Archive for the The Journey Category

It’s a question I have received a lot lately. For various reasons I have chosen not to blog about the situation in Ferguson, Missouri. To be more clear, I have written several blog posts but not put them up because I am upset and don’t want to wound with my words. With age I have learned that pain can bring out the worst in us. Pain also distorts our perception of people and events. If we are not careful we can get carried away on a tide of emotion and later drown in a sea of regret. I would rather stand on the shoreline, dry, dusty, and safe than add something negative to the many narratives currently floating around the web.

But today I choose to speak. Today I read an article in the Post Dispatch online by Bill McClellan. I love reading his columns because so frequently I disagree with him. What, you say? You like to read things you disagree with? Yes, I do, because I like to hear perspectives that differ from my own. It gives me clarity on my beliefs. Still, every so often he writes something that resonates with me. Today it was, “Hope for a New Ferguson” where he opined of his hope for the formation of a group of people that are willing to work towards a brighter future for Ferguson, Missouri.

If Bill had asked the right people he would have discovered that there are many groups working toward this goal in my hometown. Last night I went to a town hall style meeting that was held at the First Baptist Church of Ferguson on South Florissant Road. Many of my neighbors gathered there to share ideas on how to move forward after the events of recent days. I went to this meeting with very mixed feelings. I attended with my mother-in-law who has lived in Ferguson for 35 years and has very definite opinions of her own. We sat in the midst of a great crowd of people, all with their own opinions, and listened as our leaders shared–not without intense emotion–how hurt they felt about how we are being portrayed in the media but also how hopeful they are about Ferguson overcoming this dark time in our history.

I moved to Ferguson 17 years ago and have undergone significant transformation in that time. As many of you know, I write a column in The Ferguson Times called Ferguson by Foot. My articles discuss living a healthy lifestyle in simple but practical ways and also about having a positive attitude. It’s not unlike my blog except that I focus on Ferguson and the wonderful place it is to live. I lost 140 pounds walking, jogging, cycling and roller-skating around Ferguson. I like to wave to all of my neighbors, those I know and don’t know. I like to smile and laugh with them at my sometimes strange antics(waving my arms around to get my heart-rate up and punching invisible goblins). I’ve even had people honk and wave at me as they drive down my streets because I’m jogging, leaping and dancing in circles(probably to Switchfoot). I like to think I live my life trying to cheer up strangers because I know from personal experience how sad life can be. There hasn’t been any dancing, or happiness for that matter, in the past two weeks.

I see a lot of people post messages on social media about how sad the situation in Ferguson is. People are angry too. Everyone has an opinion but most of the people giving an opinion don’t live here. I do.

I have invested my life into this city. Every day I pour out my heart into our streets, into the people, into my community. I love Ferguson. And I don’t say that lightly. This is my home. But now my home feels unsafe. The mayor promises me it is, but I don’t believe him. I love our mayor and I am proud of him, so don’t take that the wrong way. He is leading courageously. But I’m sorry, I don’t feel safe. There are strangers and interlopers at my local grocery store, unfriendly faces that look past me when I smile and say hello. There are great big news vans with satellite dishes on top and fat, ugly reporters and cameramen glaring at me as I drive by. I have to look at them every time I go to the grocery store, to work, to church. There are “peaceful protesters” waving signs with hateful words on them. They scream and holler. They wave their arms maliciously. I can’t walk to the fire station and visit the firemen. I can’t walk to the Ferguson library. I can’t walk to the display trains in downtown Ferguson with my young son because we are fearful and we don’t want to be screamed at. More importantly, I can’t walk around Ferguson to exercise in the morning.

In the midst of all this my youngest son began to break out in hives for no apparent reason. (Please don’t give me advice—I’ve had enough). We visited an allergist yesterday and are moving forward but it is possible that the stress of all the commotion in our city has caused his skin to erupt in a horror of itchy welts. So I pray. I pray for Ferguson–for peace. I pray for my neighbors–that they would find a way past their bitterness. I pray for the city leaders–that they would guide us to a better future. I pray for the police officers I love and respect–the brave men and women who have protected me for years. One officer is not all of the officers. And I try not to judge the situation. I wasn’t there. I don’t know what happened.

So how am I? I am devastated. Tired. And sad beyond words. I worry. I weep. And there is no easy out. As I sat at the community meeting last night I found myself frustrated. Maybe it’s because there are no simple solutions. Maybe there are no solutions at all.

I think true change begins in the human heart. We can choose to love. We can choose to forgive. Or we can choose to hate. We can choose to be bitter. We all choose. I will continue to love my neighbors and my community because that is who I am. I have never loved or hated people based on the color of their skin. I love people for who they are on the inside. If you are regular reader of this blog you will know that. But please pray for me. I am not okay. And neither are many of my neighbors. I pray God changes all of our hearts….for the better.

As we drove to the country this past weekend, my husband told us about bears. “Us” included myself, Beastlet #2 and Beastlet #3. (Beastlet #1 was working since he is nearly a full grown beast.)

My husband said, “You do know that there are bears in southwest Missouri and they will kill you.”

I said, “The bears won’t come up close to the road where we are.”

He said, “Oh yes they will. And they have big teeth and claws(he hooked his fingers for emphasis and made growling noises.”

I said, “Okay, Smartie! So what are we supposed to do if we happen upon a bear? Should we lie down and play dead, like in cartoons?”

My husband looked at me like I had just proposed playing fiddle to lull the bear to sleep. So I said, “So should we run?”

He said, “Can you run 50 miles an hour?”

Sometimes I really want to bop my husband over the head with a blunt object, but I digress. He said, “Duh! You fight for your life! Be ruthless!” He paused for emphasis. “Stab it in the eyes. Punch it in the nose. But always remember that when hit a bear in the most sensitive spot on its body that he is going to be seriously angry at you so you had better make it count!”

I then calmly explained to him that he was scaring Beastlet #2 and Beastlet #3. And since our future plans involved camping outside in tents, in the dark, he had better stop talking about bears.

Upon my return to work today, I recalled our conversation. The thing is, I don’t really like Monday mornings. I’m usually tired, coffee deprived and don’t like going to work. My brain reverts to self-protection mode. I therefore begin to conjure any method of anesthetization that will ease my suffering and since my place of employment regularly produces a plethora of treats, delightful to the eye and extremely pleasing to the tooth, my brain hones in on the one thing I want most in this world…COOKIES. Immediately, frustration and shame washed over me as I begin the familiar argument.

I will go to the café and buy cookies.

You must not go to the café and buy cookies.

Sometimes I can successfully win the argument but frequently I lose, as evidenced by the tight pants I wore today(to torture myself to behave). I stood at my desk and fought back tears. Why am I so weak? Why can’t I just eat healthy snacks and be good? This craving bear is freakin’ huge! I am fighting for my life. Why can’t I be more ruthless?

Despair has been a familiar friend for the past few months as I battle serious depression. Food is a comfort and a trigger for more depression. I have chosen poorly more often than wisely in a desperate attempt to find some semblance of solace. I had lunch with a good friend last week and we discussed how certain foods accelerate depression but convexly are the things that offer the most comfort. The best tasting foods make us feel better in the moment but worse over time. She said to me, “I now understand why people take drugs. They just want relief from the continual pain.”

I live in a torturous cycle of depression which prompts my food addiction and throws me headlong into a snake infested pit of extreme mental agony. I’ll be honest, my situation frequently feels hopeless. Willpower is not an effective tool against weight gain at this point in time. The thirsty man cries out for relief in the form of water, but for me, food is a necessary curse. My quality of life hinges on how little or much I eat. The types of foods I eat determine not only whether I feel happy or sad, but whether I feel satisfied or wanting. Basically, pick your method of torture.

This morning as I mulled over all of these things, I recalled one of the key components to any recovery plan: accountability. I acknowledge my inability to refrain from indulgence and thereby recognize my great need for assistance. This morning help came in the form of a co-worker who walked with me to the café and made sure I did not buy cookies. Right now I am too weak to stand and I need someone to hold me up. I prayed for help, and God sent a friend.

I am so thankful for Tricia. She saved me. Today I am 100% cookie free. Was it embarrassing to have to ask for help? Yes! Was it necessary? Yes! Was I ruthless against the bear? YES! Today if you are fighting for your life, you need to do everything humanly possible to survive. That bear is going to eat you piece by piece if you don’t fight back. Whether you are struggling against addiction to food, alcohol, drugs, or any other manner of vice, I encourage you to be ruthless. Protect your life at any cost. Do not roll over and play dead. Gouge out the eyes and run like hell! Your life is too precious, too sacred to do anything less.

Believe it or not I can be very shy. I’m afraid to meet new people and I don’t like strangers staring at me. Maybe this is insecurity, but whatever the case may be, you would think this would deter me from stepping outside of my comfort zone. But this is actually not the case. I like to go new places and see fantastic things. If no one wants to go with me I will go by myself. I’m crazy that way.

So when I called the gymnastics studio to register my son and learned they had an adult tumbling class, I was curious.

“Do they take people who have never done gymnastics before?”

“Of course. Adults take this class all the time. It’s great!”(foreshadowing alert-gymnastics people say the word ‘great’ a lot but it means something very different than what I think it means)

My mind whirred with possibilities. When I was a little girl my friend took gymnastics. She invited me to come to class with her and I went one time. I will never forget the foam pit. I remember diving into with ecstasy. For some reason this memory was so glowingly wonderful that I promptly sang, “Sign me up!”

I spent the next two days thinking about little else than how wonderful that class was going to be. I invited friends on Facebook and arrived 15 minutes early. I wasn’t nervous or scared or worried. I simply thought, “Woo hoo!!”

So when they directed me down to the gym and I got to meet the other “adults” I was pretty jazzed. I envisioned 30 or 40-something year old men and women in leotards. Instead I met perky 20-somethings in short shorts. Evidently, the other “adults” that take tumbling are little more than children who have been gymnasticking(yes I made that word up) their whole lives.

The girls were so sweet. They told me their names but I’ve forgotten. I just remember their tiny waists and bare legs. They were stretching and there was no instructor yet.

“We’re stretching.” They said, as if I didn’t notice.

“Uh, okay.” I said.

“You should do what we do.” They nodded in unison.

“Uh, okay.” I said. Then I got about the business of bobbing and weaving while trying to stretch my legs for 10 minutes. This was decidedly not exciting.

Then the instructor arrived. “Hi, I’m Gene!” He was a middle-aged man with a large belly and did not appear to have ever done gymnastics in his life. But he was a jolly sort of fellow and I liked him immediately.

Thus began my lesson.

Evidently gymnastics does not start with summersaults, it begins with bridges. As in, “Margaret, do a bridge!”

“Um, excuse me?” I said.

One of the girls fell backwards and caught herself with her hands while her body was bent in an arch. I was intrigued. The second girl said, “You just kind-of fall into it.”

I scratched my chin and saw a vision in my mind of me falling backwards into a loud *splat*. I thought to myself, “that’s not going to happen” and then realized I accidentally said it out loud.

The instructor told me to lay down on my back and push up. I did. “Beautiful!” he said. Gene was very complimentary, although I am certain I looked similar to a beached porpoise flopping around aimlessly on blue foam beach as opposed to the lithe and graceful swan I wished to be.

The girls then taught me why gymnasts have super toned bodies. They are masters at self-torture. In between every fun mat exercise, think summersaults and more bridges, they do “floor work.” Floor work includes crunches with your legs raised(that was the easy one), rocking(I told them my bottom half was too big for this) and pushups.

“How many?” I asked innocently.

“20.” They said in unison while sounding like peppy cheerleaders.

I thought to myself, “That’s not gonna happen.” And then realized I accidentally said it out loud.

Gene said, “Just do as many as you can.”

I was determined to do 20 pushups but again, my bottom half is too big and I barely managed to eke out 10. I silently congratulated myself that having produced 3 children from my body, these girls knew little of real pain and thus I was stronger than them even if I couldn’t do 20 pushups.

Next we walked over to the mat and Gene asked me if I had ever done a cartwheel before. I chuckled. “Yeah, when I was like 10.”

He smiled, obviously unamused by my snarkiness. “Go for it.”

I looked at the matt and cocked my head to the left. Then I cocked my head to the right. Then I twisted around trying to figure out how best to approach the matt without breaking my elbows.

“Keep your arms straight.” Gene said. Notice the pudgy middle aged man did not demonstrate a cartwheel for me. He left that to the girls.

I managed to complete one cartwheel and they all exclaimed happily, “That was great!” as if I had just completed a perfect pike. Then each girl took turns doing round-offs with flips added in for fun while I stood there with my mouth hanging open. Unfortunately, as I was maneuvering around the mat on my wobbly legs, I slipped and fell into the foam pit. I very quickly realized it was not the happy place I remember it to be. I felt kind-of like a toothpick in a freshly baked angel food cake. I was just stuck there, sticking out of the top. I wasn’t really embarrassed, but it was certainly going to be challenging to climb out of it, which is, I suppose, the purpose of the pit. As I attempted to climb out I felt something like a hippopotamus rolling and snorting and trying desperately to get a foothold on a muddy riverbank. As Gene and the girls coached me I was determined not to ask for help. Eventually I got enough leverage to push out. I’ll admit it wasn’t pretty but I got it done.

Gene said, “Okay! Now let’s try a handstand.” I looked around and said, “Are you talking to me?” He just laughed. I did the same routine as the cartwheel, cocking my head to the side and twisting. He said, “Just keep your arms straight.” So I cleared my throat and went for it. I really don’t know what I was thinking would happen, but imagine my surprise when Gene grabbed my legs and held me there. Eventually he let me down. The girls exclaimed, “That was great!” And it was then that I realized… “great” means “we laugh at your petty attempts at gymnastics, oh fat middle-aged woman!”

Gene said, “Let’s do that again.” I gulped like a dying fish and tried again. Gene held my legs while the girls did crunches and push-ups. Still, I was very proud when on my third attempt I completed one handstand without Gene hugging my tree trunk legs. I quickly fell on my back and cracked my rumpus but that’s not the point. I shot the girls and evil look that said, “Do not tell me ‘that was great’ or I will push YOU into the foam pit and kick you in the head while you try to climb out.

After a few more crunches or pushups, I can’t remember which, Gene said, “Let’s try those cartwheels again. At this point I was feeling pretty confident. I might be slower than the girls but I was keeping up pretty well for my first class. After all, I am in pretty good shape. I work out a lot, and even though I’m a little rounder around the middle, I’m not afraid to try cartwheels. So I proudly pranced down the matt and did a few more cartwheels. But on the last one I felt something go horribly wrong in my left hip and when I landed the truth hit me like a balance beam to the noggin, “I just tore something.”

Now I expected Gene to say something like, “Oh, Dear! You better stop. Maybe you should go lay down in a corner. Or better yet, you should just go home. You made a good effort.” But that is not what Gene said. What Gene actually said was, “Oh, just go stretch it out over there.”

I am certain that I pouted. As I was pouting my way over to the stretching place the girls took turns flipping down the mat like regular Olympic athletes while Gene shouted, “You need more space between those flips!”

And I think I’ll just stop there. Try as I might, the tear in my hip did not “stretch out”. I finally had to tell Gene that I was done trying to be a gymnast. He encouraged me to come back and said the instructors would be completely willing to help me accomplish my goals, whatever they were.

“I don’t have any goals.” I said.

Gene frowned. I may as well have told him I liked to poke babies in the eyes for fun.

“Well, I’m not sure what we can do for you then.”

One of the girls said, “Do you have to work tomorrow?” I nodded and then she said, “Oh, that’s not good. You probably won’t be able to move in the morning.” I did not poke her in the eye but I was sorely tempted. I left the gym in a fairly sad state of mind.

When I arrived home my husband was waiting for me. He met me out in the front yard. “Well, did you survive?” Evidently he knew I was going to die and didn’t warn me. He knows how completely crazy I am whereas I live in a state of complete denial.

“It was ‘great!'” I said, and hobbled up the front stairs like the old woman I am.

The moral of this story is very simple, 39 year old women who love gymnastics but have never actually done gymnastics would be wise to stick to something more realistic, like watching Youtube videos of gymnasts rather than trying to actually be one. The sad thing is, I probably could have made a lot of money videotaping this exercise in foolishness. The clip of me falling in the foam pit would have been an instant classic!