EAT--skinny people

An old Cherokee told his grand-son, “My son, there is a battle between two wolves inside us all.  One is Evil. It is anger, jealousy, greed, resentment, inferiority, lies and ego.  The other is Good.  It is joy, peace, love, hope, humility, kindness, empathy, and truth.” 

The boy thought about it, and asked, “Grandfather, which wolf wins?”  

The old man quietly replied, “The one you feed.”

The Shrimp Dock at Independent Seafood in Georgetown, SC

This past week, I went home and fed the old black southern woman that lives deep inside my soul.  I have evidence that this woman exist based on the simple fact that my back-side is revered by many to actually be that of a black woman’s. Well, let’s just be honest here.

Some people should―and probably do―(...but hopefully not) hate me.  My Attention Deficit Disorder medication has sped up my metabolism and curbed my appetite to the point of assisting me to “high school skinny.”  I am not hungry very often.  And when I do eat, I get away with consumption in the fashion of the skinny-fat-people that everyone hates. It’s not fair...I know it. 

Gathering some of life's treasures

I think food is the best of all of the treasures on the earth.  I love that God speaks of heaven in terms of a “feast” and that Jesus was often found feeding the masses. In fact, His last evening on this earth was spent feasting.  It must be important to eat.  

It is our fuel. 

I loved when reading the book ‘The Shack” that as the Trinity was represented God, the Father, was a black woman who loved to cook.  

Shrimp Creole!

I was reminded of this most recently when an old friend was wearing a t-shirt on a Facebook picture post that said, “I met God, she’s black.” For some reason this made sense to me. How could God be more loving than this image? The kind soul that would feed you with all the knowledge you could ever possibly need...and at the same time―smack your behind when you needed a good waking up via whipping?!?  Yes, I believe God may in-fact be a black woman. The humble, caring, calloused-handed black woman who always loved me in the best of ways. 

Where does the love come from? If loving people is expressed by feeding them (as I have written about before), my actions this past week suggest love at least starts in the farm fields of  South Carolina.

Peaches from MacBee, SC

This is what I brought home in several coolers from South Carolina (most of it from the Kudzu Bakery...the rest from farm fields...ocean included):

1 Keylime pie

3 containers of shrimp dip

1 container of crab dip

1 container of pimento cheese

2 boxes of Mepkin Abbey Oyster Mushroom Ravioli 

1 box of “select peaches” from the loading dock at MacBee

6 pounds of medium fresh shrimp from Independent Seafood in Georgetown

2 pints of shrimp creole base―home cooked from my mother

2 pints of fresh strawberries from MacBee

and a few ears of South Carolina Sweet corn

Crabs from the creek at Pawley's Island

This seems a bit ridiculous―if you’re ignoring your inner southern black woman. Why would one

 single person return to Northern Virginia with such a bounty?

The "sliver" I got up to get...

Well, first of all, the inner black woman likes to share. And since I choose to embrace her―since she is my best friend―I brought back a ton of food. This voice of reason is the one who says, “Honey-child...you goin’ ahead and eat dat shrimp dip!” and “Don’t you mind that third slice of pie...it's just a sliver!” I think I’ll break from writing and go get a slice now actually...

Not kidding...I really just did.

If you are what you eat, I am a key-lime shrimp slathered with mayonnaise (from all the shrimp/crab dip) and topped with fresh corn, strawberries, and pimento cheese this week. I wonder how my food coma will effect my ability to give a good PT treatments this week?

Yes...my inner black woman insured there would be plenty to share.  I have already given several peaches away.  I will share the famous Mountain Dew Peach Enchilada recipe this week. I will feed in the spirit of joy, peace, love, hope, humility, kindness, empathy, and truth. And the good wolf will win the battle―by way of my inner black woman. 

So if I may, I propose a toast...to the inner black woman in us all. 

LOVE―to go fast

“No one is so old as those who have outlived enthusiasm.” Henry David Thoreau

Enthusiasm for "toes in the water"

“Lucy!―you drive that wheelchair like you drive your car!” a fellow physical therapy school student yelled at me as I wheeled around the corner and about ran her over.  The near accident occurred as I was traveling at breakneck speed (surely I was running late) down the hall to my class.  

At some point during our spinal cord injury class we were all subjected to the experience of being “wheelchair bound” for a week. Unlike most students, who found the experience to be cumbersome, I found great joy in the speed with which the wheelchair provided on long straightaways.  I like to go fast!  

Amazingly, I have made it through my life with only one speeding ticket citation.  The ratio of citations to actual occurrences must look like the odds of winning the Powerball lottery.  1:13,578,892―or something to that effect.  

I have no idea why it took me this long to figure out the simplicity of this idea―especially in how it relates to so many facets of my life. Polo, skiing sports, BASE jump, skydiving, parasailing, surfing, sailing, roller coasters, biking, boating...all of it! These all have one thing in common.  Speed.  I love to go fast. I really love to go fast!  I REALLY really LOVE to go FAST! And with a level of enthusiasm that I feel sure I will never outgrow. I have a desire for new things and learning that I hope I never lose a passion for. 

And now, I have discovered barrel racing.  Wow!  What a rush!?!  My Mother used to summarize my speedy little self by simply telling people I had only two speeds: Stop. And Go Really Fast. At it’s basic core, that’s exactly what happens in barrel racing. You haul tail to one barrel. Stop to make the turn around it.  Haul tail to the next barrel. Stop to make the second turn. Haul tail to the last one. Then, after that last turn, you haul tail out of the arena. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention stopping at the third barrel―maybe that’s why I knock that one over the most...   I always have had a little trouble with STOP.  I need one of those Forrest Gump signs that says, “Run Forrest! STOP Forrest!”

The part I like about going fast is the wind in my hair, the exhilaration of the senses, the sound of the “rush” blowing by my ears.  That “rush-ing” sound is even my favorite part of duck hunting―there’s nothing better than the sound of the birds coming in at sunrise.  “Whoosh!” as they swoop down onto the water.  There is something magical about the air in all of these activities and the sense of speed I associate with all of them. 

I am a Gemini―an air sign.  I’m not a big astrology person. But I think there’s something to the whole thing. Let me just say that at the very least, when I read the description of a Gemini I find quite a few similarities to my own personality. 

In awe of the sky and air at Pawley's

Gemini: changeable, mutable, sparkling and light quality, enjoy being in the middle of everything, talkative (haha!), curious about lots of different things, big communicators, talented at writing, teaching, and public speaking.

If Gemini were a drink, it would be champagne. Bubbly. Fun watch. A refreshing change from the ordinary. Always changing. Light on the palate. A party in a bottle. Easy to get dizzy on when over exposure occurs. 

I do run life at a dizzying pace sometimes.  I am often asked, “Do you ever take the time to just slow down?”  

The answer: Yes. I do stop. I have been in a Pawley’s Island hammock for the last hour writing this entry. In this moment, one could say I am the bubble at the bottom of the glass of champagne. I am stuck to the bottom for just a few more seconds―then it’s off like rocket, up through the flute of the glass, to the surface with “POP!” What a ride! What a rush! It’s not for everyone. But it’s me.

Stop....go really fast.

A place I like to stop...

Love―for the duration

FRIENDS

“Friends are a strange, volatile, contradictory, yet sticky phenomenon. They are made, crafted, shaped, molded, created by focused effort and intent. And yet, true friendship, once recognized, in its essence is effortless.
Best friends are formed by time.
Everyone is someone's friend, even when they think they are all alone.
However, sometimes it takes more effort to make it work after all.
Stick around long enough to become someone's best friend.” 
―Vera Nazarian

Old friendships are like a fine wine, that keeps getting better with time...

I have been blessed with many good friends in my life.  Just like spring flowers vibrantly bloom and fall leaves turn bright colors―so too, certain friends have been more prominent during different seasons of my life. 

I love making new friends. It’s been one of my favorite things about what I’ve been doing the past year.  And how I do love my old friends as well!  These are the friends I can go weeks, months, or even years without much contact―then pick right back up with―as if no time ever passed. Both new and old, friends are a blessing. 

A good (old) friend once quoted to me a great line from the movie Sweet Home Alabama... “you can have roots and wings” ―as relative to my travels. Well, if that’s true―old friends are, at least in part, the roots of life. Our old friends know us like no one else.  They know the things we hid from our parents growing up. They know the depth of broken hearts we’ve had. The silly of our youth. The struggles of our growing up. The wishes that have come to fruition. The dreams that we have been forced to let go of. They know the blood and sweat of the pursuits of our adulthood. 

"You can have roots and wings..." Sweet Home Alabama

Old friends are very much the “mathematical constants” of life’s equation. By definition that would be: a special number, usually a real number, that is “significantly interesting in some way.” Old friends ground and define our equations.  And, quite often, when the equation of life is not working out as we’d planned, we scratch everything but those constants for a clean slate “do-over.” But the real, the special, the significantly interesting in some way...that all stays put―as we try to work the numbers again and succeed.  

I was reminded on one of my most special and dearest friend’s birthday recently of thoughts we once shared on this topic from the movie “City Slickers.” All of the characters were at some major crossroad in their life before heading out west to wrangle cattle for a weeks vacation. What the movie highlighted so well, was how old friends are a mirror of truth we can hold up (like a compass) when deciding how to navigate those crossroads. Who are we?  Where do we want our life to go? Not that our friends decided this for us, but that they are the best guides to show us our history and what has defined us thus far. 

I wouldn’t have made it past several crossroads of life if not for certain old friends. And I love the promise I share with one of these old friends (which most recently moved from the unspoken promise that was always there, to a spoken one when we coined the promise into a simple phrase): “for the duration.”

A beautiful "cross road" of life...

It was through this promise that I learned what the love of old friends is really about. Friends that go through broken hearts and share in the amazement that they didn’t kill us. Friends that make each other keep laying down tracks for dreams that seem far away―in hopes the train will one day come.  Friends that provide the emotional fuel to allow us to climb over the mountain to the other side. Friends that (symbolically) hit each other over the head with the cast iron skillet for wake up calls when needed. Old friends. Loyal friends. Friends―for the duration.