23&Me, Myself and Gram

My grandmother, a petite woman who lived to 96 years old, had a mind filled with imagination and genius. As a child, I listened to her talk (for hours and hours) about everything from the weather, to the latest book she was reading, to politics and back around again to something scientific. A bright woman with an active mind, she also used to blame everything on the “genies” – those damn invisible forces. Circa 1970.

My mom would roll her eyes whenever Gram talked about the genies, which was my cue to dismiss my grandmother as nuts….

…until I was a teenager, and boldly confronted her about these genies.

“Who are these genies, Gram?”

“Well, they’re what make us do what we do,” she said.

“And how exactly do they do that?” I asked, pressing her. (How crazy was she?! I needed to know.)

She then went on and on about Watson and Crick, our heredity, and how the “genies” are in charge of a lot.

“Do you mean ‘genes’?” I squealed. “Like DNA?”

“Yes, genies,” she repeated.

Why the woman called them "genies" all those years was beyond me, but the mystery had been solved.  

Genes do matter! They determine not only our hair and eye color, but also our proclivity towards disease and even behavior. Yes! It all started making sense to me. My Gram died in 1996, and I can’t help but think how excited she would have been about the mapping of the human genome or the development of a company like 23&Me.

I’m pretty sure I inherited her scientific curiosity, and took my own 23&Me test because if science can tell me something about my "genies," I want to know. I have to admit I’m not a fan of giving so much personal information to the giant genetic database in the sky, so recommend using a fictitious name if you decide to buy a test. I didn’t, but wished I had. My ideal self, however, still hopes they’ll use the data to advance medicine so I try not to obsess about having given them my real name (FYI: There are gene variants that make me more susceptible to over-thinking things like this, by the way.).

So, back to my test.

Here are the 9 main things I learned:

1.     We have a long way to go. I feel like I bought the first television in the neighborhood, and it only has one channel. 23&Me gets better with more people testing. The more data we have, the more answers we can get. Right now, it’s rudimentary. Yes, with this gene, based on the polling of 8,000 people with the same gene, you’re 1.8X more likely to crash your car. It’s good, but it’s not as good as it will be.

2.     Run the Data Through Data Interpretative Website. I used Livewello.com and Promethease.com to run my 23&Me raw data. It’s an inexpensive way to highlight key information from your report.

3.    I am part Native American. I knew through my sister and her research on Ancestry.com that I had Mi’kmaq in my heritage. 23&Me confirmed this for me. It also confirmed that we’re all basically world citizens.

No one has “American” genes, by the way, except Native Americans.

4.     Type II Diabetes will be my curse. I’ve got every possible gene coding for Type II Diabetes, for whatever reason, so this information will guide me to eat accordingly. Gotta stop eating chocolate at night -- even though it's 80% dark chocolate. :(  I’ll also start supplementing with nutrients that increase insulin sensitivity to the cell, like chromium and alpha-lipoic acid.

5.     Longevity gene not there. Bummer. I wanted to live to well past 100. I will now have to do this in spite of the gene that says I won’t.

6.     Carry the Red Hair Gene. The duh factor. My daughter has red hair and I don't.

7.     Optimistic, Empathetic and Handles Stress Well. Yup.

8.     Higher Risk of Speech Development Delay or Impairment. Might have helped knowing this in the 2nd grade when I couldn’t pronounce my S’s or R’s and had to endure speech therapy.

9.     The Beauty of Epigenetics and Nutrigenomics. One of the biggest red flags in my report was that I’m homozygous for C282Y, hemochromatosis. This is a disorder that can cause serious health hazards for post-menopausal women (me). At my age, I should have high ferritin levels, but I actually don’t. The doctor was surprised I carried this gene because my ferritin levels were not high at all, but explained that my diet and lifestyle were helping me.

Just because we have a genotype,  doesn’t mean everything is set in stone. So getting your DNA results doesn't have to be terrifying! A burgeoning field called Nutrigenomics studies the effects of foods on gene expression. Still in its infancy, this field of study will help us eat for our genotype.

Food is still the best medicine.

My grandmother, a food minimalist, ate in a quirky way with her black coffee, oranges and egg yolks. Perhaps she already knew how to eat for her genotype.

I loved my Gram, and think of her every day.

And in me, her "genies" live on...

PS -- Always feel free to contact me if you have any questions! Nutrigenomics is a baby field, but rife with potential to help us be our best selves.

My FB Breakup 😢

Photo Cred: www.wired.com

Dear Facebook,

We have to talk to you about our relationship status. It’s not you. It’s me. You’re great. I mean, you give me all kinds of information. You keep me entertained. You know how much I love that video where the cats all jump sky-high away from the cucumbers, terrifed – ALL OF THEM. LOL. 😂 What is that all about, anyway? I still don’t know. Or the German Shepherd who talks like a human, begging for bacon. LMAO. I can’t stop watching that one.

You help me stay close to the people I love. You know how it gets. I'm busy with work and forget to check in with my friends. How else would I know Aunt Lorrie has gone to Florida to see my mom, or that my co-worker just adopted a new dog? And I can’t believe Pat just won that dance competition! She’s so awesome!

And your gentle birthday reminders! You keep it all so organized for me, that giant calendar in the sky. Where would I be without you nudging me through email? “Hey, it’s your friend, Judi’s birthday today!” I would forget! And I’d feel like sht the next time I saw her. Now I can smile and say, “Did you have a nice birthday?” and feel so damn proud of myself because I put that red balloon emoji on her wall. 🎈Facebook, you’re so awesome. 👏🏼 

Oh oh oh – and you just know me so well, which is crazy! You know I love to see all of the latest dieting trends and have to know what Aviva Romm is up to these days. You know I love jewelry and elephants and photography and “on sale” and soft sweaters that look so great online but come half-sewn from halfway around the world. How do you know I’ll fall for that? Those sponsored videos appear like sweet gifts, as if you’re telling me, “I got you. I know what you like. I’m always here for you.”

Facebook, you just know me so well.

But lately it’s been rough. Please know it’s not you. It’s me. You’re perfect! But I have to figure some stuff out. I’m not sure I like who I am lately when I’m with you. I scroll down right past the Darwin Awards videos looking for political news. I’m watching my cohort of friends polarize into this side and that side. You seduce me with posts that bait me for comments. Yeah, I blame Trump for all of it. Divisive little monster. See? That’s not even who I am. I don’t call people names. Little-handed orange-toned freak! Do you see what I’m saying, Facebook? I'm tired of hitting the angry button. 😡 Facebook, I don’t like who I’ve become when I'm with you.

Please know it's not because of Twitter, that over-simplified forum, or Snapchat, which makes me look like a cradle-robber. And you know I'm not artsy enough for Instagram. You're still my fave, Facebook.

But I’m a unifier by nature, and you're not unifying right now. Usually I empathize with just about everyone. I see all sides to everything, and can keep it light and humorous. Not lately. Not since January 20. Now I’m spending too much time crafting witty zinging retorts to passive aggressive “friends” who call me “racist” or “snowflake liberal out of touch with reality”. Grrr. I blocked two people. Just two. Like a stink bomb went off and I just came into my house and closed the door. I don’t need that in my life.

But I don’t want any of this conflict anymore. I want you to continue to inform and update me, but I can’t piss fight with my Flanders Elementary School 3rd grade classmate I haven’t talked to in 40 years. It's not who I am.

So I’ve got some ideas for us because I’m not quite sure if you’re a nourishing food or a drug addiction.

So here is my new game plan on Super Bowl Sunday:

1.   Twice a day. I don’t need to have you every 5 minutes, although that can be very exciting. So what if all my friends are watching the Super Bowl and commenting on every play, connecting us all together in some silly cosmic way. And I don’t need to “go live” with every whim, especially when Frankie’s friend decides to share her live video while she eats a cupcake after school. That’s not necessary. Twice a day. This will keep me in the birthday loop and informed of newsworthy events.

2.     Read, not react. The articles are great! They range from National Review to NY Times. I’ll catch up with the key players. I’m free to comment, of course, but if I sense my heart racing a little faster, I won’t touch those keys.

3.     Be a Change agent. FB can be my community bulletin, corralling me with my local peeps so I can be more involved. For this, I will always love you and will gladly let you assist in driving this movement forward. I love showing up at the West Hartford Town Hall with a thousand other people who knew to gather because of you.

4.     Post to uplift. The die is cast. The fray is alive and well. No changing anyone’s polarized views, but we can inspire and uplift one another with what is commonly human (sometimes). We’re all born. We all die. Lots of crazy in between. I’ll stick to what is “uplifting” for now. Everyone loves a  sunset and puppies that sleep by a baby’s side. My Trump is not your Trump. I get that. Fighting about that won’t help anyone.

It’s been a crazy up and down, Facebook. The passion is just too much. You know how you can get me going, and it’s not always healthy. Even my husband and I are fighting about how I spend too much time with you, and I hide you when he comes into the room!

But I don’t want to lose you. And I love you, Facebook. Don't be upset. I'm not going to change my status. I still want to be in a relationship with you.

But I need to clean up my timeline.

Can we just be friends? ✨✨👫✨✨ ❤🇺🇸

PS -- I hope people will share our story! I bet we're not alone.

Yes, I Am a Racist

Image Credit: Getty Images

Today I was called a “racist”.

I wasn’t upset at all. I replied, “Yes, I AM a racist!”

If, by daring to point out the blinding whiteness in our existing administration makes me a racist, so be it. I am a racist.

My issue is not with the whiteness. I come from a long line of whiteness. My issue is that we will die if we only eat Wonder Bread. I am unsettled, to say the least, that a sliver in the pie of our country’s rich diversity is now running our country.

This week was challenging for me. Every time I witnessed Trump boldly deny rights to millions be it healthcare, freedom of choice, safety from war-torn lands, religious freedom, I wanted to vomit. I thought, “Who is this clown?”

There are so many issues I want to protest that my head has been spinning all week. But, on Friday, when Trump signed the Executive Order denying entry to refugees and immigrants, and then, on Saturday, when people with legal papers were detained at JFK, I cried.

For a moment, I even lost that fight in my own soul.

I get it. My beliefs aren't your beliefs. I spend my life trying to uphold and honor other people's beliefs. I don't have to push my personal agenda.

But this gap between Americans is a rough one, and I'm thinking the only way we'll come together is if North Korea points its nuclear missile right into our cow and corn middle. Then maybe we'll start to see how bringing together our great and diverse nation is a necessity.

I probably have my parents to thank or blame for my passion for diversity -- be it cultural, religious or ideological. My mom had amazing intellectual curiosity, traveling everywhere as a teacher with her high school students through American Field Service. She also welcomed anyone and everyone into our home while I was growing up. Mrs Appletree and her daughter from Germany came and lived with us for a period of time, fleeing abuse by her husband and afraid to go home. Tony, Nereida, Heida. Names of people I had to share my bathroom with at different times in my childhood because my mom and dad opened up our home always .

But one of my most significant memories was in 1975, after the fall of Saigon. My parents sponsored a family from Vietnam. The Trans. They brought with them their many children and I spent every weekend with my parents sprucing up their apartment. We painted, collected furniture and clothing, shopped at the grocery store. I played with Tien, who was about my age. She didn’t speak English, but why did that matter? We would smile at each other, and play catch outside with a ball.

I think my mom still has the two stuffed turtles they brought from Vietnam as a thank you. My parents helped change their lives. The turtles symbolized the greatest gratitude they could show, apparently.

Fast forward, the Trans are making America great, weaving another thread of cultural diversity and immigrant success into our national tapestry.

They came here on a boat, escaping a war-torn country.

Today, they prosper.

This is the American ideal. This is the American dream.

I know why many Americans want to turn away Muslims. I get it. They’re scared. People are scared that foreigners are taking their jobs or, worse, going to plot to kill us. We read articles of Syrian men raping women in Paris. Or laws changing due to the influx of Muslim citizens. I get it. It’s fear. It’s real. I feel it, too, sometimes. So I’m not going to pretend I don’t get scared about the world contracting into a giant mess of angry, starving, radical peoples.

But I refuse to let fear run my life.

And I ask all the Americans who keep the fear of Muslims alive. Do you even know a Muslim personally? Have you heard a story of a Muslim immigrant? I am flagrantly saying “Muslim” and not “refugees from predominantly Muslim countries” because we all know it is Islam that we fear. We see burkas and terrorists and quotes from the Koran that scare the sht out of us. We hear stories of women being beaten as part of Sharia Law. We want to protect ourselves from another 9/11. I get it. I feel it. I sympathize.

But honestly – most Muslims do not embody these values. I challenge anyone who is afraid of Muslims to go talk to one. Stretch a little. It’s not going to be easy at first. But I guarantee the commonalities will rise up. When you whittle it down, shedding the pretense and ideology, you realize we all want the same things in life and that it’s OK that we don’t all believe the same things. Not sharing the same beliefs doesn’t mean the "other" is the devil or dangerous. It just means we all have some learning to do. And many Muslims have to also learn that America isn’t the Great Satan based on what they see on TV. Just because our president sits on a golden chair talking about stealing the only resource, oil, from Iraq, doesn’t mean that we are the Great Satan. It doesn’t!

Please do not judge me, a human being, based on how the media portrays my president.

Because prejudice and fear go both ways.

You are not the only one afraid.

Trust me. I took a class on Women in Islam back in 2005 and I struggled. I was like "What the Actual Fck" at first. But then I stretched. I asked my friend, Sumera, to wrap me in a hijab and we went to the mall. I disagreed with much of what Sumera believed, but I listened. 

I went to the mall looking all Muslim, and watched people treat me like the plague, especially as we marched through the lingerie section at Macy’s. I felt what she feels every day. Most importantly, I listened, and I let the experience sink deep within my heart because that’s where change happens. Find the commonality. No one wants to watch their child die from war or starvation or stranded on a beach because they were turned away from the comforts America has to offer.

This life on earth isn’t always easy, but guess what?

We can try to isolate ourselves over here in America, but we’re all spinning on the same beautiful planet. Eventually, we are going to have to learn to live together and stop waging war on one another. It’s inevitable.

The “other” is our “brother”.

So, why not strive to be the America that sets the stage for how we can live together – peacefully and with prosperity? Why not stretch with me as we learn something new about the people we hate and fear?

My America goes beyond the comforts of limited beliefs and broadens world-views. We are, after all, a collection of world-views, not just one white bread one. Our American freedom empowers us to live peacefully in a pluralistic society, not pompously under the regime of a single belief system.

So call me a racist. I don't care. I know I am.

Just remember, we can’t make America great again by turning away the tired, the poor and the huddled masses.

They ARE America!

Women, the Lifeblood

Yesterday I decided that all news is “fake” news.

I spent the day in DC with hundreds of thousands of colorful and beautiful people, a vibe of kindness and generosity, yet the media chose to focus on crude and dangerous comments from Madonna and Ashley Judd. Oh, I get it. Madonna probably couldn’t resist the opportunity to inflame, and Ashley Judd just let her raw roar. As women, there is a lot of raw and a lot of roar so going unleashed feels mighty good sometimes. I learned yesterday, however, that the media will report what it chooses will get the most clicks and ratings.

Our feminine power comes with responsibility, ladies. We need to wield it with dignity and grace. Otherwise, our message falls on deaf ears and we get relegated to histrionics and “emotional warfare” this world refuses to take seriously. 

So here’s my “news” take on yesterday because it’s the only “real” news I can offer.

I traveled to DC on a crowded bus that left at 2:00 AM Saturday morning from Trinity College in Hartford. Leading our charge was our bus captain, Sarah Raskin, a combination of intelligent, organized, patient and kind that I can’t even describe or begin to understand. Susan King, her co-captain, was also there sacrificing her time and energy to make sure people were safe and comfortable. They did everything from passing around food, beverages, and buttons to collecting tips for Nelson, our bus driver. Our little bus microcosm consisted of women and men, young and old, different cultures. You might say, a slice of West Hartford/Hartford.

Multiply our bus by the 1200 or more other buses pouring into RFK Stadium on Saturday morning and you’ve got the march. Rather than give you a blow-by-blow of my day, I’ll talk about 2 things that struck me.

The shortage of places to pee. Let’s face it, this came as no surprise, but power plays took place over where and how to pee. For one, we could see hundreds of port-o-potties lined up around the Capitol, all cordoned off and protected by police. Like water to a person dying of thirst, those potties taunted us. We stood and begged the cops to let us pee. Nope. Not your potty, Ma’am. These were for the Trump Inauguration. I get it. Maybe we needed to be a bit more generous than 1 potty per 10,000 women, but it forced some of us to get creative (what happens in DC stays in DC). It also awakened some men, like my husband, who couldn’t resist the urge to start his own chant on our behalf. “Our bladder, our choice!”

Some of us who had to pee. :)

On the flip side of the armed men protecting the Inaugural potties from the begging women, there was the incidence at Union Station. I ran to the restrooms only to find, yet again, an hour or longer wait for the Women’s Room. I glanced over to the Men’s Room line. About half as long. So I jumped over with women cheering me on, “Join the Movement!” They laughed because there were no men in line, and we all do crazy things when we gotta go. Then a beautiful thing happened. A man showed up and walked right to the front of the line. He had no idea there was a line of women waiting to pee. He looked up so confused, and actually started walking back to the end of the line. All the women laughed and pushed him forward. It was his bathroom, after all.

That moment, for me, encapsulated the sentiment of the entire march. Needing to express our needs and push the envelope a little, but doing it in a way not to exclude others. We fight for our rights, but always with grace and dignity. By nature, we are inclusive beings.

White men speak up. As we walked towards the march, the energy was vibrating high with chanting, singing, cheering. The whoops and hollers of solidarity would come in waves, starting from God knows where and rippling like a baseball spectator wave across the crowd, giving me chills as I walked through such an energetic and considerate crowd. People handed out posters and we grabbed them. One poster read, “Women Are Perfect,” and depicted a young black woman on the front. Later, as we waited for half our group to use the bathroom, our friend, Mike, stood with this sign as the marchers marched by. The response shocked even me. Women stopped to take his picture. Black women, in particular, stopped to hug him and call him their “new best friend.” He was stunned.

I said, “How many middle-aged white men do you see holding a sign affirming women and a black woman at that?"

In that moment, our own perspectives broadened.

Tim commented, “That makes me sad, actually.” How could we live in a world where there is such a lack of affirmation for WOMEN that a sign would elicit such a reaction?

Well, we do.

And that’s why this march was so powerful. Because half the world is female. And half the world goes unheard, unrecognized.

Women, no matter what their political leanings, are women. Women are amazing. Women want to be heard. Women are the foundation of society. Women need to be empowered. Women are the bedrock.

This march lifted women up.

A new wall.

Frankie getting creative on the wall.

The political agendas seemed different for everyone. 

Most beautiful singing voices ever!

Haha. "I didn't know it was an animal rights march." -- Mike Baxer joking with us.

Little girl finds her voice. 

But that thread of commonality – hear the female voice -- wove deep within this massive crowd, which is what made it so peaceful and successful across the globe.

We boarded the “Love Train” from Union Station to RFK (that’s what the riders smashed in there like sardines called it), and headed back to the bus. Thousands of pink-hatted women flowed to their buses like vibrant blood through the arteries of an ailing human body, revived and invigorated for the future.  

I expect this to be the beginning of a new era for all women and men, including those who sit at a different political table because what happened yesterday is way more powerful than politics.

What happened is Life at its core.

So, thank you, Donald Trump, for pissing us off just enough to remind us who we are, and where we need to go from here.

We will speak now.

Detox, A Dirty Word

January sees a spike in all kinds of dieting programs and, as much as I try to avoid that seasonal fad, detox questions keep coming at me. So I thought I’d do a quick blog about my experience with “detoxification”.

There are a million programs that promise the holy grail of weight loss, but safe “detoxification” is critical to health for reasons beyond weight loss. The weight loss will happen, but, more importantly, a decent detox will reinvigorate your body’s metabolism by flushing out the accumulated waste that slows us down and wreaks all kinds of health havoc.

Since WWII, 80,000 new synthetic chemicals have been introduced into the environment. 1500 new chemicals annually. Many of these chemicals are persistent and what we call “bio-accumulative,” which means they remain in the body long after exposure.

And guess where these bio-accumulatives are stored?

FAT CELLS.

And our fat cells are freaking out.

Some toxins are actually called “OBESOGENS” because they are found to contribute to obesity. These chemicals are endocrine disruptors, which means they disrupt the system that balances our hormones.

Look at these poor rats, one exposed to diethylstilbestrol (synthetic estrogen). 

How does this happen?

• The main role of fat cells is to store energy and release it when needed.
• It also acts as an endocrine organ, releasing hormones related to appetite and metabolism. 
• Obesogenic organisms affect the number of fat cells, the size of fat cells, and the hormones that affect appetite, satiety, food preferences, and energy metabolism.
• Some obesogenic effects may pass on to later generations through epigenetic changes, heritable modifications to DNA and histone proteins that affect when and how genes are expressed in cells, without altering the actual genetic code.

The body detoxifies naturally, but, with such an overload, might be sluggish in doing its job.  A safe and healthy “detoxification” supports the body to do what it does naturally by providing the body with healthy nutrients to first release the toxins from storage (fat cells), and then eliminate them.

Because toxin release can be traumatic on the body, our fat cells are inclined to hold on tightly to them, making it more and more difficult break down the fat.

Also, because the toxins disrupt the endocrine system, they actually perturb the metabolism, the very thing we're trying to maximize.

Some Detox Tips:

1.     Please avoid the dramatic starvation detoxes. Your body needs lots of clean & healthy food to support the process. What we don’t want is to release the toxins from the fat cells and not provide the proper nutrients to help eliminate them (think headaches and chills).

2.     Don’t let the word “detox” scare you. A good one is just that – a detoxification program. You shouldn’t be in the bathroom all day! Also, your body will be a little uncomfortable as you "clean out," but again, a safe detox program should not leave you feeling like you're knocking on death's door.

3.     Consult with your doctor, preferably one well-versed in functional medicine. Your body’s genotype is unique to you and one size doesn’t always fit all.

4.     Embark on your detox journey as a step in a long-term commitment to your health, not just a 2-week fad.

Feel free to reach out to me with questions! I'm here to help!

Hoarder No More

New Year. New Resolutions. Blah blah blah. I don’t take them seriously because who ever sticks to the promises they make to themselves when they’re half in the bag or high on sugar? So I waxed righteous on New Year’s Day, blogging about being more powerful than a diet. OK, all good points, but yesterday I watched Minimalism: A Documentary About the Important Things on Netflix and felt a bit kicked in the stomach, in need of serious change – a resolution of sorts.

If you haven’t seen this documentary, go right now and watch it. I mean it. Right now if you can! I sat there with my too-many pillows and piles of blankies wrapped around me, remnants of Christmas dangling from the walls, and I wished my house could just vomit up all the crap I’ve accumulated over the years. I pictured my attic stuffed with boxes of “memories,” which basically means every piece of artwork ever created by my 3 children in their entire lives, just emptying itself out through the windows. How could I possibly throw away that sketch of our family Bea drew in preschool?

Well, I can’t.

And that’s not even the half of it. All the beautiful wedding gifts collecting dust or the dozens of shoes in my closet. No one needs that many shoes! And the books. Yikes. Don’t even get me started.

We moved here to West Hartford when Bea was born and bought the 1700 square foot home because that’s what we could afford. We've stayed here because that’s what we believed in. We wanted life experiences, not house and car debt. Big houses, to us, just meant more space to fill with crap we didn’t need. And, in some ways, we’ve stayed true to our philosophy except that we stuffed the gills of our deliberately smaller home.

The premise of the documentary is that once we let go of all the excess, we can finally be happy. I’ve known of the tiny house/minimalist movement for a while, but hadn’t digested it personally until yesterday. 

LET IT ALL GO! Only then can you be truly happy.

#goals

Since watching it, I’ve gotten philosophical these past two days. We are born naked. We die naked (well, sort of). But between birth and death, we spend an awful lot of time layering ourselves with all sorts of consumed goods. I know we can’t walk around naked, but we come into the world with nothing, leave the world with nothing, yet spend our lives trying to “get something”. Maybe a nicer car, a nicer house, nicer clothes, whatever.

So I got up from the couch and started purging what I could.

I know it’s a process. I know that I can’t move into a tiny house tomorrow. But something shifted big for me, and I’m excited about it.

From now on...every single purchase. Is this useful?

No more mindless consumption.

On a side note, I woke up this morning and jumped on my phone like I do. But this time, I noticed the 99,999+ emails that have been sitting in my inbox for years. YEARS! I know it’s not the same as hoarding house junk, but it feels a bit the same. I am happy to announce that I have deleted over 150,000 emails in 4 different accounts, and am unsubscribing from every junk email that hits my inbox.

This barrage of information definitely contributes to the overconsumption.

BUY NOW! SAVE NOW! TRY NOW!

And I'm pretty sure this all relates back to nutrition, and our excess there, too.

Enough.

Will you simplify with me?

Be More Powerful Than A Diet

Don't waste this New Year's Resolution on a diet. Make it powerful this year! 

A resolution is an opportunity, a time of pause and reflection. In the past, I’ve blogged about how useless resolutions are because most of them don’t last. Gyms hit their overcrowded limits on January 2 and we can start counting the days when they’ll be empty again. Health gurus cash in this time of year with their weight loss promises. They know we’re all desperate after the holidays to shed a few pounds. I suppose that’s why I’ve been a naysayer of the resolution, its superficial expression empty to me. But it doesn't have to be. A resolution can be as powerful as we want it to be.

Don’t get me wrong. I mean, I am a nutritionist, for God’s sakes. I’m not saying to feel bad about wanting to lose that 10 pounds, especially if the doctor has handed you a threat of Type II Diabetes or other health problems. I’m just saying those holiday habits will transform naturally with the new year because there will no longer be egg nog or Christmas cookies or Auntie Cathy’s pumpkin cheesecake. Life will settle back in, and so will we. I packed on the typical few pounds over break, but I refuse to waste my New Year’s resolution on a dietary strategy.

My health is an everyday resolution. 

So what are my intentions for 2017, beyond my own body weight?

One year, my most magical year, I spent the New Year with my friend, Lizzie. She had built a fire outside and presented each of us with a piece of paper instructing us to “write down everything you want to get rid of, and throw it into the fire.” So I did. I don’t remember exactly what I had written, but it felt great.

Then she handed us another piece of paper and an envelope.

“Write down what you want to manifest for 2014,” she said.

So I did. I remember being worried about my family, Bea starting college. I wrote a few intentions on that list.

When I opened up the note the following New Year’s Eve, I was stunned to see that everything had happened. I had a new job (one that had fit all the criteria I needed) and I had started praying regularly again. I forgot what else there was, but those were the biggies. I remember making those intentions with my children at the center of them. My mom intentions had some power.

This year, I feel a pull to Mom the World. I need to find a way to articulate this intention. I’m tired of living in a microcosm of worry and self-survival as I watch our world fall apart. 2017 needs us to shift huge. Our world is on crazy pills and needs Peace.

Peace is not some cute and gold-gilded word for the holiday card. It is not a pie-in-the-sky “made by unicorns” belief. Peace is real. It begins in our own hearts and it spreads like raging wildfire, if we let it.

Be that Radical Peace.

Live it every day.

Teach it.

I bet my pounds will all fall into place if I focus on that.

Happy 2017, Everyone!

'Twas the Crazy Before Christmas

'Twas the week before Christmas and all through the news,
The people rage louder with hurt, we're confused.
Our future is dangling like a brick on a limb,
An eyesore reminding us each of our sin.
Some try to fix it, but none can prevail,
We can’t even agree “I’m with Her” or “Trump Hail".
Aleppo stares back at us, a child in pain.
We’re helpless…
No blanket or hug or even a cane.
We scurry to malls gathering stuff for the tree,
Wrestling with a backdrop of refugees in flee.

Sugarplums morphed into Putin and hackers,
We prefer fiction to truth with these dubious slackers.
I try as I might to breathe into the cheer,
And not grow angry with a world shaken by fear.
But my heart is all broken, my mind is a mess,
Thinking of oil spills, civil war and so much unrest.
I pray and I pray for a path to the light, 
And hope that will lessen the weight of this plight.
But the answer, I know, must be in the trust,
That regardless of party we value the just.
The quiet is remedy, a faith in the now;
Common ground we can find if God's grace can allow.

Outside of my window, the world dark with predawn,
A gentle snow falls upon our disappearing lawn.
This wonder and beauty gives my heart a respite,
As I cherish the peace of this morning unlit.
In this darkness, I beg God to light me that path,
And show me the balm to a world wrapped in wrath.
Santa will come and fill stockings with care,
We will believe in peace, for a moment we'll dare.
His reindeer will leave broken carrots and oats,
And the rooftop will jingle with bells and Ho Ho’s. 

For a moment, we'll forget the world that's in peril,
But I pray that we don't because many are feral.
This year, I will add Something Simple to tradition, 
An attempt to deride the fear and sedition. 
I'll think of an "enemy" or a hateful thought toward another,
And then light a candle, wishing peace upon my brother.
Bless those with no hope, no food and no place,
Help me be proud to be among this human race.

So Santa, spring into your sleigh,
Remind us of hope, goodwill, and a new day.
And, as you drive away and out of our sight,
Help us remember that dawn follows that dark and hopeless night.