Do I Know Me?

Ok, so I'll admit. It finally happened to me. I looked at myself in a photo and didn't realize it was me.

Can you find me?

Mind you, it was a group photo, and I was in the background. But, I had also been tagged. So, I really have no excuse. Especially to need to use the tag to find myself.

I was at a ski weekend retreat.  Two years ago, I didn't know how to ski and I wouldn't have dreamed I would ever even try it. Let alone ski through 12 inches of newly falling snow, snow fog, and ride an alpine roller coaster. I assumed skiing was a sport for the rich, the fit, or both. Now, I've skied double-black slopes and I own my own equipment and a frequent skier discount card (which greatly reduces the cost). It wasn't lost on me this weekend (especially as I sang and conducted a small group for Mass) that I literally would not have been there had it not been for all the changes in my life over the past two years. And I am so grateful for all of that.

Relaxing in the hot tub while watching the snow fall on Saturday night (yeehah!), a friend said, "Look at all you've done in the past year. And it's not an act. It's really you." Yes, it is really me. And it's been so much change so fast, that sometimes it's good to hear that come back from the outside. Especially from someone who has watched so much of the progress.

The first night of the retreat, I received a rather pointed question, "Since you're such an attractive woman and you have such a great personality, how come there is no mister in your life?" The compliment was not lost on me. For a moment, I thought through the answer and then honestly responded, "I gave a lot of my life to the Church. Then, I had to spend a lot of time learning to take care of myself and take care of some issues that I really didn't want to bring into a relationship." The weight was the visible sign of those things that were out of order on the inside. And I only started this journey after a lot of work on the core issues, which is what causes most people to rebound. The only way to make the change permanent, was to permanently change.

It's still not perfect, and the Lenten temptations to stress and be afraid are alive and well. But the progress is there to be seen, even in going to renew a yearly license today and seeing the difference in the photos year over year.

So, here's to new experiences at the start of a season of change. I wonder what other permanent changes it will bring ...

Bits and Pieces (or How Dancing Changes Perspective)

There are moments in my life in which past, present, and future converge. I had a recent experience with that at a dance.

Looking at the past, I've had some common experiences with most people who are overweight. In one way or another, words, actions, and events stole bits and pieces of my soul. People who wrestle with their weight know what I mean: being chosen last for a softball game as a kid, having trouble getting off the couch, people interacting with you and speaking of you differently because of how you look, having to make different vacation choices and plans because there are things you simply can't do. Because of the eating decisions you made, often in response to things that were far, far worse than was apparent on the outside.

I recently went to a dance where suddenly, a lot of things changed. As I was checking in for the dance, the woman running the event looked me over from head to toe. This has not been a common experience in my life, and for a moment I even wondered what it meant. Next up were the comments from the other women at the dance. Complete strangers came up to me to compliment the red dress I was wearing and to ask me where I got my dancing shoes. I even had one woman in the bathroom comment on my hair clip. Apart from the dress, these were all items I had worn before, but not with that reaction. And, as I noted the accumulating compliments, I felt some of the little bits and pieces of my soul coming back to me.

Then, there was the interaction with the men in the room. A dance instructor asked me to dance. As the music started, I knew it was a style of dance I had done before, but I couldn't quite remember the name. As we started, I realized it was a Meringue, and we had danced this one time months before, as I was just beginning to learn Latin dance styles. I remembered it well enough (and moved well enough), that he did a lot of more complicated moves than the last time we had danced. I was successfully able to follow his lead and execute the more difficult moves. And I felt just a little bit more accomplished than I had before.

There was someone at the dance whom I had known for the better part of 25 years. As teenagers, we had been in school together. At the time, he was considered the cat's meow by the other girls in high school. I thought he was a bit full of himself at the time, but by paying dues he's turned out to be a very fine man now. He asked me to dance. When we were done, another friend commented, "that looked like fun."

The thing is, he would never have asked me to dance back then (or rather, in fact, he never did, though we attended many of the same dances). And, after the dance, he reminisced about how long we had know each other. Inside my head, I realized that, at the age of 37, I am actually in better shape and stronger than I was as a teenager. In all that time, I had never been so physically strong or fit as I am now. And, I felt another piece of my soul restored not because he had danced with me, but because I had accomplished so much.

Apart from a few key close friends, I have historically not worried about what other people thought of me. It is a failing, I think, common to being overweight, and a matter of self-defense. You stop worrying about what you feel you cannot change (your weight) and focus on more ethereal goals (being good, friendly, educated, etc.) instead of taking control of what's actually bothering you and making the changes you can. And there is a tendency to criticize those who respond to you differently because of what you look like.

I still firmly believe that what is on the inside is far more important than anything else. I have no patience for the "attractive" people who are full of themselves and treat others badly. I don't consider that attractive in any way, and I think those people wind up very lonely in the final estimation. And that is just as sad as the person who is overlooked because they are overweight.

On the other hand, I had to learn several years ago that it was ok to also focus on the outside (like wearing makeup) and that was not being false to what is on the inside. I am learning that lesson again, and on a deeper level, as I reclaim what was meant to be mine--being healthy, strong, attractive, and the woman God always intended me to be.

So, here is my call, at the start of Lent to myself and anyone who takes the time to read this:

1. Make the inside even more beautiful by growing closer to God.

2. Embrace making the outside just as beautiful as the inside because it is good for you, it is a greater manifestation of God's glory, and it removes a barrier between you and others you can influence.

And may the bits and pieces of our souls continue to be healed from whatever sin and damage has brought us to where we are now.

No Fear, No Boundaries --- a Return to Skiing

Two weeks ago, I returned to skiing for the first time this season. I had a great time, and it was memorable for both what was missing and what was found.

Last year was remarkable because I learned the process of how to ski. In about 13 lessons, I went from the most basic lesson (how to put on your boots and skis, go downhill, and turn in both directions) to skiing a double black diamond slope during an advanced lesson before the season was out (the most difficult slope on the hill). This year, I purchased a discount pass so I could ski at about 40% off, which makes it pretty inexpensive (about the cost of going to a movie with snacks) since I had purchased my own ski equipment with my tax return last year.

So, my first stop this year was to the ski shop. One thing I learned last year was that skis have settings where the boots clamp onto the skis (the bindings) that are based on the skier's height, weight, and skill level. The bindings keep the skis attached to the boots, and, more importantly, release the skis when you fall. Since my weight had changed by more than forty pounds since the last time I skied, these settings had to be changed. The people in the ski shop told me it was good I stopped there first, as I would have lost my skis multiple times because they would have released too easily as I was going downhill.

When I got on the snow, it was a different story. The first liftie (nickname for the guys/gals running the lifts) asked me if I was tired. I suppose I looked  little apprehensive, which I was. I just didn't know if I would be starting from scratch again and in for a day of falling in the snow, if I would pick up where I left off, or something in between. I got to the top of the lift and discovered that none of those assumptions were correct--I was actually better than I was at the end of last year.

Forty pounds lighter, it was SO much easier to turn. Even though my left side is still stiffer than my right (most people have a dominant side that is easier to turn on), I wasn't having to push really hard to start the turns, like I did last year. I went from the easiest slope to the next hardest in progression, working my way up to the most difficult black slopes.

Each hill was easier than the year before, and I was able to do something I couldn't last year--keep my body pointed downhill while gaining speed and while turning. I decided to press my luck and ski the double black diamond slope for the first time by myself (last year, I had done it twice in a lesson with my classmates and instructor). I skied it three times that day, each time without falling at all.

In addition to the fact that it was easier to ski and my form was better, I learned something else about myself that had changed in the past year. I wasn't afraid of the hills anymore. Mind you, at the very top of the highest slope, Ultra, my form wasn't as good as on the lower hills and I hesitated a moment before starting. But, by and large, I was able to enjoy the scenery at the top of the slopes and see more while I was skiing because I wasn't terrified by the thought of losing control while going down the mountain.

At the end of the day, I had fallen only twice. Once was complete inattention on my part, and the other was the one time I got going too fast and did too many short, tight turns in a row. What was totally awesome, though, was that first time I went down in the snow. I was on an intermediate slope and I came upon a gentleman down on the snow with a group of four or five snowboarders around him, who had stopped to help. He looked to be in his mid-to-late fifties, with the oldest of the snowboarders appearing to be about twelve. The skier was in a sitting position on the back of his skis, trying to stand straight up, and the snowboarder was pulling, trying to help him get upright on the skis. This requires tremendous leg and ab muscle strength, which the rather portly gentleman appeared to lack. He fell back in the snow.

I stopped to help and explained a different method of getting up, which involves being on your belly, face down in the snow, crossing your skis in a V formation behind you (and downhill), and pushing up with your hands and ski poles until you are in a standing position. He found the explanation confusing. So, I got down on the snow, copying the position he was currently in, and demonstrated. He was able to successfully get up and we skied together down the hill about halfway. He fell again, but was able to repeat the process and get up on his own using the same method.

I'll never forget what he said when he was trying to get up the first time. He said that, "Thirty years ago, the boots were more flexible, and it was easier to get up by standing straight up." I agreed with him that the boots were more flexible at that time (because I hear they were), but I also wondered if, just maybe, he might have been more flexible thirty years ago, too. Regardless, I had taught him a skill that helped him out, and I'm confident he didn't have to walk down the hill.

At the end of the day, flexibility was the moral of the story. I had learned that time had, for once, made me more flexible rather than less. Time, hard work, discipline, and the kind of mileage that built me up rather than tore me down. I've had a generation of the opposite mileage, the kind that makes you weary, worn, and sad, creates fear, and binds you within your own self. It's a remarkable change to be strong and healthy, to find the boundaries falling away, to explore this new world, and offer a helping hand to others along the journey.