The grackles are fighting over the suet again. They grapple and chatter with a ferocious clamor. There is nothing polite about their greed. Will one wait while another takes a bite? No. They would rather stab each other with their sharp beaks than patiently wait. So they screech and banter, until they break the feeder. Again.
I’ve gotten used to putting things broken things back together but that doesn’t me
an I like it. I suppose my aversion to brokenness as a concept drives me to buy things that are more durable. Some years ago I bought a Saddleback leather bag simply for the reason that it had a lifetime warranty. The company promised to fix the bag for free should anything break on it. And they were true to their word. When a piece of metal hardware broke, I shipped it back–at their expense–and they replaced it and mailed it back with sincere apologies. That kind of customer service is rare these days and I cherish it.
A bag is one thing. A car is another. I place entirely too much security on my means of transportation. Maybe this is because my vehicle is one facet of my identity. While some people revel in the newness or the coolness of their machine-on-wheels, I am rather proud of the antiquity of mine. And by antiquity I mean–it ain’t new and it ain’t cool. I drive a 2002 Chevy Malibu. Or, as a friend at work referred to it, a Barbie car. The reason I love it is because it is cheap and reliable. But when it wobbles, or gives off strange odors, or ticks like a clock, I get nervous.
This exposes my vulnerabi
lity–my dependency on it. For some reason, when there is a strange smell I jump to the “logical conclusion” that my car is getting ready to explode. My husband tries to reason with me that this will surely not happen, but I’ve seen enough television to know that when a strange smell emits, and when oil starts to leak out of the bottom of the car–fire and a great big boom are only a few seconds away.
Broken things and hunger feel synonymous to me. I disdain the broken-nature of the world we live in and I am frustrated that no matter how much I eat, I get hungry again.
I read an article recently that said there is no such thing as “food addiction”. The psychological dependence on food as a source of comfort would be better described as “disordered eating”. If that is the case, I am the Picasso of hunger. Even if I fill up for a moment, I only want more. Where is my “warranty” against hunger?
But let’s be honest, sometimes I steady myself with a giant plate of green beans and say, “I can eat this until I’m full and then I will be satisfied.” It never happens. Food does not satisfy me. Maybe this is the particular curse I will endure forever; to be physically hungry and to never be filled. I am like the grackle’s fighting over a morsel of food with an insatiable greed.
Where is my hope?
The ten year anniversary of my decision to live a healthy lifestyle looms (May 10th). I have largely maintained my 140 pound weight loss with diet and exercise. It still feels like a miracle. I have pursued healthy habits, built in safety mechanisms, and learned how to exercise to burn off excess calories. But the hunger remains. Maybe the most important thing I have learned is: hunger is necessary to stave off excess fat. But I hate it. It feels wrong.
This brings me full circle to the thought patterns I had when I first began this journey. At 310 pounds I recognized that food did not satisfy the hunger. My drug of choice numbed the pain but did not heal the wound.
I needed to discover what was driving the hunger. I eventually learned the hunger did not start in my stomach but in my soul. The diagnosis was important because without it, I could not search for a cure.
Simone Weil describes the danger of not recognizing this soul hunger.
“The soul knows for certain only that it is hungry. The important thing is that it announces its hunger by crying. A child does not stop crying if we suggest to it that perhaps there is no bread. It goes on crying just the same.
The danger is not lest the soul should doubt whether there is any bread, but lest, by a lie, it should persuade itself that it is not hungry. It can only persuade itself of this by lying, for the reality of its hunger is not a belief, it is a certainty.”
Obesity was the result of the lie I said to my soul; food will satisfy my me. My estimation is that all soul-destroying addiction (cigarettes, alcohol, sex, anorexia, etc.) stems from this lie. To lie to ones self seems particularly heinous, but we all do it. In my estimation, the only way to stop the lie is to recognize our true hunger and look outside ourselves for true soul food.
The grackles are fighting over the suet again. Their brokenness reminds me of my own. Do they know there is a cure? Do I? But is it worth the price?
Next time: Inoculation at any cost
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