; as such, covering oneself, literally or figuratively, is a natural expression of shame.”

And so, you will find those of us who are “plus size” draped in outfits that closely resemble bed sheets and garbage bags. We know that what we have isn’t considered beautiful, but that’s not really where the shame originates.

The shame is not created by knowing that people think we’re unattractive, it’s from people judging us every time we have a cookie or a cheeseburger, or assume we spend all our time slumped on the couch with a bag of cheesies in one hand and a tub of ice cream in the other.

I sit down on the streetcar and feel people are thinking ‘that fat and lazy slob should stand up. It might help her, actually, lose some weight. No wonder she’s fat.’

I get a donut with my steeped tea and feel people behind me, checking-out my back fat and can hear their thoughts out loud, ‘oh, honey. Put it down and walk away. That’s why you are so fat’.

Even though my grocery cart is always full of fruits and veggies, when I get to the checkout, I feel like everyone around me is thinking: ‘good for you, girl. I hope you can keep on this diet. Good luck’.

And, based on the nasty comments I’ve heard (and made) over the years (yes, fat people judge other fat people), I know that I am being judged.

And, so, I cloak myself to hide my shame.

I hide behind a bubbly attitude, bright sense of humour and quick-wit. Fat people have learned to protect ourselves by finding ways to disarm people before they attack. We make fun of ourselves first, so that the judgement and jokes of about our size won’t hurt as much.

But, it actually doesn’t really work. We feel hurt all the time.

And, it doesn’t matter how many times we’ve been judged, teased, had jokes made at our expense ‘in good fun’, or been fat-shamed, when it happens again it strikes at the very core of our being.

And so, I am desperately trying to turn the tides of shame. And, I’m starting with truly learning how to love myself.

It may sound silly to you, but I’ve started wearing a bit of makeup most days to work, I have bought a few dresses that are so far out of my usual “comfort” clothes in which I can hide myself away.

And, surprisingly, this has made a huge difference. Every time I apply the mascara, or slip the bright red dress on over my head, I feel this little idea growing inside of me-‘you are worth it’.

I am removing the layers I have been hiding under for years. I am allowing myself the freedom to be seen. To be beautiful. To feel good about myself.

As my feelings of worth increase, I begin to process decisions, not from a place of shame or judgement, but by deciding what’s best for me. Because I deserve the best.

I still have a long way to go. But, slowly, I am removing my cloak of shame and learning how to truly love myself.

When deciding whether, or not, I want to buy a bag of chips, the voice in my head has always said things like: ‘go ahead, fatty. You’re never going to be thin so you may as well enjoy yourself.’ ‘Have the chips, fatty. Nobody cares about you or how you feel. You may as well have some comfort in knowing that.’ ‘You deserve those chips. You deserve how they will make you feel more fat and helpless’.

When I’m trying to make choices about food these days my new mantra is: ‘You deserve the best. Is this the best?’

You deserve the best.

You deserve the best.

Believe me. It’s true.

You deserve the best.

You.

You deserve the best.

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Memory

14 Monday Mar 2016

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I have said this before, memories are tricky, unreliable things.

I believe that most, if not all, of our memories consist of factual truth, embellishments of emotion, imagination and external influences (such as seeing a picture, news article, or hearing someone else’s account).

While they may not be 100% fact, memories, especially those from childhood, can tell us a lot about how we were feeling at the time. They should not be judged. They should not be criticized. And, there’s often no real need for them to be “set straight”. They exist for a reason.

They are called “Autobiographical Memory”.

Our memories help shape us and, in turn, our lives. I grew up as the baby of the family. I am used to having everyone else tell me how “things were” or at least, how they remember them.

I also have grown-up constantly trying to keep the peace and protect everyone around me. This has meant that, time and time and time again I have never shared what I remembered, how I have felt about things and the memories that have been my experiences through life.

Even now, as I started this blog, I have had to constantly battle the urge to edit or not write because I didn’t want to upset anyone. I have held my own memories, recollections, feelings, thoughts, and stories close to my heart, where they could be safe, long enough. I want to share them. I want to share this world that I grew-up in. As I remember it.

I know that my memories are never going to be 100% truth. Sometimes, they may not even be more than 20% truth. But, they are mine.This is how it was to me. And, as part of who I am, they don’t need to be corrected, just accepted as part of me, my story, my substance. I know that they are not, necessarily, perfectly accurate and I know that there are other people involved who have their own versions of the stories, their own memories, their own feelings. I do not write to take that away from that. We all experienced things through our own lenses. This is my space to share through mine.

Fear, loneliness, trauma, anger, shame, embarrassment, love, uncertainty, humor, imagination, sadness-they will all be a part of why I recall things the way I do. And that’s important.

This is what my world was. These are the experiences, memories and feelings, both fact and fiction, that all led-up to this point. Right here. Me.
Here in all my strengths, weaknesses, victories, failures-the love, the hate, the fear the bravery. Everything I am comes from these memories.

It may not be 100% factual truth-but, it is 100% me.

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The Runaway

13 Sunday Mar 2016

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When I was 7 or 8 I ran away from home. Not the typical I packed my suitcase and walked a little way down the street. I legitimately had run away from home.

There was a boy in my school we called ‘Chip’ and while I don’t remember a whole lot about him, or how he looked (I think he was fairly ‘boy next door’), I remember that we were very similar. We had deep, vivid imaginations and we had an entire universe of feelings/thoughts within us that we had no idea how to handle.

Chip and I decided one day that we were going to run away from it all. The problems at home, the problems at school, the constant feeling that we just didn’t fit in and seek lives better fitting our grand notions.

After school finished one day, we began our journey at the local Safeway. After all, if you are serious about running away from home, you are going to need provisions.

We were beginners at the whole running away thing, however, and perhaps, didn’t make the wisest choices of what we would need to provide adequate sustenance. We also didn’t have any money, so we shoplifted everything.

What great items, you ask, did we choose to pack to keep our nutrition up during this adventure. We started in the baking aisle because everyone knows that marshmallows are an essential item of any real runaway bag of rations. Our next stop was the cake decorating section. We picked-up two packets of candy cake toppers. I wonder if we did this because it was going to be one of our birthday’s soon and we didn’t want to completely miss-out on the festivities? At any rate, we left the store with marshmallows and candy cake toppers that read “Happy Birthday” and contained coloured balloons.

We walked for what seemed days towards ‘the edge of town’. We talked about where we would go and what we would do. Unfortunately, I don’t remember the details of that conversation now. But, I was becoming aware that my resolve in our journey seemed to be stronger than his.

Dusk was settling-in and I suggested we find a place to sleep for the night. We found a culvert that ran under the train tracks. This seemed like the perfect place to set-up camp. We made ourselves comfortable and then broke-into our rations bag. After devouring half the bag of marshmallows and all the cake toppers, we rested. Dizzy in our sugar high.

Chip said to me “what do we do now?”

I replied, “We relax and try to get some sleep. We have a long day tomorrow.”

About five minutes later, Chip says with a sigh “I’m bored. I think I’m going to go home.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. How could be abandoning our mission so soon? Where was his resolve? How could he be so gutless?

I felt blindsided.

“Are you coming?” he asked me.

“No.” I replied indignantly. “I have dreams to follow.”

And with that, he skulked out of the culvert and away from my life.

Alone, I sat inside that culvert until it was dark outside. I listened to the light trickle of some water that was running between the rocks and the sound of the world going on around me, without me.

I was starting to get cold.

I was also starting to get scared.

I was alone.

I was very, truly, all alone.

Nobody cared. Nobody would find me. This was it, I would either survive the night and become like Pippi Longstocking, or I’d die in the pursuit of freedom.

I hugged my backpack close to my chest, rested my head on the cold, metal inside of the culvert, and finally drifted off.

I was awakened by a flashing of red and blue light.

And then I heard my name being called by someone familiar, but not a family member.

It was my Grade 1 teacher.

She was an older lady who dressed a lot in purple and would chew gum wildly in her mouth while making the most amazing crackling and popping sounds.

She had arrived with the Police.

It turns-out that Chip had ratted me out. I wondered if he had confessed to our stealing the marshmallows and candy and I clung even more tightly to my backpack in hopes they weren’t going to ask to see what I had.

I pictured myself locked-up behind bars, begging the Police Officers to let me out, pleading with them that we were just trying to keep ourselves alive.

I got into the Police Car with my teacher. The policeman had talked to me, I’m sure, but I think I used my teacher as a personal shield and translator. She would protect me. I just knew she would.

I remember returning home and feeling a mixture of great disappointment and relief.

I was returning to sadness, confusion, fear and anger.

But, at least, I was warm.

I would never try to run away again. But, I often think about that night and my friend, Chip. We talked briefly the next day, but he had hurt me deeply and I couldn’t forgive him. From then on, I went on my adventures without him. Alone.

I am eternally grateful that my teacher showed me that I was worth something by coming to find me. She didn’t have to. She could have just told the police what she had heard and let them get me.

But, she wanted to be there for me. It is one of those moments in life that leaves an indelible impression and, to this day, makes me cry. She passed away years ago, but I will be grateful for as long as I live for her validation and kindness.

And, to Chip, wherever you are-I forgive you. And, I hope that you found the happiness for which you were searching.

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Teachers Pt. 2

12 Saturday Mar 2016

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A teacher who, basically, says there is no point educating girls to the one who stapled a classmates t-shirt shut, all coming-up in “Teachers Pt. 2”.

Grade 5: Male teacher. Very dark hair and beard/moustache. Gorgeous eyes. Olive-coloured skin. He was extremely kind and patient. But, he was different. I’m not sure he was from around the area. He was, in particular, a great science teacher. I can’t remember anything else he taught us, but I loved when it was time for science. The main science lesson I remember doing was when we had to colour a white sheet of paper all of one of our highlighter colours, stare at it for a minute, and then look at a white piece of paper and observe how the white paper no longer looked white. This is still something I do occasionally. Or, if it happens by accident (because I’ve been writing notes on a fluorescent piece of paper and then look away), I always remember him and it makes me smile.

Grade 6: Female teacher. Older. Cranky. For a very long time I didn’t like this teacher. In fact, it wasn’t until I was in my late teens that I could appreciate her. She was harsh and impatient while in class. But, she was a great music teacher. She taught me to play the recorder and ukulele. She gave me my first real solo. It was for the Christmas Concert and I was playing “Candy the Clown” and I sang a song called “What is a Gift?”. Now that I am older, she reminds me of a teacher who was trying to hold onto what she believed was the substance of education in the midst of massive changes in the education system.

Grade 7: This was a really weird year in education. The education system was doing a pilot project, splitting grades and teachers. It was set up a bit like high school, so we had different teachers for different subjects and traveled from room to room. But, our home-room teacher was female. She was pretty, and she knew it. Her strengths were in drama. We did a lot of drama. She had big lips, dark skin and wore a lot of perfume. We loved to tease her and I never really understood it at the time, but now I know that she really helped me learn to be vulnerable with the artist inside of me and express myself without feeling embarrassed.

Grade 8: Male teacher. Extremely chauvinistic. Even as I type this grade I feel my fingers pounding more heavily on the keys as my blood boils at the thought of this horrible man. Not only did he make no bones about the fact that he focused more on providing the boys a good education because, after all, they were the ones who were going to grow-up and have to make a living, he also terrified most of us with current events. He used to say that by the time we were 16, World War 3 would be happening. He said “take a look around you. All the boys you see, all these guys who are your friends, will be drafted to fight and most won’t come back.” Yeah, he was a real asshole.

Grade 9: My first year of High School. French: I can’t really remember my French teacher this year. But, I did really good in the subject and enjoyed it, so I guess he/she was a good teacher.

Math: Brutal. But, not necessarily because of the teacher. My teacher was a male, very old (near retirement), wore brown polyester suits, and had a really odd sense of humour (which, most people mocked him for, but I actually liked). I would never say he made math exciting, or was a great teacher in the classroom. But, there were nights when I’d be sitting at the table sobbing because I couldn’t understand my homework and my Mom would get him on the phone and he’d always calm me down and help me through it.

Music: Awesome teacher. Amazing person. There is absolutely nothing negative I could ever say about him. Well, he used to grind his teeth. That could be a bit annoying when you were sitting beside him trying to play. But, really, that was it. He was one of my main supports, and friends, throughout high school.

Phys-ed: Female. Nice enough, but for some reason I found her a bit too intense, or something. Or, maybe it was the fact that she made me dance with a ribbon. For whatever reason, during a game of soccer one day my friend I started pretending we were trying to get the ball from the teacher, but we were actually taking advantage of the situation to kick her on purpose. And then, we accidentally kicked and tripped her and she broke her leg. Whoops. I felt pretty crummy after that.

English: Male. Older. He was teased a lot, but I loved him. He used to read to us, for huge lengths of time. It was heaven to me. I think this was when I first really started to fall in love with literature.

History: Boring. Male. It was towards the end of the day and my desk was by the window so I spent most of my time day-dreaming and sketching what I saw out the window. My teacher was fine, I think it was just a bad time of day for me to have to do something that required so much attention and memory.

Geography: Short, rotund kind of man. He’s kind of who you would picture as a high school football coach (and he may have been). But, he was a good geography teacher. I actually enjoyed geography quite a bit with him. I wanted to do good in his class. But, I remember when a kid showed-up who’s t-shirt was all torn-up and full of holes (because he had been bullied) and the teacher made a big joke of it and how ridiculous it was, teasing the boy, and he made him stand at the front of the class while he stapled the holes in his t-shirt shut. That boy was bullied twice that day.

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Teachers Pt. 1

11 Friday Mar 2016

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I used to want to be a teacher. It was the first thing I had ever wanted to be as a child. Then it became that I wanted to be a missionary first and then a teacher.

I have always thought that teaching is one of the most noble professions along with farming, plumbing and garbage removal. All of these jobs are of utmost importance in our society, require a lot of energy, perseverance and humility. And, they can come with such little recognition, praise or appreciation.

I’ve had some pretty great and some fairly rotten teachers in my life.

I thought I would take a look back and see how many I could remember, what I remembered them for and whether, or not, they had a long-lasting, positive impact on my life.

Instead of naming names, I will use grades/subjects, etc.

Kindergarten: My teacher here was female, cheerful and rotund. In fact, she was exactly like “Merryweather” the fairy from Disney’s Sleeping Beauty. I remember nap time. I had an awesome homemade quilt that had hippopotami on it and I was always extremely proud when it came time to take it out. I also remember singing “Teddy Bear Picnic”.

Grade 1: This was a tumultuous year for me. My family had moved from our home in the country to town and my parents’ marriage was on the rocks. This was when i started to steal. I would steal things from other kids in my class. My teacher in that grade was extremely patient, kind and just. She was an older lady and very petite. I remember that she used to chew gum all the time, mouth open, rolling it around and making crackling noises. I thought it was so cool.

Grade 2: Another female teacher. She was very tall and very slender. One of my favourite teachers of all-time. She had this inner peace and strength that made me feel like everything was going to be ok. She was funny and had an awesome laugh. There always seemed to be a bit of mischief in her eyes, which was probably why I liked her so much.

Grade 3: This was around the year my parents divorced. At the very least, it was the school year leading-up to it. It’s funny, because it’s the only year of school that I can’t remember who taught me. I do remember the librarian during this year, however. Sadly, she passed away last year. But, to this day, she was one of the kindest, softest, sweetest, most pleasant and peacemaking people I have ever met.

Grade 4: My teacher this year was a man. He also happened to be a local radio DJ at night. Awesome, I know. I remember he let us dissemble computer hard drives, radios, etc. just to explore what was in them. He also let us do air-band competitions. My friends and I did “She’s Got the Look” by Roxette and the Joyrides. I played keys. This teacher always had a sweet smell about him like a fresh pad of paper and scotch tape got together and had a baby. He introduced me to Sinead O’Connor and taught me that it was ok to think outside the box and be different. You could tell he loved all the students and that he truly cared about us and was in our corner. He is now my mom’s neighbour. I recently visited his house and watched an old video he had of my class. That year, his class, was one of the most life-transforming years for me. I still refer back to the lessons he taught me when I need a little extra guidance.

And, I still listen to Sinead O’Connor.

(Teachers-Pt. 2, continuing tomorrow. And, believe me, there are some good ones coming)

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Pizza and Exhaustion

10 Thursday Mar 2016

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When I’m exhausted I have no resolve.

My husband suggests we order pizza for dinner and, even though I know I shouldn’t do it, I agree.

Not only do I agree, but I arrange for us to also get the super-duper, gooey, yummy, cookie-pizza thing as well.

Yeah….so that was my day.

I was doing fairly good up until that point.

I’m already exhausted and have spent 2 hours trying to rearrange my blog site to better suit my preferences.

Exercise? Well, I did hold a downward dog position for 5 minutes while my son sent trucks, buses and cars flying through the tunnel I had created with my body.

Now that I have my blog site a little bit more user-friendly for my purposes, I will be back to the business of writing and getting healthy tomorrow.

For now, I’m going to be heading to a much-deserved, well-earned, rest.

Good night one-good night all.

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I did it

08 Tuesday Mar 2016

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As a Christian, all glory is meant to be directed heavenwards.  It doesn’t matter how much work, effort or intelligence you put in, if something is successful it’s: “Praise God” or “Hallelujah” and “thank ya, Jeezus!”.

As an atheist, I have learned the joy of being able to claim my hard work, intelligence and effort as my own. It’s great at the end of a hard day, to crawl into bed with a sigh of satisfaction knowing that I did it.

Me.

I’m the one who kept my patience and loved my son through another screaming fit and remained calm while he puked all over me for the umpteenth time. I’m the one who still had the capacity to care for and feed my family after a long day at  work. I’m the one who did the dishes and gathered the energy to clean the bathroom.
Me.
How affirming.

For someone who has spent the bulk life having to accept all my shortcomings as being my own sinful nature or my fault, while giving credit to god for anything good in me, it is extremely freeing and empowering to be able to say, actually, this is all me. Everything. The good, the bad and the ugly. When I fail, when I succeed, it’s me.

It is from MY strength, MY power, MY wisdom, MY tenacity that I have done the amazing, incredible, wonderful things I have done.

Just as it is from MY weakness, MY stupidity, MY laziness, MY complacency that I have made mistakes and fallen-short.

I have learned that, without relying on a god, most things in my life have remained absolutely the same as they were when I did rely on one. And it’s because there is one majorly important factor that didn’t change when I became an atheist:

I’m still here.

Me.

My personality, my characteristics-all the things that truly made me who I am-have stayed the same. I still fight for the things in which I believe. I still show compassion to others. I’m still very giving of my time, energy and resources. I still feel deep empathy for those suffering. I still face every day hoping to do my best to handle what comes my way and to love those around me to the best of my ability. I still lose my temper. I still whine about things that make me uncomfortable. I still get lazy and loaf around.

The only difference?

When I’ve done a good job at something, I can take the credit for it and feel proud instead of having to give all the credit away to someone or something else.

Now I feel whole.

This is Life

07 Monday Mar 2016

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My husband is out for the evening and, the truth is, I love these nights.

We can be somewhat codependent at times. We enjoy being around one another, feel comfortable together, and are both home-bodies, so we tend to do everything together. Neither of us go out with the girls/guys or are overly social.

Therefore, these nights when he is out and the little one is in bed are special to me. However, my geek attachment to Star Wars Battlefront threatened to completely derail the evening. And, while I played one more game than I would have liked, I did find the determination to, shut it off.

One more battle won. Take that, Darth.

But, the dark side was calling me and it was strong. I had turned-off Battlefront, but I flicked over to Netflix and found a documentary on a ballet competition to start watching. Ugh. ‘Didn’t you want to turn it off, listen to music and write?’ My conscious can be much more well-behaved than me at times.

There were several years in my life when I didn’t watch tv. And, I don’t mean that I only watched a few shows/night, or everything online/downloaded. I literally mean that I never looked at a screen of any kind.

I have been thinking about those days recently.

Every evening was like tonight. The mood was chill, my mind was free to breathe and explore itself, my stress was low and I felt truly alive. Just like I feel now.

Diana Krall is weaving her rhythms around my peppermint tea and I am doing something I love- writing.

There are many things that can get lost when you move-in with someone and even more that disappear when you have children. It can be difficult to negotiate how to provide the room everyone requires to have his/her needs met, while leaving room to grow.

For me, the matter of “space” has always been an issue in our marriage. I am an introvert. I love being alone. In fact, I need to be alone in order to really be myself, to recharge, to get in-touch with my thoughts and to regulate my stress levels.

Life is busy. It’s loud, constantly moving, satiated with entertainment and it is exhausting.

Take time to unplug. Turn-off the visual entertainment, and audible if you need to, and just let yourself be. Explore your mind and give your emotions a break from processing other people’s stories and a chance to experience your own.

This is life.

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Death

06 Sunday Mar 2016

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As I sat there staring at the dead body on the floor in front of me, I began to think that maybe, just maybe, life and death weren’t really that important after all.
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It was a bright blue, sunny, yet cold, Sunday afternoon when the pastor of the church I was attending approached me saying that she needed me to go to a woman’s house who had just lost her father and was very upset. I was a young, uneducated, untrained 24 year old, but I loved people and was always willing to help when needed.

As I drove to the woman’s house, gazing up occasionally at the clear, blue sky, I thought about how to best support someone who was grieving.

In my mind I pictured cups of tea and a lot of listening.

But, no amount of self talk on the way over was going to prepare me for what happened next.

When I arrived at the apartment building I found that the front door hadn’t been closed properly and I let myself in.

I walked up a few steps and about halfway down a bland hallway when I found the number I had been given.

I knocked on the door and as a woman opened it, the first thing that gripped me was the pungent smell of a place that had not been cleaned for several years.

The second thing I noticed was the clutter. This woman was a hoarder which was, clearly, why the place smelled like rotting food.

As my eyes quickly scanned the contents of the room, what I observed next would take my breath away and send my head into a spin.

There, in the middle of the living room floor, lay a body.

Lifeless. Cold. Face up. Dead.

Running around the body was a young girl, 8 years old, hair in pig-tails, playing with her dolls and occasionally jumping over Grandpa as if it was a normal day at home.

I spent the next 4 hours just sitting there, keeping a sort of vigil, over his dead body.

About an hour in I almost vomited as I watched a cockroach crawl up the left ear of the man, circle as if it was contemplating entering his lobe, eventually deciding to give-up, crawl straight over his cheeks, onto his nose and down the other side of his head.

I didn’t draw attention to it hoping that the man’s daughter hadn’t noticed. I felt embarrassed that it had happened and ashamed that I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t want to highlight the fact that I was in shock, terrified and had no idea what the hell I was doing.  I just wanted it to go away. Far, far away.

After I had been there for 2 hours, the Police arrived and suggested that the woman find a sheet with which to cover Grandpa. The woman, thankfully, obliged.

After the police left it would be another 2 hours before the coroner would come.

While I sat there I began to feel like it was all normal and there was nothing unusual about the situation. Maybe it was. After all, what, apart from birth, is more normal than death? It is one thing we all, eventually, experience.

The little girl continued to play, stopping occasionally for a snack or drink. The woman seemed to forget the body was there as she buzzed about, offering me tea and gossiping about a bunch of people in her building that I didn’t know.

‘So, this is what happens when you die’, I thought to myself. ‘Someone has to wait around for hours, police come, sheets are used, bugs climb around, people get bored and eventually your body is dragged off.’

There seemed to be very little dignity or honour for this man who was a father and a grandfather, who once had thoughts, dreams, hopes and fears.

Surely there was more to death than this?

This event that happened, almost 11 years ago to the day, has always been a struggle for me. There is something about the situation that continues to bother me and still picks away at my brain.

Maybe this is why when a woman was run-over by a dump truck right outside my window at work this week, I found myself unable to leave my office until her body had been removed.

I wanted to honour her. To honour life. And, maybe even more importantly, to honour death.

This woman was well-known in our area for being on the streets and I couldn’t help but think that there might be no one who really missed her.

I refused to let her be swept away and forgotten.

And so, like I did many years ago for that old man, I sat there keeping vigil over her dead body. I watched through my office window, staring at that orange tarp, as police and special investigators circled around her doing their work.

As the crime scene photographer took pictures from this angle then that, I thought about her, wondered about her life and mourned for her death.

I watched as the police and coroner walked around trying to figure out the best way to remove her body from beneath the truck.

There can be little dignity or honour in death.

But, shouldn’t it be the most dignified, honourable moment of life?
It is the final act, the last chapter.

Everything we have written across our lives up to that moment will come to a sort of, completion, whether it be glorious or tragic, when we breathe our last breath.

But, is that really where the story ends?

Many years ago that old man had changed my life forever as I sat with him staring my own inadequacies in the face. And this woman, who lay beneath the dump truck on Friday, has also changed me.

Part of their story continues with me.

He who has gone,
so we but cherish his memory,
abides with us, more potent, nay,
more present than the living man.
-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry-

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I Have ZERO discipline…

05 Saturday Mar 2016

Posted by in All Posts, Seeking Life Now

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Some people just seem to have discipline to spare. These are the people who get up early every morning and exercise while the rest of us are drooling on our pillows.

These people can eat their veggies, say “no” to chocolate, never have McDonald’s, exercise daily, can turn the tv off after one show and don’t down an entire family size bag of chips in one sitting.

You know the type.
 

For those of us who battle with discipline as if it were Darth Vader and we were Bambi, these people are equal parts annoying and awe-inspiring.

How do they do it? 

I have almost no disciple. Even while working on this post I got distracted and started searching online for accessories for my son’s baby doll.

I can eat nothing but toast all day and be perfectly happy doing so.

According to the following article, “self discipline means that when you have something to do, you do it, regardless of whether you like it, or not”: http://www.eruptingmind.com/how-to-develop-self-discipline/

Ok, I’m out.

I’m a short-term pleasure seeker. If it’s not giving me immediate gratification, I have a difficult time maintaining anything.

The problem with this, however, is that I do have goals that I would love to achieve and in order to do so, I’m going to need some discipline. And, for some of these goals ever to be met, I will need a whole lot of discipline.

So, how does one become more disciplined if it does not come naturally?

I certainly cannot speak from experience, but here’s an interesting article on Forbes.com about proven methods for gaining self-discipline:

http://www.forbes.com/sites/jennifercohen/2014/06/18/5-proven-methods-for-gaining-self-discipline/#79b29d221698

Is it irony that becoming disciplined seems to require discipline?

Regardless, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that I’m going to make this year a year of the pursuit of discipline.

I’ll add thoughts and updates occasionally and you can feel free to check-in on me and keep me accountable. Goodness knows I need the help.

Now, where did I put that chocolate bar…

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