My World My Words

ORANGE. Orange was my least favorite color but there it was in front of me… a standard size piece of orange construction paper. On the left corner was a picture of a little curly haired blond child maybe around 3 years old. Taking up most of the space was to be my name, JUDY. Aside from the obvious age difference – I was MUCH older, presumably the little blond haired girl was ME? I can’t blame the nun in charge of providing the magazine cut outs. In 1957 how many images could she possibly find of brown eyed, brown haired Mexican boys and girls – enough for the entire classroom? Impossible.

So there I sat staring at my ‘placemat’, learning proper eating manners and pretending that I was that little girl. When in fact, I was thoroughly confounded. I didn’t understand that it had to do with the plight of the picture finder and I wondered if maybe I had it wrong? I was five years old and in kindergarten. Life hadn’t given me the label MEXICAN yet, and I only vaguely knew that I was brown. Where in real life had I even seen any blond children (come to think of it, I have a vague memory of two blondies that I found as odd as aliens. They were at a day care that preceded this very nice and new and state of the art kindergarten. The facility lacked some of niceties and the clientele were on the low end of the $ scale. This little boy and girl looked ‘poor’ and kinda dirty and they smelled bad. BUTTER, to me they were some kind of ‘butter’. I remember being up close to them on the playground and curious about the big spots on their faces. That’s how unfamiliar I was with freckles). As it was, I was bummed that I would have to embrace this ‘other’ Judy and accept that, at least for now, she represented ME. Deep down inside, even at 5 yrs old, I felt invisible. Let me make it very clear, I am not trying to make some kind of political statement here. I’m just remembering something that always stuck with me. Funny – the memory never went away…

Several years later JUDY took on a few more identifiable markers besides curly hair and brownness. I added this and that to who I was, the essentials. I could make people laugh, I didn’t find school to be a breeze like some of my friends, I cried way too easily and lived in fear of another of my uncontrollable ugly cries, I loved food, music, dancing and singing along with the radio. I was a people watcher and was curious about all things human. I had serial crushes on boys. I loved the whole ‘teenage’ thing. I wanted to travel but was secretly scared of anything too foreign.

Eventually, ME was a whole lot more than curls and brownness. And on it went. Layer after layer of stuff that came to be JUDY. Seven decades later I wonder how all that can be the little 5 yr old? How much can I add (and sometimes take away) and still be that name on my birth certificate….

It’s not true, Cary Grant never said, Judy,Judy,Judy. It just would have been funny if he had. I’m a Judy. There were not many around in my neighborhood. Not like the Betsys, and Pattys, and Debbies. I felt unique. BTW in first grade the nuns called me Judith. I cringed every time I heard it. Writing it was more pain. I was not, am not and never will be a Judith. My last name was Moore but that changed to Parish. But I am a Judy and that will never change. This body that has done nothing but change and morph for 73 years is named Judy. The totality of the personality that goes with it with all its odds and ends is also Judy. It is always Judy. Fascinating, don’t you think?

Who am I? Where did I come from? Why am I here? The trifecta. Answer that and Judy adds the final dimension to what I call My Life. The mystery, the knowledge that one day there will be no Judy. How? Why? Poof! Gone. What remains? Anything?

A long time ago I had a voice (yes, it sounded like a voice) tell me that even after I die my consciousness would go on. I felt relief. Didn’t even know I’d been worried about that. It seemed very sensible to me at the time. I am so familiar with that part of Judy that yaks and provides a running monologue that I simply could not imagine it ever not being. I think I get it now. I think I know what that’s all about. I’ll just betcha that The Judy in the mirror is some kind of illusion. A good one. Very realistic. And when that fades away I will not. There is something, and it is really NO THING, and it is Judy and it is everything else around me – people, animals, flowers and all the rest – every single ‘thing’ is made out of same stuff that makes a Judy. All the same NO THING. Don’t try and do this math in your head, don’t try and do it on paper, don’t try! Just be playful and let go and say MAYBE?

Right index finger over left index finger, stroke right over left while sing songing, “Shame, shame, shame on you”. That’s right. Every five or six year old had the right to tell you exactly how they felt about you… And, oh my it felt soooo good. Deep deep complete satisfaction. Especially if you were a wimpy kid like me. I wasn’t the leader of the pack, in fact, kids younger than me could call the shots and I’d follow right along. I was UNusually obedient and terrified of all those giant grown ups. I was almost invisible. Pleasant and chatty but not one to stir things up, I lived in fear of being bad…That probably explains why shaming someone else made me feel powerful. Uh, THAT is really shameful (and wimpy).

After finger shaming someone I might also run to Mom and rat them out. Now, some kid didn’t like me, and my mom put me in the annoying column too. I repeat, it was the closest I got to feeling like somebody – I was having control over another human and it felt GOOD! We had rules. Lots of rules for kids about how to talk and behave. Strangely, shaming someone was not on the list. I don’t remember ever being admonished for it. It was allowed… the good old days.

My mom, like most moms was all about fitting in and being socially accepted and that meant ’having manners’. The right set of manners could catapult any family into the realms of the best and finest in their little world. You better know how to set that table – all those forks and spoons. No elbows on the table. No chewing with your mouth open or talking until after you swallow. Language was key. Yes, Ma’am and No, Sir were mandatory in all situations. And, of course, Please, Thank You and You’re Welcome were the religious vernacular of the WELL MANNERED.

One of the finer points that I often missed and had to be set straight on was: No Pointing. Don’t point at any THING and especially not at any ONE! Don’t Point. Don’t take that same index finger that could be used for shaming a member of your cohort and direct it at that same little kid!? Go figure. Over time I had been corrected so often that it sunk in. Pointing didn’t feel good any more. I was long past the age of shaming so it left me with no other option – direct judgement. I could give you my ideas, impressions and criticism of you directly to your face OR lacking a backbone I might prefer to just take that same pleasure and safely judge you from the secrecy of my own thoughts.

Sometimes my finger pointing is benign and innocent. Stating, ”That person over there.” while pointing a finger is not meant to be mean or cruel but it’s still unacceptable and rude. Have you ever been standing in a room and someone far across from you is directing a finger at you? Very uncomfortable. It could mean so many things? So finger pointing is at all times and in all circumstances a no no.

The thing about finger pointing is that there are always three fingers pointing back at me. When I intend no harm those three fingers are harmless. And when my need is to judge and shame (even with my cowardly head talk) those three fingers grow strong and potent and deliver their message: You’re Talking to Yourself, Dummy!

Yes, it turns out anything I say in judgement of anyone else is in some way, shape and form a reflection of my ’innards’. I’ve quoted my dad before because he summed it up like this, People who live in glass houses should not throw stones. I have observed that 100% of the time when I judge or criticize it is ALWAYS a reflection of me. My girlfriend likes to remind me that what I see ’out there’ is a caricature or exaggeration of my own behavior. She says it has to be so big so as to get my attention. Maybe. But it can happen the other way around too. Sometimes when I can have a bad case of stinky stuff that I don’t want to see in myself it only takes a mild version of it out there to bring me to my senses.

I invite you to try this in the privacy of your own home and family. Pay attention and stay in your integrity. Now judge, judge, judge away. Think about somebody and what about them gets on your last nerve. Or just feel how good it feels to wallow in pointing the finger at them. Or try it out when you think you are just giving ’constructive criticism’ to your good friend. Now stand back and wait. Be alert. Be honest. Look inside. Feel.

I’ve pointed this phenomenon out to many of my friends. Almost every single one of them initially tells me flat out that I am wrong. What they judge or criticize in somebody else, they are certain, has nothing to do with their own faults. No connection. Long ago I learned not to argue or defend my own certainty. They ALWAYS come back. Yep. Sometimes they will say it is sometimes true but not each and every time a match to themself. Eventually, one by one they laugh and see the facts.

I will say those THREE FINGERS have taken all the fun out of shaming and judging. What was once a delightful past time of talking and acting with false confidence and superiority has become a hollow experience. There I am – Me seeing Me. All those years and hours of working so hard to suppress and repress the ’uglies’ that I don’t want to confront in myself – OUTED! Not to be put back in the genie’s bottle. Pandora’s box opened.

Years of ’outing’ myself have softened the shock. Sometimes I can even welcome the revelations that come with the strong emotion of a pointed finger. Three fingers coming back at me can bring a smile. That’s me! I do that too! Ha Ha! Is it really so terrible? Do I want to change? Actually, it kinda becomes a gift. A Three Finger Gift.

By late March of 1962 our family had grown its number to 7. It was Mom and Dad and five little Moores. My mother was a school teacher and that meant her afternoons and weekends lacked an iota of Millennial Mom Self-Care ’Me’ Time. Working mothers were not the norm and so they had to be creative and improvise a lot. On Saturdays she would often pack us off to the local movie theater. For 35 cents a kid my mom bought several hours of ’babysitting’ which she leisurely used to run to no fewer than 2-3 grocery stores and chase down every other errand that she could squeeze in. And soooo, I never watched a movie just once… I loved that part. What a treat to see it and then turn around and see it at least one more time! Jerry Lewis, Annette Funicello, Elvis, Pollyanna and a host of other Disney favorites saturated my being on any given movie day.

Was it as satisfying as having carte blanche on a personal iPad? Like comparing apples and oranges… Who can say. Twenty five cents bought my way in and another 10 cents was all mine to splurge on the candy of my choice. Most kids liked to split that into two nickels. Sometimes I did too. So,I might get a Slo Poke and an Hershey chocolate bar. Or Junior Mints and Dots. My cousin remembers that I was the ONLY moviegoer in our bunch that blew my entire concession budget on just one single candy bar – an Almond Joy. That is very true. I did that often.

Almonds – 4 almonds to be exact sitting on a bed of coconut and covered in chocolate…sublime to the Nth degree. It was a delight to the taste buds that followed me home and lingered throughout the week. Nothing else compared to it. Nothing else even came close. It was the almonds. The chocolate was good and always welcomed. The coconut was exotic and I liked it’s unusual texture and chew. It was certainly not a staple in our kitchen. And, yet it was those almond shaped almonds with the crunch and flavor that knocked me out. The only other place and time I had an almond was on some rare Christmas when an aunt mixed them in with other unshelled nuts. I had to fight the almond out of its covering and then it didn’t compare to my Almond Joy. It wasn’t roasted… that was the secret. And, so those two mounds with the double almonds on each were nibbled as if I were sipping a fine wine. I could stretch out the pleasure to maybe as many as 20 scrumptious swallows.

I will confess that many times quantity won out over the ecstasy of my Joy. The Slo Poke I could make last if I concentrated through almost a whole movie. It was basically just a taffy/caramel confection on a stick but it delivered enough butter and sugar pleasure to see me through.

For most of my younger years The Almond Joy remained the Gold Standard for my Joy. There were other ’lesser’ competitors like Youngbloods fried chicken, a triple ice cream cone (chocolate, vanilla and strawberry – real ice cream, not the mellorine fake stuff), or a perfect hamburger to name a few. Other categories included clothes such as that brand new pair of school shoes, starchy petticoat, or the first time wearing crew socks that still had tight elastic and didn’t fall down. Toys were another kind of thrill. My first Barbie and those fabulous outfits, sometimes a new yoyo did the trick, glitter paint, or a groovy birthday watch with a black suede band made my heart flutter for a while.

The common denominator was that each of those felt unattainable. I chased them in my daydreams and longings. And, looking back I’d still have to give first prize to the Almond Joy. A thrill like none other.

This past Christmas we were gifted a box of nuts. Shelled and salted. It occurred to me that I was in no rush to open them. My nut rush had vanished. Presumably in that box were all the roasted almonds I could ever desire. And, yet I felt nothing. When I finally intended to indulge and took the top off the box I was doubly disappointed. It was 3/4 cashews! They’re ok but they are not the same as my almond treasures. Being honest with myself I had to admit that over the years almonds had become as common and attainable as bottled water… so even an unlimited life time supply of that nut could no longer raise my pulse.

This insight was followed by a bigger realization. Almost anything I wanted, desired or dreamed of was pretty much within my reach. In the material world I have been victorious, I have conquered or at least squelched the need for what I had once chased relentlessly. Hmmm. What is left? I am certain that I have even bigger and better moments of joy. Certainly new and different. Now my Almond Joy can come in the shape and form of rites of passage. The weddings of my children. The 1st, 2nd, and 3rd grandsons!!! Waiting for granddaughter Number One. Yippee. Or Sunday lunch with my mom and my sibs. Binging on silly, fun and inane light romantic comedy. Perfect blue skies with temps to match on my daily walks. But nothing, and I mean NOTHING touches the joy of grand baby unsolicited pure and from the heart SMILES. Those just slay me.

Peace and Joy. We wish each other that without a thought throughout the Christmas season. If I had to choose just one which would it be? Joy sounds like so much fun, and full of passion and laughter and lightness. Who wouldn’t want that all day long… Almond Joy, Christmas Joy and Family Joy – its the best that Humans can know. Can I sustain it? A permanent state of Joy – why not? Of course! Joy and more Joy and endless Joy

On the other hand, there is Peace. Eternal Peace. Inner Peace. Peace that passeth all understanding. That’s tempting too.

BUT – Not as jazzy. Not so thrilling. Not so ‘high’.

A helping of each, please. They are a nice balance. Joy punctuates the peace. How sublime…

Crying. Now there is something that I am really good at. It comes naturally to me. Uncontrollably, unfortunately. It is part of my Judyness. Curly hair and crying spells – that’s me. You know the kind I’m talking about. The ones that come on like a tsunami out of nowhere and scare me almost as much as they annoy anyone within a dog’s frequency range of hearing. I’m that little girl over there sobbing with shoulders heaving up and down and hiccups contorting a very small boney frame. Sad or pathetic or as already mentioned getting on everyone’s last nerve. It’s what I like least about myself. What I would change if given an ounce of magic.

By grade school I lived in terror of one of my ’attacks’. Young nuns forced into wool habits (no pun intended) and wool everything (polyester not on the market yet) got mighty short tempered on a boiling hot Texas afternoon. Even the youngest and prettiest of the convent, Mother Dorethea could not keep it together when faced with one of my meltdowns. Across the hall was Mother Virgilius, teaching the OTHER 3rd grade class. She was older and more experienced. Maybe she could take charge for the novice trying to control my flood of tears. Nope. Even the two of them were at a loss. They can’t make it stop!? What to do? Let it run it’s course. Eventually, exhaustion wins out. It’s over. What precipitated it? A harsh word, maybe just a look? We’ll never know. It doesn’t take much (oh, and by the way, I’m also the ’sensitive’ child in the family. Maybe that’s one and the same as crybaby.)

I wonder if my siblings remember my crying jags? Did they notice? Did they care? Did they have their own kid stuff to contend with? My apologies here and now to each of them and to anyone else who has ever had to endure one of my episodes (including my own children…).

Crying is crummy. Is it as bad as super super embarrassment? In a different way it is. Men aren’t even allowed to cry because it is so crummy and all about weakness. I can remember my brother doing some heavy duty crying when he was young. I really felt for him. It came from deep inside. I felt his hurt and pain and I couldn’t do anything to help him. He could get quite a range of guttural and primal symphonies going that could break your heart.

The worst thing for cryers is the suddenness with which you are taken hostage by the sobbing, wet, throbbing, body racking, hot flashes and wailing THING that enters and will depart and free you only when good and ready. Some days life is a ticking time bomb, other times it’s like walking through a mine field not knowing which step will blow you up.

The thing is, unlike my brother the crying ghost tiptoed right behind me right into my ’adulthood’. In my early twenties I was having the strangest kind of meltdown. To almost everyone around me it was invisible. I was a bit invisible too (long story for another time). My tear ducts during this time were doing a better job than the Hoover dam holding in the unholdable. I never shed a tear. Weird. Except for two times. I can laugh about them now.

Apparently floundering in life I was sent to a friend of the family for ’career counseling’. Without putting any words on it it was communicated to me that maybe I just needed a vocation….(not vAcation). Anyway, after I sat down our very kind friend began as any counselor would by asking, ”How are you doing, Judy?”. His words broke the dam. Tears flowed for a full 45 minutes. Neither of us said a word. I left. We never spoke of it. Like it never happened. I never went back. I’m telling you, this crying stuff gets in the way of life sometimes.

Second story is just like the first. Since the family friend had not found the color of my parachute I was eventually sent to an uncle’s business to be of help in some vague capacity. On the first day I found myself in the bathroom weeping softly without any ability to stop and, again, simply had to be sent home.

I’ve tried to forget those two fun days but they are such great testimony to my signature crying jags and I feel I must pay homage to the sometimes sweet and loving comfort they have also sometimes given me.

Twenty years ago I was part of a group of people that were trying to learn about themselves and become happier. We had to go deep. We had to look at ourselves honestly and go where we had never gone before. On several of those weekend retreats someone would eventually dissolve into THE UGLY CRY… I’ve blocked out the memory of mine but I’m sure I had my turn. Very often they happened in the privacy of someone’s hotel room accompanied by 4 or 5 other spiritual seekers. Other times they were in public, like the lobby where passerby could watch the show. THE UGLY CRY intrigues me. It’s the full blown, mother of all mothers of the crying world. It is ’ugly’. You look ugly and you feel ugly. Your insides are on the outside. Only the most special kind of folk can witness the ugly cry…

And yet, I wonder if the ugly cry doesn’t have its special powers. One dose and you are inoculated. It can be not exactly life changing but more like a life movement. Just as some women who have never had a full expression of their highest sexual moment could it be that there are men and women who have never had the earth moved during an ugly cry?

I am what would be considered almost old now. The tears have come and gone over the years but have been mostly manageable. It could be that aging comes with passages and so the last few years have been accompanied by new buckets of tears. They flow freely now. They have become my friends. Crying is part of my language. It is how I express myself along with my words and laughter. Embracing is the new revolution. They are mine.

I was christened Judith Gayle Moore (such a name for such a little Mexican girl face…) and I might well have been named Judy Talking Moore. That was my real moniker. It is said I came out of the womb talking. Early and often… Too sensitive (whole other story,,,) and talks too much. I don’t remember what I verbally had to share with the world but I have a vague recollection of my lips being in constant motion. Stream of consciousness from a three year old must have been either very annoying or very fascinating. With five kids and a full time job as a middle school English teacher keeping baby books was not happening but my mom managed to keep a couple of choice stories and memories for each of us. Mine always had to do with how much I talked.

Mom insists I was talking full sentences long before my cousin only one month younger was still babbling la la la’s. A couple of years later another cousin ran to my mom to tell on me, “Aunt June, Aunt June Judy is saying bad words.” “What did she say, Mikey?” “She said ladies and gentlemen.” He also told on me when I used the bad word PRETEND, as in, Let’s play pretend. And I’ve never forgotten the carpool dad taking me to kindergarten informing me,”I swear, Judy, you talk more than any little girl …I was hanging out in the back seat (good old days, no car seat) with my head between him and his five year old son keeping them entertained and sparing them a boring ride to school. So unappreciated! Then there was Uncle Richard – he would watch me in the rear view mirror and every time I’d open my mouth to talk he would start yakking just to take that space from me. That was his way of dealing with my eternal string of words.

Surprisingly in grade school I was NOT that kid that the teacher was always having to move to another desk because they couldn’t keep their trap shut. I held it together in the classroom. On the playground I think I got my share of girl gab in but not so much that I was labeled for it. But at home I continued to be the Family Mouth.

In high school it wasn’t the quantity of my words so much as the tone of my teachy preachy voice that distinguished me as a ‘talker’. I had adopted my father’s lecture style of communication. The kind that makes people’s eyes glaze over… totally free and unsolicited.

When I became a mom my voice morphed into a – Mom Controlling and Domineering Got to Run the Household – tone that kids will never let you live down or forget. And, my husband deals with my verbiage by showing me more of the back of his head than his handsome face – always has a good reason to need to leave the room…

So, yes, I talk a lot. However, full disclosure, I also spend much of my days alone. Then the only recipient of my discourse is ME! Mostly in my head as thoughts, thoughts, thoughts and rarely spoken aloud. Now a days I also spend many hours mostly on the phone and occasionally in person chatting with girlfriends. It was a few years ago that I first questioned the whole business of talking. Social gatherings that relied solely on adults standing around and making conversation seemed odd and pointless to me. And female gossip sessions left me feeling almost dirty.

One afternoon I was sitting with one of my oldest and dearest girlfriends and she began to chide me because I was hesitating to dish out some dirt on someone in my family. She was making fun of me and implying I was a goody good because I wouldn’t jump in. That sent me over the edge.

Why do we do all this talking? Why? Why? Why? What is good talk? What the heck!

And this is what I came up with:

N – Necessary.

I actually have information to share that is essential and factual. As Jack Webb (Joe Friday on Dragnet)would say, “Just the facts, Ma’am. Just the facts.” I can’t solve problems and find solutions without information and knowledge. Good clean solid stuff. And I can’t plan my day or my future without sharing details

I – I Statements

Talking about ourselves and revealing with vulnerability who we are on the inside has become a norm. That is a good thing don’t you think? I have to use a bit of discipline and integrity with this one. It is easy to disguise my self-pity as open revelations about MOI…

C – Compassion

Concern, Consideration, Comfort, Soothe, Empathy and Expressing love to others. This is how I make friendships and is the basis of my relationships. I am learning that I do this best not so much by talking but rather when I LISTEN. Holding the space for another’s pain and speaking few words is the most powerful and loving action I know.

E – Entertainment

Fun, Diversion, Play, Escape, Connection. We tell stories, we laugh, we joke and talk about the weather, we share our good experiences. and sweet memories. Light and happy is what brings me together with everybody else in the healthiest way. Words are only the catalyst and it is really the smile and laughter, the byproduct, that is the true gift of this verbal communication.

*** What is NOT Talking N. I. C. E.

Complaining, Whining, Judging, Criticism, Gossiping and Moaning and Groaning, Boasting, Bragging and Gloating .. (not Necessary, not an I – Statement, not Compassion, and not Entertaining).

BTW – It is physically and emotionally unhealthy for me when I spew it, and it pollutes the air and space of the poor folk that I slime it on. Best to keep it N. I. C. E.

(Thoughts are similar to talking and words. It is probably best to keep them N. I. C. E. Too…)

His name was George. He was related to me but I didn’t know how and it didn’t matter. George was much older than I was and he was very nice. I felt comfortable and safe around him. Our family had given him a temporary home with us. Why? I have no idea what was going on in his life. I’m not even sure if he was college age or older. At the time I figured he was a teenager. Mostly, he was just a warm fuzzy guy. Here’s my favorite memory of George:

Homework assignments usually made my stomach churn. I dreaded almost anything that had to do with school after hours. But this one I was excited about. It involved COLOR. I was tasked with making a color wheel. There were few simple things that lit me up like pure, bright, bold colors.

It seemed easy enough. I’d been instructed to make a big circle (kinda like a clock) and divide it up and make smaller circles for each primary and secondary color. I was eager to get started. Back then we used a metal compass to make circles of all sizes. They had a very pointy and deadly tip that you put on the paper to make the center of each circle. (I wonder if kids can still have something like that in the classroom?). I mean to say that point was lethal! Anyway, making the large circle was easy enough. Spacing the smaller ones required math skills beyond my grade. I’m not sure if this is when cousin George came to my rescue but I sure needed some aid. I was excited to use watercolors for the first time. Each tiny pad of color touched with a wet brush made magic, or so it seemed to me. For some reason I was going to blend and mix the water colors to make the secondary colors instead of using the orange, green and purple provided in the tray. Required? Maybe. Me making life more difficult than was demanded by the teacher? Could be. Anyway, it was thrilling working with the red, yellow and blue cake of color that came to life with a drop of water . Uh oh, too much wetness – the paper is soaked. Crisis. GEORGE to the rescue. Blot it up. Now its fine. Mixing colors, staying inside the circle, don’t make them too dark – wait a minute – what happened to the fun? It’s hard! Every step of the way, George was at my side. He was patience incarnate. Coaching me, soothing me, encouraging me, slowing me down, reassuring me that I was good enough and could make my dream color wheel come true. I couldn’t believe he never gave up on me. Or lost his temper…It seemed to be dragging on for hours. I wanted to run away several times. Just give up. It was an awful color wheel. This is NOT what it was supposed to look like. Let me tell you, I’m not any kind of perfectionist – this thing simply wasn’t turning out right.

Later than my bedtime the project came to a finish. Was I happy and pleased with the final version? I don’t remember… But I never forgot the love and support of my older cousin George. His smile and presence right next to me was cheering me on. It was a gift that was rare in my life and I drank it in and tucked the memory away.

My love for color expanded after I learned the secret of the Primary Colors and how blended together they made every other shade or color in the rainbow – and in the whole world! I loved colors in any form and wherever I found them. It started with wildflowers in the fields where I played in my childhood. Flowers blew my mind. Sunflowers, Wine Cups, buttercups, and these little purplish violet ones that I never had a name for were some of my favorites. Right there in nature – free for the picking were deep and luscious COLORS. Crayola crayons box of 64 created the same thrill buzz as a new IPhone. And FILMED IN TECHNICOLOR at the start of any movie (color was not always a given in my youngster days) got my juices starting to flow. Thrilling. It made any movie extra special. Cowboy movies and Southwest scenery were a particular treat. But Disney animation would send me into an indescribable high. Bye Bye Birdie and any other musical or teenage beach movie saturated in color and hormones was almost too much to run through my senses. My 1960’s wardrobe was a wonderful source of color. Bright pink, hot orange, screaming yellow. It felt like the world was exploding with color everywhere back then. Psychedelic. Far Out! Cars came in colors too. Not just black and gray and silver. Fun colors – burgundy and orange, avocado green and, not to be forgotten my Blueberry Pacer!

Fast forward to the last turn of century. My love affair with colors had faded over the years. Muted and relegated to the background of my life. Now something else was getting my attention in a similar way. I was discovering EMOTIONS. I became aware of their names. Lots and lots of words to put on them. Each one with a unique body sensation. This one is in the head, I feel this one in my gut or stomach, and, OUCH! That one hit me in the back – right in my spine. I was fascinated with the the variety and rapidness with which they came and went. It all felt new and yet, I had to admit that I’d had them my whole life. Hmmm. My old Color Wheel came rolling back into my consciousness – the days before I knew about Primary Colors and blending them. Yep, It’s the same. I saw it as clear as the nose on my face. And thus was born my Color Wheel of Emotion.

It was a no brainer… DUH.

My first lesson was on anger and it was big as Dallas on my plate of emotions to digest. I learned that anger is just fear. How cool is that. Now when I was angry I could stop and ask myself what fear was I trying to hide. Angry women can clear a room pretty fast. The average Joe thinks it’s WRONG, has a stink on it and no man on earth knows what to do with it. Scary. (tears are another kind of scary for men). And then my interest in my angry parts opened up a world of other RED emotions and feelings. Jealousy, resentment, vengeance, judgment, superiority to name a few obvious spin offs.

RED/ ANGER was placed at the tip of my Emotional Color Wheel. It had to be red. No other color gets the feel of anger so easily. You’re angry – you’re seeing red…

It doesn’t take a genius to follow the pattern and identify BLUE as the Primary Color for ‘the blues’. Sadness, depression, grieving, mourning, despondency, despair – they are all about LOSS. And nobody gets through life day after day without giving up something that feels essential and irreplaceable. It happens sooner or later.

BLUE/BLUES takes the second tip on the Emotional Color Wheel. The Blues are a low energy and heavy load to carry. Feeling Blue is simply Feeling Blue…

That leaves my signature Emotion. WORRY. And all its little cousins. Anxiety, manipulation, perfectionism, control and that feeling of ‘the sky is falling’ well, not really but it does feel like ‘any minute now,’ the sky is surely going to fall out of the sky. Yellow has to be the Primary Color for Anxiety if for no other reason than it is the last primary color left and this is certainly a Primary Emotion…

YELLOW/ ANXIETY rounds out the Color Wheel of Emotions. Think ‘egg yolk’ yellow with maybe the stench of a bit of rottenness. Ew. It takes its place as the third point and the wheel is complete.

Negative emotions caught my attention like a drive by auto accident. I couldn’t look away. I wanted to look them dead in the eye and feel the adrenaline of full on chaos. Or the nervous crazy energy rush of panic attacks, and even experience the molasses in January sludge of depression.

To be honest, the next part, combining them to make secondary emotions turned out not to grab me in any big way. Put some red anger with a lot of yellow worry and see what orange stuff you make. Or how about some blues with a dap of suppressed red rage and unleash that purple monster on your best friend. The possibilities were more varied and colorful than the Super Sized 120 box of Crayola Crayons!

The lovely Positive Emotions were actually harder for me. It was not easy to bear down on them with my otherwise emotional obsession. They were as easy to identify and color label but I couldn’t dive in to explore them like their brothers of negativity. Too much superstition met me at the door. Embracing happy, optimistic and peaceful spaces in me seemed to be asking for trouble. They would definitely disappear upon being outed. Poof! Over. Done. Not to return soon.

PINK/HAPPINESS of course! Passion, enthusiasm, excitement, lightness, compassion, ecstatic

BLUE/SERENITY and peaceful. Calm, steady, stable, centered, confident, light, full, content

YELLOW/HOPE and optimism. Sunshine, faith, trust, capable, cheerful, free, grateful, safe

Over the years I have been testing the waters and getting comfortable floating in the seas of serenity, or going hog wild with my passions and enthusiasms. I let myself get all pink and rosy and flushed with the happiness of gifts and pleasures that show up. Dreaming about the future and knowing only the best is on its way is becoming almost as natural and easy as my breathing. Sunflowers Everywhere….

My E-COLOR WHEEL is spinning and moment to moment I am hot pink or mustard, fuchsia then midnight blue turning to bright orange followed by raging red and purple people eating monsters and sweet corn yellow that is generous and giving. My color wheel IS me. And I am just fine with whatever mood and hue whirls through me today, tomorrow and forever.

Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your Personal Lord and Savior? My husband, Steve, was around 7 years old when the congregation at Sunny Glen Southern Baptist Church urged him to inquire within. He was an unusually easy going kid so he offered no resistance and stepped right up and got himself saved.

Mother Bernard never quite put it that directly. In first grade she whipped out a full blown theatrical version of what would be our very own personal “hell” if we didn’t come to know not just God’s Son, Jesus, we also had to be on board with a much more complicated maze of characters and beliefs. The Catholic Church is old and full of rich history, rituals and lots of idols, saints and angels. Our dogma goes back almost two millennia and very little has gone by the wayside. It’s a mountain of religion that is not ingested with anything as concise as accepting my Lord and Savior. Catholic kids of the ‘Golden Age’ of the 50’s and 60’s were subjected to a minimum of a half hour of indoctrination daily. It was a lot to slog through. And it didn’t end when you got to high school – 4 more years…

There was no crying, UNCLE! Or, OK OK I DO accept Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior. And be done with it… Back then I didn’t know there was such an easy out. How cool is that – Jesus saves YOU…

Turns out it’s not really a one and done for my Southern Baptist brothers and sisters. Like the rest of us baptized heathens we were all in a constant and endless search for our REAL savior. Age depending it could be a trip to Six Flags, hanging with the ‘in’ girls, my biggest crush invites me to the Homecoming Dance, or exploring magical lands in Mexico. Ha! I had lots of ‘saviors’. They could change with the season or in and out of my weekly crisis.

College came and went. Life got scary for a while. Real scary. I never thought to reach for a Savior. Jesus made a comeback in my life but not to save me but maybe more for comfort? Then came my search in earnest. I had to make sure my world never got that dark and lost again. The winding road in front of me was a time full of ‘happy’ goals and an immense desire to find THE truth – the guarantee that there was a way out permanently from pain and suffering. All kinds of saviors came and went over the years. Material pleasures usually worked well but could be followed by unexplained anxiety or sadness… I employed the most common distractions – movies, music, eating, drinking, traveling. Everything proved to be a temporary fix.

It was only a matter of time before I was moving into what was coming to be known as a Spiritual Path. Ah Ha, this had to be the answer. My true savior had arrived. Over time this recipe for happiness boiled down to: knowing what I was feeling – I mean – really Really REALLY knowing what I was feeling in each and every moment. Exhausting but helpful. Then came WORD that salvation was to be had from within not out there. Everybody thought that sounded terrific. It was very exciting. Of course, this is what all the great Wisdom Traditions, including Christianity, had been saying for thousands of years but it was new info for us seekers.

It was like deja vu. My dad’s words were coming back to me. “You can’t love anybody until you love yourself” he had said. Hmm. How to do that? Lots of folks on the path began to talk like my dad – everybody wanted to love themselves. I hit a wall. Was I my own Savior? Loving myself sounded like making ME the center of the Universe. Could that be a good thing? I found that changing Dad’s words a little made it more true for me. I can’t experience you as pure love until I experience myself as pure love.

Saviors are on the decline – any and all kinds of saviors… lots of gurus have come and gone, teachers, counselors, priests and ministers are respected but not revered. Materialism and physical distractions are being seen for the limited stuff that they are – creating an insatiable hunger for more. So, I am left to my own conscience and choices. And yet, it turns out my personality is no more the source of my freedom from the bad and the ugly than is any book or online course that promises to liberate my soul. In the end, salvation for me most probably lies beyond the confines of my tiny self. And I suspect that what feels like a finite Judy is part of something I have yet to imagine…

SAVE YOUR (self?) = MERGE

*BTW in the past four years Self-Love vs. narcissism have often been confused. Fine Line Difference. Proceed with Caution…

**Self Care vs. Self Indulgence. Same Fine Line…

It was a pamphlet – four pages front, back and two middles – the most critical and important paper of my first grade year. In it were prayers: prayers that I had to memorize and fully ingest before I could receive my First Holy Communion. The world that I live in today has no very good equivalent for FIRST HOLY COMMUNION as it existed in 1959. I am at a loss to convey the magnitude of what it meant to a 7 year old to kneel at the Communion rail and have the altar boy put his gold plate at my throat followed immediately by Monsignor Leopold placing a small white wafer on my tongue. There was no way for me to imagine what would happen next. How would it taste? What if I accidentally ate it! Crunched it with my teeth… What will swallowing it be like? Scary and wonderful all mixed together.

So for many months I memorized. Each evening my mom would hold the little pamphlet and I struggled to give her the phrases that she hoped I could remember. No pressure. Just be the only kid in the first grade class that had to sit out the Big Day. It did not come easy for me. I dreaded those sessions. Words swirling around and I had no idea what they meant for the most part. Holy Marys and Our Fathers and angels and everybody needed to be prayed to in perfect language. I was only 6 years old and I already knew how to super stress myself out. Misery. May came and I had my victory over the pamphlet and my union with my God celebrated with a huge Mexican family get together – Cake & $$$.

And then came 7 more years of Baltimore Catechism! The Mother of all memorization. Who made you? God made me. Why did God make you? To love, honor and serve Him. Everything that I needed for Catholic indoctrination was imparted in that way. Memorized my way to salvation…

And thus began endless days of rote learning. It was all the fashion in the late 50’s and 60’s. Stuff it in and regurgitate it out. No need to know what you are saying or have any real understanding of its relevance to your little kid life. To be fair, the nuns who taught me had their own share of burdens and overwhelm. The average classroom size could be a minimum of 40 students and maybe lots more… My girlfriend in Philly reports that in first or second grade she was called upon to help teach other students as they set up shop in the gymnasium topping out sometimes at 100 little children! (Kind of a good news/bad news thing – the good news: lots of Catholic kids. The bad news: labor shortage…). You simply can’t get all touchy feely and make eye contact with that many eyes! It never crossed anybody’s mind to consider that us kids would be so much happier if we had even the slightest idea why or how what was being unloaded on us for 8hrs/5 days a week made even a little bit of sense or caught our imagination in any way. In third grade I performed from my desk a perfect hoola hoop dance as I recited my multiplication tables. 1×9 = 9, 2×9 = 18, 3×9 = 27… and my hips were keeping time. Sadly, I had no concept of what groups of nine were all about. Good Girl – just blurt it out and sit down. Fourth grade had geography books. Pictures of farm animals and mining caves in Virginia and the Grand Canyon and so on. We were learning about each and every one of the United States. Quick! What’s the capital of Mississippi? What do they grow in Idaho? Which state exports copper? It was fun to look at in books but trying to memorize ALL the capitals and every state’s resources was BORING!!! Why Why Why would I want to know all that? And let’s face it, the majority of my classmates had never been outside the Great State of Texas…(I had two glamorous trips to Mexican border towns under my belt and a sojourn to the neighboring state of New Mexico and I’m pretty sure I never understood I was no longer in my home state of Tejas). I wanted to know what my girlfriends were doing, what was the most new and exciting show on tv, can we go on family vacation this year? (and see the real Carlsbad Cavern). They were filling to the brim and I was overflowing with answers to questions I had never asked. My tiny brain could not take it all in and resisted mightily. By seventh grade I began to catch on. I got that it was a game. Don’t try and understand – just memorize and get at least a ‘B’ on the exam. I kept that up right through college. And got better and better at it.

Right along side of us ROTE learners were the smart kids who apparently caught on from their first day in grade one. They sat in a circle in the front of the class and were labeled THE FIRST READING GROUP. I would land in GROUP TWO and happy to be there and not in THE THIRD READING GROUP. It was simple – geniuses in the first reading circle. And the rest of us took our place in the hierarchy. I wasn’t just a little bit envious I recognized that this was determining the rest of my academic life. Smart kids, middle kids and those on the bottom. The caste system in India must have been the inspiration. By fourth grade the education in the nation had become enlightened with the TRACKING system. Fast learners and not so fast learners… Nothing like knowing your place. Again, I’m certain that this was all well intentioned and designed to help overworked teachers. But labels are labels. I was mesmerized by the smart ones. Did they really understand what all that gobble gook meant? Did they deeply appreciate the info being poured into them? Did it all make sense and seem ever so satisfying to them? How I wanted to be one of those kids – school was so easy and no big deal – just do it and make A’s .

By the time my brood of three were in grade school the stakes were even higher. First Reading Group was nothing to crow about. GTO’s (gifted and talented offspring ) were seated on that throne. The cream of the cream, the anointed, the royalty of the elementary school. I pictured a 7 year old who could do calculus AND was a dynamite tap dancer for his talent… This group was so elite you could only be admitted IF your IQ met the metric. And if it did, you were in! Some exceptions were made for the truly talented and gifted artists and musicians. I don’t know who was happier about this new club – the GT’s or the parents. Once your child was admitted you were home free. You could declare yourself a perfect parent. Your kid was sure to make it to Harvard (or at the very least, Stanford). YOUR JOB WAS DONE! I always marveled that these were the kids that were taken to New York for Broadway musicals and to the best museums and all kinds of amazing field trips. Were they really the students who would benefit the most? Seems to me if the kids left behind (no pun intended) had been given those opportunities they might have been catapulted up to performing as well at the GT’s. Maybe? Truth be told, all kids were doing better than my generation. ROTE was going out of fashion and being replaced with deeper conceptual and relevant approaches even for kindergarteners. Kids got used to life making more sense. They demanded that what they were learning had to some how connect to their life outside the classroom. Yes!

I have a little too much ROTE left over in me. It’s like a bad habit. More than I’d like to admit I spout off something that sounds impressive to me – then I look a bit closer and see that it is ROTE nonsense. I don’t really have a true and complete understanding of what I long to know and express to others. It’s most obvious when I open up about my politics – it can devolve into liberal dogma and silly proclamations. A whole lot of the things I say that reveal my values or are intended to bolster a personal image of myself are rife with unexamined shallow and past their due date cliche and worn out packaged words. It helps me to see that in writing and I smile. I can laugh at myself. Being a ROTE is simply efficient and satisfies the lazy in me. No biggie.

On a rare occasion I do KNOW and feel that I have landed the deep truth that matters most. Not a ROTE interpretation of God, or a memorized sentence stating my purpose here on earth, or some trite statement declaring the workings of the Universe but a simple from the heart KNOWING. I KNOW that Life gets better and better. I KNOW that Love and Compassion are all that I am seeking. I KNOW that how well I love, how well each of us love – is the ultimate answer to any question – AND NO ROTES ALLOWED…

If it’s Saturday morning in the Moore house it’s a sure bet the radio will be tuned to KTSA, rock and roll is filling up every inch of our den and kitchen and at the very least, one of the prepubescent or full fledged teenager inhabitants is lost in movement. The early and mid sixties were without a doubt The Golden Age of Dance in my family. We were at our peak of uninhibited gyrations and and undulations that rivaled the sheer joy of the bottom wiggles of an 18 month old. Watch any toddler and you will know what I mean. They hear music and they don’t even know what dance is but their body does – it just starts responding. That’s who we were. The whole bunch of us. Five kids, two parents and sometimes cousins and neighbors or friends giving back to the sounds from the radio or record player what we could not control.

Dance was kinda the first language in our family. My dad came from a household that could move with grace the way other families could sing like birds. My mom was our version of Ginger Rogers. She could follow dad backwards and in high heels. It was the glue that held them together. They were that couple on the dance floor that shoulda had a spotlight on them. Very often the other dancers moved out of the way and The June and Raymond Floor Show would be in full swing. I felt very proud when all eyes were on them. Very cool. My dad particularly loved to be out there. I think it was when he was most comfortable and could express himself. Anyone could feel how happy and full he was. He exuded it. I never saw my dad more relaxed – like everything that could possibly harm, hurt or bother him was a million miles away when he was being his dancer self. NATURAL might be a better word. He was in the flow of who he ‘naturally’ was. Lucky him.

106 Epler Dr was not just my home address but it was also our little home to Motown and the rock and roll of the sixties. I grew up with all of my mom and dad’s music as well. Glen Miller, Nat King Cole, The Mills Brothers and the Inkspots and lots of Mexican corridos and songs in Spanish were just as likely to be on our stereo as The Supremes, Temptations, Sunny and the Sunliners, Beach Boys, Dylan, Rolling Stones, and, or course, the Beatles. Dad liked country music too. Without pride or boasting he would simply state that he liked all kinds of music. And he did. So more times than not, it didn’t even have to be Saturday there were some fun tunes floating through my house.

American Bandstand was real live tv, with real teenagers dancing, and real rock and roll bands, lip syncing or for real – it provided a sneak peek long before my teenage years when I would need to know …how to dress – lots of petticoats and poodle skirts, then came the ‘shift dress’ with little bows in our hair, and finally, the mini-skirt! RADICAL, as well as, how to dance – hold your partners hands and let him twirl you around, slow dancing – how close is too close? Too tight? Latest dances – THE TWIST. We didn’t hold hands any more?! New pop music – a fast changing rock and roll scene. These were important, critical queries and AB had the answers. It was a source coming right into my den via television. I soaked it up. We all did. Every city had their own local dance show (gone by the time I came of age) and teen canteens on weekends for the masses that didn’t make it to the small screen. Dancing was every bit as much a part of the 60’s as the music. It would be mighty painful if you were too shy or afraid to expose yourself and get out on that dance floor. Like my dad, I was lucky. I could do it! (not on a stage, of course. That I had fears about).

We were all lucky in my family. Every one of us loved to dance and lacked the self consciousness to hold back. What a gift it was to let loose with our bodies. Arms flying sideways, into the air and all around. Legs were moving this way and that, feet hopping up and down, and hips doing things that felt very good… Without intending to, those spontaneous dance parties made my family closer. We had an unspoken connection and a kind of intimacy. Otherwise we were each in our own little world. Seven people in a small house demands that kind of space and privacy. But dancing brought us together. Singing off key while our human parts were letting go to very loud rock and roll was liberating. And yet, it was also a very special kind of family Communion – a holy act. Almost sacred. I cherish those fun times – best memories ever – 60 years later…

It would be great if I could find a way to bring that ‘dancing’ feeling back into my life on a daily basis. I miss that free and easy way with my body. Letting go. Relaxing like my dad in his happiest moments. Sometimes I put on the 60’s channel (now on a tv, not a radio!?) and dance around solo. It feels good. Therapeutic might be a modern word for it. Old fashioned fun and silly for a gal of my years but it still works. Weddings or birthdays or any family function that demands of the elder aunts to be out on the floor doing the Electric Slide, Cotton Eyed Joe, or Chicken Dance are rare events these days. How we miss it… if only for a moment we have that ‘bond’. We are reconnected. A Holy Moment.

UPDATE: Seems we really do learn something everyday… I thought my solo house dancing was one of my bigger life secrets. Well, even though it wasn’t something I advertised to the public it turns out not to be anything I needed to hide. After posting the above story and my confession as a private house floater quite a few gals and one guy came forward matter-of-factly and sans embarrassment to share their own love of music and solo dancing antics.

One girlfriend of almost thirty years told me that as a young girl her grandmother’s linoleum living room floor became her family’s dance surface whenever the Irish music wailed from the record player. Everyone joined in with Irish jigs and reels! I can picture it, I can hear it, all the noise and fun of those folks whirling around – after years of friendship I learned something about her that surprised me. How wonderful.

My same friend also unleashed another dance memory. Four years in college and she rarely missed a single weekly dorm dance party! I had never even heard of dorm parties and we had both been at Christian Brothers colleges?! I wasn’t so lucky. No dancing in my dorms…

Also, her dancing days brought back memories of her favorite dance tunes. She thought it might be fun if other readers shared the names of songs that got them off their feet and rocking and rolling. Any takers?

Today just so happens to be March 25, 2020.  It would be my dad’s 95th birthday.  Mr. John Raymond Moore, Sr.  It’s a wonderful day to think about him and remember him fondly (as my husband would say).  And I am happily recalling some sweet memories.

I don’t know if it was my mom or my dad that told me that his first language was Spanish.  In fact, he arrived at first grade in San Antonio with only that lexicon in which to express himself.  Why? How did that come to be?  Well, here’s the thing.  His dad was what we used to call an Anglo.  That is to say in our town it was the polite form of what we now call White.  It was mostly the opposite of Mexican in my world.  Anyway, my grandfather took his Angloness down to someplace in Northern Mexico (long story) and eventually married my grandmother – Mexican thru and thru.  Though they remained married until her death in 1943, he mostly kept himself in Durango and she came to be settled permanently in San Antonio sometime around 1910.  In the version of dad’s first grade language drama that I heard, his dad went to the school and pronounced or demanded that they put him in the English speaking class (as his surname was Moore) or maybe it was the other way around – he was put in the English class and my grandfather demanded the Spanish class for his comfort and ease?  Who knows.

The point is my dad who spoke perfect English without an accent and as my mom would say with pride, his Spanish was also exceptional both spoken and written, was always most comfortable and true to himself in his first tongue.  So, when he found himself with 3 daughters, each needing to feel special and his ‘favorite’, he dug deep from his heart.  And that’s how I became affectionately FLACA…  You see, the thing was he was what you would have called ‘thin’ at that time.  In the flesh he would have been nothing less than skinny.  So we had that bond.  We were both FLACA.  Of course, my Spanish was nil.  The word flaca rhymed with one of the few other words I knew in that language and it was a bathroom word!  Yuk.  Yet I could feel the love and knew it was dad’s way of saying I was special.

Now, we’re talking about the years roughly between 1952 and 1962 and do you know what the iconic screen gal looked like?  Not skinny.  After the hardships of WWII women morphed into voluptuous.  Full and curvy.  So heading into my teen years I felt at a great disadvantage.  My arms and legs seemed to be equal in length and heft – as in pipe cleaners.  I was sure I was doomed to an Olive Oyl life.

And yet, I loved to eat.  Food was my favorite. I shoved away as much as I could – or so it seemed to me.  My brother would tease that my eyes were bigger than my stomach.  I was still living in literal land and could not fathom how that could be possible.  Finally, I caught on, ahhh , I put more food on my plate than I can possibly put in my stomach!

Middle school years rolled around and the skinny issue got more dire.  I knew every girl classmate in 8th grade who did NOT have skinny legs.  By high school I was fully aware that this just wasn’t going to work for me.  I doubled up on that ‘eyes bigger than stomach’ thing.  One time on a rare lunch outing with my friends (Christy’s Seafood on Broadway- quite the splurge) I actually ordered a full entre and a hamburger and fries!  Ate the whole thing. No way my eyes could be as big as my stomach at that point…

I’m going to blame this on being a teenager but here is my secret.  Who I was, how I felt about myself and how or what I wanted to change about me, myself and I had totally to do with what my friends looked liked, said and did.  I had little or no identity of my own. I was the proverbial FOLLOWER.  So when one day I tipped the scales at 105lbs I thought I had arrived.  I was with the big girls (no pun intended).  Sly little ole me worked it into the conversation on our car pool ride to Ursuline one morning.  Actually, I remember it very well.  My dad was driving and probably had the left blinker going the whole way.  His deafness was setting in or maybe he was distracted listening to five teenage girls one upping each other in the back seat.  So there it was – I was officially no longer skinny.  No more flaca…

Fast forward a couple of years to the senior lounge at said high school and I now push those scales all the way to 112.  Cause to celebrate?  No!  Doggonit.  I finally fill out and that Twiggy girl is all the rage.  Now everybody wants to be a waif, a stick, no shape – you get where this is going – the whole female teenage world was now SKINNY?  Not fair.  I still loved to eat and my course (no pun intended, again) was not reversing!  I was now by 1969 standards PLUMP!!!

It never seemed to end.  College brought the perfect boyfriend to remind me that I was NOT an American Girl in more ways than one…. Once done with him I took up his reign as body tormentor.  Never quite the right size and shape and weight.  I was better at it than he had been.  And so, somewhere along in there I turned to the most female of all rituals  – DIETING.  It became a way of life.  I learned to count calories the way I managed my checkbook.  Only so many to spend and consume each day.

The battle waged for most of my adult life and then it got worse.  I was getting the job done and keeping the needle on the scale where I wanted it and then one day WHAM! this ugly word appeared.  NUTRITION.  What the heck?  Not only was I now expected to count the calories to get the job done now I had to do this other thing and have the right combo of nutrition?!  No No No NoNo.  I ate purely for pleasure and ONLY foods I loved.  This nutrition thing would be purgatory.  Awful. Not fair.  Yukky.

But the message was everywhere.  I ran but I couldn’t out run it.  I became exhausted.  Slowly I turned to face it.  Proteins, Carbohydrates and Fats.  Goodbye fun foods.

I had one thing on my side.  I loved salad and vegetables.  Whoops.  Too much of that can be RotoRooter.  Whoosh Whoosh.  Make that – Everything in moderation.  Another word I don’t like.  Mostly, I do things in extreme.  Now I’d have to learn to eat more and smaller meals.  What a lot of trouble.  I’m worn down.  Getting with the program so to speak.

Over ten years ago I made this food triangle:

FUEL

 

FAMILY                                                                 FUN

 

So here’s how it works.  On a good day I work up a real true appetite and low and behold I feel HUNGRY!!!  It’s amazing.  I actually crave FUEL  for my body.  My stomach is finally saying ‘Put something in me.  I need food’. And I want it to be nutritious.  Then I tell myself I’m also entitled to have something that tastes good, yummy and will make me feel HAPPY . So that is the FUN.  Next choice is how I eat.  Fast and furious or slow and with gratitude.  A quick prayer before I dive in helps set the mood.  If I’m alone I can yak away in my head making my own friends and family for company.  On the best days I feel the privilege and blessing of sharing my favorite thing in life FOOD with the ones I love – nothing tastes better than that!

I’m 95% sheltered-in-place like so much of the nation is today.  And like the rest of Abundant Americans my refrigerator and pantry and full to the max  –  can’t put another toothpick in my freezer.  The urge to waddle off the sofa for a ‘tiny’ snack is growing into a monster.  My food triangle is now my Essential Business.  Brings me exactly what I truly need. Reminders to check for the real thing – HUNGER.  Okay then lets get some FUEL!  Of course, all this imposed isolation certainly earns me a free treat – it just so happens I have lots to choose from. CELEBRATE!  And, on special days like today when we are with my daughter and her family (read adorable grandchildren) my gratitude for the joy of breaking bread in COMMUNITY is off the charts.

So here’s to you Daddy.  Happy Birthday from one Flaca to another Flaco.  Hope your having your favorite – banana cream pie!! XOXO

BTW / DAD – THE ‘F’ WORD IS NO LONGER ‘FLACA’ OR even ‘FAT’ as the years march on (again, no pun) the ‘F’ word is now ‘FLAB’…