the scale i own is sitting in a bag next to the door waiting for a goodwill pick-up.
that was one of my new year's resolutions: rid my room of the scale.
to be fair i never really used it. once or twice in the past year, maybe. instead i would find it stored away in strange places like in my suitcase or sandwiched in a storage bin under my bed--such is the life of a new yorker where there's never enough space and storage is a commodity.
so while i never used it, i'd every so often unearth the thing.
and i'd feel it taunting me, climb on, it would say. let's play--let's have some real down-home-fun.
i got the thing my freshman year of college when this disaster (i mean, adventure?) began and i still thought that the measure of one's health (and thus subsequent worth) was determined by the three numbers the scale offered up to me.
now in my old-age and generally-aknowledged (ahem) wisdom i know better. my health is the culmination of countless factors--many of which i can't control. but i know when i'm eating well. and i know when i'm exercising. and i don't need a scale to measure those things. so ipso-facto-ergo...what use have i for this antiquated device? scales provide the surface amount of information. they hint at things. like health. but they aren't the end-all-be-all.
i remember seeing something on a blog once about bus-stop benches in sweeden? norway? denmark?--some progressive european country. as a way to discourage obesity they had taken to measuring the weight of the seated person and projecting that number up above. i know what you're thinking: shocking, appalling, the wrong approach, right?
well...maybe a bit misguided but the more i thought about it the more i realized the number projected is simply that: a number.
our outrage stems from the shallow notion that weight is the ultimate end. in our culture each number comes with a stigma--an emotional attachment. bridget jones tells me that 140 is an unacceptable number. whereas, when i'm at 140 i border on looking way-too-thin. i see tweets all the time--people saying they're this tall and this is their goal number because that's how tall so-and-so is and that's how much they weigh. but weight sits differently on different people. we truly cannot compare our body to anyone else's--it's not fair, not healthy, and a really ridiculous benchmark.
maybe what we need to work on before we can worry about lowering the number that's flashing above us is detaching the number from the story we've assigned to it. it's just a number, that's all. and yes, it provides us with some information--but it's such a small slice of the pie.
when i started physique i looked leaner almost immediately and the number on the scale increased by more than a few pounds. oh wait, this was mean to be a physique update, no?
okay, okay, that'll come this afternoon...
getting better
december 14
i sat in tom's office yesterday morning weeping gently.
my hands tucked between my legs. sitting on the unforgiving brown couch, next to the worn velvet pillow.
tom sat somewhere between to-the-side-of and behind the large three-sided desk.
we were in the room i don't care for. it's too large--the room--with a mammoth, faux-wood-panneled desk, over-saturated light, and a scent of ketchup that's sometimes-there, sometimes-not.
but there i sat. weeping. gently.
i feel like i'm banging my head against a glass wall, i told tom. i feel like things can't continue on this way. something has to change. my life is stagnant and i'm so filled with the need for change that i might just explode. but i can't imagine that anything will change. ever.
it's near then, tom calmly said.
his words hung in the air for a moment. buoyant and light. tangible almost. i wanted to reach out and pocket them. but there was no need. because they were true. as soon as he spoke them i knew them to be true. and truth can't be collected in one's pockets. it simply is.
why do i always cry now, tom? i pressed on. is it the residual of banging my head too many times against a glass wall?
it's good. it means you're experiencing things. deeply. allowing yourself the experience. probably in part what makes you a good actor.
ah yes, that acting thing that i don't really talk about.
tom, sometimes i ask my gut things, i admitted sheepishly. and i know to listen to the answer that comes back. always, i must listen. because my gut is the wisest and truest part of me. it is the part of me that's lived a thousand lives already, that knows everything, that sees everything, that sees the end before it's even begun. it is my inner shaman. it is where God resides. my gut is a little piece of divinity. people say true love resides in the heart, but i know better. and so, well, Tom, i've been resisting asking my gut this question--this question of "should i act" because i'm afraid of the answer. i'm afraid it will say no. and that will be that.
it's a funny thing when you're life turns out different then you thought. a hard thing. when everything you've planned for shifts and morphs and you fall down the rabbit-hole. and it's terrifying. and not so nearly mystical as alice led you to believe. and you wonder if it's time to move on or circle round and there are so many options and that hall with doors is long and and those doors are aplenty and you can't imagine which one to walk through so you just stand there. frozen. terrified.
i asked the question recently, tom. whether or not i should act? i asked my gut. and the thing is... it didn't say no. it didn't return with the verdict i lived in fear of and yet...it didn't really give an answer at all. it told me i was afraid. and that that fear was getting in the way. but that that was okay. that i'd figure it out and it'd be okay. i'd be okay.
and tom looked at me, kinda smiled and said, it believes in you so much it doesn't have to answer. it believes in you to the point that it'll go wherever you choose. it actually believes you can do anything--acting or not.
i looked at tom in all of his infinite wisdom, felt fresh tears hovering at their own brink, turned my head and looked straight ahead, and said, well, that's a lovely thought.
when what i really meant was well, that's everything isn't it.
graduating from college was an exercise in losing faith. losing that little kernel of belief in my own ability. and as well as i am and far as i've come, i've yet to regain that.
so imagine my surprise when sitting in tom's office yesterday i realized it wasn't lost at all. it was there. patiently waiting for me to awaken to it.
and imagine my surprise when i came to understand that the one person i'd spent all this time fighting against, railing against--myself--simply loved me all the while--never grew impatient or frustrated. never accused me of being selfish or cruel. the one person who's love was infinite and almighty. who loved me with the power and force of the heavens.
alright. mark it down. december 14, 2010: the day i realized everything was gonna be just fine.
the "to be continued" part of yesterday's post.
i got the tree today. from my canadian tree farmer. just over the hill.
i walked home hugging the bundle close against my chest--my stomach. the wind whipping off the hudson burning my exposed hands. i nestled into the green and felt safe, warm.
as i looked around my room yesterday, it struck me that the only thing missing was a christmas tree. for 'tis the season and there's nothing i enjoy so much as the scent of pine and the twinkle of lights.
the thing about this summer is that there was a point when i felt stripped of all freedoms. it was no one's fault. not my own. not that of those around me--in fact i will never forget the goodwill and kindness of many--just a strange, unfortunate congruence of events.
i had no way to get from here to there. no room of my own. no space to stake a claim to and declare as private. i was constantly exposed, without the needed escape. so i started taking showers. often. because those few minutes with the water running down and washing me clean were mine and mine alone. i would then take the time to dry my hair (not something i usually enjoy) because it allowed me to stretch the minutes in that tiny, enclosed space where no one could follow.
it was a lesson in returning to the basics. in finding the great pleasure in the simplest of things. many an afternoon found me holding a warm coffee mug. i don't think i ever got past two sips into the thing--i simply wanted it for the warmth between my hands: a universe unto itself, an opening of space in which to seek solace.
perhaps this is why my room, more than ever before, has new meaning--new importance. why i was so struck in the second reading of eat, pray, love by liz gilbert's transformation of her apartment into something of a hospice. why i now take frequent baths--remaining in the water just long enough to soak myself warm. or indulge in hot cocoa late in the evening. perhaps this is why i finally bought a humidifier after years of putting it off due to expense. or why i now can justify fresh flowers every two weeks. why when the friends and family anthropologie sale happened this last go-round i bought pillows and candles as opposed to blouses and bowls. why for christmas i'm asking for a bed skirt (and maybe a new window treatment?).
sometimes it all seems so silly and frivolous--the import i place on such things--how vital they are to my existence.
but on this morning i'm not gonna worry too much about that.
because on this morning i'll sit in my corner, read my book, and allow scent of candles and fresh pine to fill me.
for christmas is coming and i have found a home.
making a home from a room.
this morning i woke early.
knowing the wee hours were the only ones i could claim as my own today i was determined to enjoy them. so i slipped out of bed despite exhaustion, brewed the customary cup of coffee, and retreated to my room where i ever so slightly cracked the window--oh for a light breeze to combat that unruly, but always powerful radiator!
i made the bed, lit the warm gingerbread candle i got just before thanksgiving when i feared i was going to need extra help getting into the christmas spirit, and then returned to the kitchen to pour the freshly-brewed coffee. back in my room, i set the mug on the window ledge and plopped into my reading chair.
peace. silence. stillness.
i looked around.
from this little corner my bookshelf looms tall. i see the many books and pictures and think to myself that if my life came down to two things these might just be it--books and pictures. which really means that my life--as of yet--comes down to one thing: stories.
directly diagonal is my worn, black desk. the mirror sits on it, leaning against the wall--it fell the day before i left for colorado and i've yet to put it back. in fact, i might just leave it there. i like it. perched atop is a strung, exposed time-capsule: my coffee filter pom-poms, childhood photos, birthday cards and the like.
next to my bed is the humidifier i finally broke down and got when i was sick for the fourth time this year. it is lovely. its cool breeze lulls me to sleep at night, nourishes my skin and throat--compensates for what that aforementioned radiator takes away.
i look next to me: my mug sits on the windowsill. the steam and winter wind mingle in dance. it is beautiful, lovely to watch, and i have the though that this can't be good for the coffee--making it cold--but it's such a miraculous little sight to behold that i can't bring myself to move it. beauty trumps taste today.
to be continued...
furniture as stability.
i got a bed when i turned fifteen.
my parents said something like, we're getting you a bed for you birthday. and i said, um, okay.
and that was that.
i remember going to pick it out. it was a cool, autumn morning in houston. and there in the eddie bauer home store (sadly, no longer in existence) was the four-postered thing of beauty. light wood. simple. elegant and rustic all at once. and it was love.
i believe in love at first sight. because that's how it was with me and that bed.
i would dive into it at night--towering off the ground it demanded a running start. i'd lie right-smack-dab in the middle and admire the gentle curve of the foot-board, the sturdy posts reaching upwards all around me.
in the morning i'd carefully make the bed, place my head down on the freshly-smoothed covers, whisper sweet-nothings, and assure it of my imminent return that evening. and off to school i'd reluctantly go.
for me that bed is now a talisman of sorts. or rather a symbol--a goal. that four-postered sleeping wonderland is nothing less than stability made tangible.
you see, it is large. not easily schlepped from one nyc apartment to another. and because of it's size it will cost a pretty penny to get it here. or there. or wherever i end up. in short, care of my bed will require funds and continuity of location. and oh i long for funds and continuity of location!
but for now the bed remains. at the most constant home i have. 2,000 miles away.
and now i am twenty-five. and now ten years have passed. and the furniture gods have gifted me once again. i have a reading chair. for my twenty-fifth birthday i was given a reading chair.
i asked for it last christmas, but it was only upon my return from utah this summer that my mother pulled out the ballard designs catalogue, suggested a model, and then lugged me off to the fabric store in search of neutral fabric with a punch.
the days following utah were difficult. and so in some ways i think the chair was more my parent's peace-offerening to my mental health and happiness (the sultan of all the many forms of stability) than actual birthday gift. but what a lovely peace-offereing it was. because as of today, i have the chair. but in early september i had those few afternoons spent with my mother in the comfort of a heavily air-conditioned fabric store quietly perusing spool after spool after spool.
