Food for Thought

My sister-in-law is reading a book called "Women, Food and God" by Geneen Roth.  The basic premise, as I understand it, is that our relationship with food is a mirror of our relationship with the spiritual.  It is a map to show us how we define life.  The product description of the book from Amazon reads "The way you eat is inseparable from your core beliefs about being alive. Your relationship with food is an exact mirror of your feelings about love, fear, anger, meaning, transformation and, yes, even God."

So I've been thinking a lot about this and trying to understand what my relationship with food says about me and my outlook on life.  I'm not an obsessive eater; although I like food, I don't think about it all the time.  I don't overeat, if anything, I tend to under eat the good stuff and eat too much of the sugary stuff.  I love my Dr. Pepper.  Cooking is a real chore for me.  I use cereal as a standby meal.  If anything, I keep myself from eating really good food, on the basis that it's too  much of a bother to make and clean up. 

After a week of pondering on this, I think I might be gaining some insight.  Here's some possible interpretations:  Depression, for me, is often the norm of my life.  And being a little bit hungry, or always lacking true satisfaction from food may be a reflection of my depression and my lack of satisfaction with life.  I often keep myself from getting truly satisfying food.  Maybe I keep myself from being truly satisfied with life; or keep myself from being truly happy with life.  Emotionally, as with food, I am getting by, sort of limping along, but I find that my life is rarely pleasurable.  And when it comes to my eating habits, I eat enough to get along, enough to keep my body going, but it's not really pleasurable. 

Now the one thing I'm still wondering about is my relationship with cooking and what that manifests about my life. . .food for thought.

It Could Be

So.  Here I am, no longer depressed, but no wiser on how to find happiness and meaning in life.  I'm not sure why I'm no longer feeling so depressed--it could be because my medications are working; it could be because this depressive episode was finally spent (although it was an incredibly long episode); it could be because my advisor is finally acting like an advisor; it could be that I'm finally settling down in my new home (again, an issue of enough time passing); it could be prayers were answered; it could be that certain aspects of therapy are finally clicking into place; it could be any combination of things.  But does the reason matter?  I think it does because if there is a specific behavior or event or some concrete reason, then I can use that for future depressive episodes.  But if it's merely a function of time, then the important thing is to hang in there long enough.  If it's merely a function of time, then I have no control over my depression and that thought, in and of itself, is depressing.

How does one go about unraveling the truth from something as complex as human emotions/nature?  The scientist in me recognizes the necessity and impossibility of having a true control group and controlling all possible combinations of factors that might effect ones mood.   The poet in me laughs at the scientist for even thinking there is such a thing as "control."  And I'm left wondering.  Maybe the cause isn't as important as the lesson learned--that my depression doesn't last forever, regardless of how it might feel at a given moment.  Actually, I think that is closer to the truth than one might think.  I distinctly recall the time when my depression was first recognized as such and the first time I saw a therapist and the first time I came out of a major depression.  It was very clear to me then, that depression was one part of me, but that it wouldn't last forever.  My twenty-something self remarked that I should remember this time, the time when I worked through my depression, remember it for future times of depression--there would always be that knowledge and, dare I say, hope.  And in truth that is one thing that plays in the back of my mind, with varying degrees of power and influence, when I'm depressed. 

I learned that depression was something I'd deal with off and on throughout my life.  Sometimes, just knowing I've gotten through it before can at least stave off any thoughts of self-harm or death, if not give me hope.  Hope is often impossible when I'm really depressed, but it can be a foggy memory that at least keeps me going.  So now, what do I do?  What do I do without depression as a familiar, if not comfortable, companion?  I prove to myself, one more time, that the depression won't last forever.  I remind myself that I am more than my depression.  I find the power within myself to be disciplined, work hard, and most importantly enjoy the moments I have that are depression-free.  Over the last several days I've actually caught myself singing (and not my beloved dark songs), just singing for no apparent reason.  I've also found myself freely laughing with my children.  What a wonderful gift that is!  Maybe I shouldn't worry about the "why" and I should just enjoy what is.

Feeling Better

So, I've been feeling better these last several days. Part of this is due to finally having a detailed plan on what needs to happen for me to finish my degree. For the first time in over a year I feel like I know exactly what I need to do and I feel like I can accomplish it. There's still stress, but this is the stress of having a lot of things to do as opposed to the stress of not knowing what to do. The crazy thing is that I have been depressed for so long that I'm not sure how to deal with stress in a normal way. My first reaction is to start thinking that I can't do it. But I'm working very hard to not fall into that trap. I think that as long as I can break down my "to do" list into discreet projects, I'll be fine. And by next May I should be Dr. Hamblin-Hart. Not bad.

Words as Steps on a Path

I am still ruminating about the changes I have undergone in the last 20 years. One thing is that I am not reading as much literature, specifically environmental literature, as I used to. Just tonight I began thumbing through some of my old books and reading all the parts I have underlined. Some old emotions were stirred and I felt the pulse of passion in my veins. I think I need to read more. More essays, more poetry, more philosophy. I think I need to re-read some of those authors that inspired me long ago: Terry Tempest Williams, Wendell Berry, Edward Abbey, Aldo Leopold, Gary Snyder and Annie Dillard. But I am frustrated because I feel like I have so little time--I can barely find time to work on my dissertation, let alone read books from my past. Yet at the same time, it might be one of the things that saves me. Maybe taking time to get reaquainted to some of these mentors will energize me to finish my degree. We'll see.

I'll end with some words from Terry Tempest Williams, in her remarkable essay "Undressing the Bear" found in her book titled "An Unspoken Hunger." She writes: "if we look too closely or feel too deeply, there may be no end to our suffering. But words empower us, move us beyond our suffering, and set us free. This is the sorcery of literature. We are healed by our stories."

In my need of emotional healing it is time to reconnect to the stories that once sustained me. I think this will help me find my voice again. And once I have found my voice I can act from the heart again. This feels right to me, like an important step on the journey to relearning happiness.

Full of beans

Christina left a comment on my post "Where is the Passion?" which summed up what I've been thinking about over the last hour. And to prove I'm not always whiny, and to show what an emotional see-saw I ride, I decided I needed to write a response to my own post.

I do still have passion, I'm just not 20 anymore and I have a lot more responsibilities than I did when I was 20. So my passion looks different, at least the way I vocalize and think about those things I love looks different. I still love to read poetry and feel the sun on my face. I think about the people of the Maldive Islands, who will lose their islands due to climate change, every time I get in a car. My understanding of environmental issues has deepened but I don't have the freedom of time to go flitting off to DC to protect wilderness like I did when I was 20. As a 40-something mother of 3, working on a PhD and running a household, my energy for my passions has had to diffuse to more things. And I now have 3 individual passions that take up way more energy to maintain than any whale ever did. We have 20 year olds in our society to be the passionate, tireless souls that they are, because at 40 we are tired and have to keep the rest of life moving! So, I'm glad I'm a 40 year old woman who struggles to keep her passions alive. And if nothing else, I can say, like Mary Oliver did--I'm still full of beans! This blog is evidence of it.

Where is the Passion?

I miss my 20 year old self. I miss the passion I felt for so many things. I felt so strongly about the environment, teaching, reading, poetry, writing, ecofeminism, learning . . . I was driven to think and discuss ideas, all the time. Now, although I still believe in and love those things, I've lost my passion. This recognition has come about because I came across a fantastic new blog called "Our Mother's Keeper" which is a "LDS group blog dedicated to environmentalism, ecofeminism and environmental justice issues that result from the changes the planet is currently undergoing." It's brilliant and everything I wished I had 20 years ago. It looks like it's a forum handcrafted for me; yet I find myself feeling like it's a place where I don't belong, because I've settled in my middle class life and can't find the passion to share my ideas and ideals any more. I have misplaced the "ecofreak" (a term of endearment from my father). I'm not sure anyone would look at me and think I was an ecofreak today. That saddens me.

The depression is not the culprit of this loss of passion, because I was depressed when I was 20. I was depressed and passionate. There's a great line from a poem called "Self Portrait" by Mary Oliver (yes, more from Mary; isn't it obvious that I've just recently found her work?). Its opening line is:

I wish I was twenty and in love with life
and still full of beans.

I think that's so awesome. The best part about it is the ending line:

though I'm not twenty
and won't be again but ah! seventy. And still
in love with life. And still
full of beans.

My sorrow comes from the fact that I'm forty (and then some) but I'm not sure I'm still in love with life. What has happened to that idealist who cried at the site of ORV tracks across the desert; who signed petitions and lobbied at Capitol Hill for the sake of the voiceless, for the sake of the earth? Where is the idealist who wanted to save the whales and the plants and went out of her way to not step on cryptogamic soil? Maybe I'm remembering myself wrong, maybe I never really was any of those things. Maybe my passion wasn't as deep-rooted as I thought it was. But maybe I'm right. If I am right, then the passion still must be there, somewhere, lying in wait, on slow burn, waiting to be reignited. I hope so, I hope I can revive that passionate, younger self. If nothing else, it's a good sign that I can remember that young self and I have desire and hope to find her. At least it's a start.

The Mood-Thought Paradox

I'm sitting here struggling with trying to figure out what I'm feeling and what to write. I should be working on the dissertation, but, c'est la vie. I am beginning to have days where I fall in and out of confidence. It's a very tiring way to live, but at least I am having moments of feeling confident. However, I'm realizing that I can only sustain those positive emotions for several hours, then I'm back to feeling like my life is useless. Like I said, it's not necessarily a bad thing, it just leaves me feeling confused. It feels like I'm in a car that's stuttering around--one moment it runs smoothly, the next it chokes or stalls out.

What is most interesting about this to me is that when I'm feeling good, I really believe any positive self-talk I present to myself. But when I'm feeling bad, I cannot believe the positive ideas or phrases and only the negative one feel real. This is quite a quandary to be in because I have yet to be able to identify any causal relationship between my moods, up or down, and I'm left feeling out of control of my emotional state of mind. It's not like I can say to myself "just whistle a happy tune and you'll feel good" or "think happy thoughts." My mood and my thoughts seem to be intertwined and I can't find where one begins and one ends. When I'm feeling okay I can believe that I am enough, just as is. But when I slip down then that thought seems like a cruel joke. It's all rather frustrating.