You are what you eat...

It's a saying I've heard time and again though I never gave it much credence growing up: You are what you eat.

What would that make me? What does it makes you?

My first experience in organic farming was exactly 10 years ago. I was acting in my first professional production in NC. One of my co-stars, who was in college and more "worldly" than me, was spending her summer working on an organic farm. To be honest I thought she was pretty weird. She had a nose ring, a few tats, her hair was cut like a boys...and she dated girls. So, it was safe to say that other than acting, Annie and I had very different interests. In my naivety I told her I was perfectly happy eating food sprayed with pesticides and made in a plant as I had been doing my whole life. I was seventeen. Looking back I can only imagine what she must have thought about me.

Over the next few years I found myself inexplicably drawn to understanding what was so important about eating organic. Was it just a fad? A gimmick to make people spend more on food? Was it really better, I mean seriously, hadn't I turned out just fine?

Like many people my childhood memories contain food memories as well. My summer was one cheese puff and grape soda after another. What I didn't know then but know now is this - I was not eating food! Oh, I was eating something...but not food. I was eating a highly processed food-like substance, but sadly, not REAL food.

I started to read. I started to research. And then, armed with the knowledge I almost wished I didn't have I was forced to re-evaluate what I was putting in my body.

I made the switch to whole grains first in 2005. As a life long white bread eater this was probably the most difficult switch for my new husband. A month or two later I switched to organic milk. What began as a slow transition switched into warp speed once I read The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. Combine reading this book with, having my first child, watching Food Inc., and then reading Food Rules, also by Michael Pollan. It was safe to say a simple trip to the grocery store has never been the same since!

Feeding myself was one thing, but being responsible for what nutrition I provide for my child placed a burden on my heart. I could not turn a blind eye to facts any longer.

Americans invent many remarkable things. We are the true innovators of this world, I believe. One not-so-wonderful thing we are the culprit of inventing however is the Western diet. What is the Western diet, you ask? Well, it is a diet generally defined as eating lots of processed foods and meat, lots of added sugar and fat, lots of refined grains, and lots of everything except fruits, vegetables, and whole grains.

That being said, it stands to reason that societies subsiding on the Western diet invariably suffer from what have become known as Western diseases. According to Pollan, "Virtually all of the obesity and type 2 diabetes, 80 percent of the cardiovascular disease, and more than 1/3 of ALL cancers can be linked to this diet." Wow!

So if we know this, why are we still eating this way? "There is a lot of money in the Western diet. The more you process any food the more profitable it becomes. The healthcare industry makes more money treating chronic diseases (which account for more than three quarters of the $2 trillion plus we spend each year on healthcare in this country) than preventing them.

How can we take a step towards changing what we eat? That's what Food Rules is about! (I swear I should be paid to advertise for this book! I LOVE it!) It is a tiny book (You can read it in less than an hour) that simplifies what and how to eat. Simple, straight-forward rules with concise explanations. Here are a few of my favorites:

1. Don't eat anything your great grandmother wouldn't recognize as food. (There are thousands of foodish products that our ancestors wouldn't recognize as food!)
2. Avoid food products no ordinary human would keep in their pantry. (Do you have ethoxylated diglycerides in your pantry? I didn't think so.)
3. Avoid foods that contain more than five ingredients....or what ever arbitrary number you adopt. The more ingredients in a packaged food, the more highly processed it is.
4. Shop the peripheries of the supermarket and stay out of the middle. Processed foods dominate the center of the store, while fresh food - produce, meats and fish, dairy -line the walls. If you shop the edges you're more likely to end up with real food.
5. Eat foods made from ingredients that you can picture in their raw state or growing in nature.
6. If it came from a plant, eat it; if it was made in a plant, don't.
7. Eat animals that have themselves eaten well. The diet of the animal strongly influences the nutritional quality, whether it is meat or milk or eggs.

There is so much good info in this book! It has certainly influenced what I eat and feed my family.

I am thankful for what I've been learning. It has become my goal for my family to be eating entirely organic and whole food by the end of 2012. I recently purchased a grain mill so I can make my own flour (thus make all my own breads.) So...if you need someone to grind your wheat, you know who to call. It has been difficult, if not impossible, to eliminate all processed food from our house. I still have a bag of fritos in my pantry calling for my affection. Some of my recipes call for things that I have yet to find a suitable substitution for...but I'm working on it. And I will get us there, eventually.

If I am what I eat, then I am currently some organic raisins...my snack of choice to keep the fritos at bay till I find the will power to toss them!

Does the old saying ring true: Are you what you eat?

Home is the best place to be...

I feel like it has been eons since my last blog entry...time is funny like that, isn't it? I get busy and suddenly it's been nearly four weeks since I've posted! 

Though the busyness of my life as of late has been simply lovely. Not only did my parents get to spend a week with me in TX over my birthday, but I was able to fly back with my mom to enjoy some time in NC.

Coming home for the first time in over a year with the newest addition to our family has been perfect. Beckett got to meet his Great Granny Sue for the first time and Blake has been loving our daily nature walks. Home is truly the best place to be.

But...enough with the updates. Let me paint you a picture of this glorious place I call home: Mitchell County, North Carolina.

Some places you experience with your entire body. You're not simply...there. You become apart of it...and it, in turn, becomes a part of you. The mountains are like that. When I'm here I feel like my body physically responds. I feel like my heart slows down to the perfectly relaxed pace of this place. My accent suddenly becomes a little thicker. I actually used the word "holler" (as in a hollow, not as in yelling) in a sentence the other day...and I liked it. I find myself yearning to churn some apple butter and go berry picking. And I can't help but hear Nickel Creek playing in the back of my mind as I stand in awe of how beautiful this land is. Something about blue grass music and the Blue Ridge Mountains just go together. If in NYC my heart beats to the rhythm of a socialite's stilettos, then at home it beats in time with the fiddler at a square dance on Saturday night.

The oldest mountain chain in the world is something quite wonderful to behold. The way the mountains fold gently into each other. The way the fog nestles in the valley in the morning. The way the light hits the mountains at sunset making giant shadows across the fields. I stood on the top of Roan Mountain on Saturday morning with mountains as far as I could see and I suddenly felt the impulse to pray. Afterall, God seems so much closer up there, surely my prayers would reach his ears first. No, but seriously, I felt the strong need to thank Him for this beautiful place that He created.

The beauty of the mountains is only accentuated by the kindness of the people that inhabit them.  When we first moved here I found myself frequently frustrated by little old men in their pick-up trucks that would stop in the middle of the road to chat. Not at a stop light, not at a stop sign, just right smack dab in the middle of the road. One would be going one way and one the other and they would slow down and roll down their windows and chat...for several minutes. Somehow we always seemed to be stuck behind them. I asked my dad one time, "What in the world is so important that we have to wait for four minutes while they chat?" He told me they probably weren't talking about anything important, it was just part of the culture here. I eventually got used to waiting for little old men in their pick-ups chatting about their tobacco crop or the weather or whatever it was. I got used to people waving and smiling at anyone that passed by. I got used to the cashier in the checkout line asking questions that sometimes crossed personal boundaries. I got used to it. It has only been in leaving this place and returning to it that I have begun to appreciate it. I appreciate that people always have time to chat with each other, even though it may be about nothing in particular. I appreciate that neighbors always have time to lend a hand. I appreciate the conversations in the check out line that may add a few measly minutes onto my busy day. I appreciate the beauty of these mountains that strike me so much more coming home than when I actually lived here.

I appreciate that no matter how long I am gone I come back to find that nothing has changed. With so few things you can count on in this world it's nice to be able to count on my home.

The mountains are a part of me now. They have influenced so much in my life. One of my favorite bible verses is: "I lift my eyes up to the hills. Where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth." Psalm 121

It reminds me of my mountains. And it makes me smile with the knowledge that even though I may currently live far away....I always have this to come home to.

Are you content with where you Went?

You know how Dove chocolates have those little philosophical sayings inside the wrapper? You get to enjoy a little something sweet while reflecting on something deep and meaningful....or you're like me and you crumple the wrapper up before remembering that you were supposed to read it and then you spend five minutes flattening it back out only to find that this deep, meaningful message wasn't so meaningful after all.

Anyways, apparently beer bottle caps are following suit. I just opened a bottle of my magic hat summer seasonal to read, "Are you content with where you Went?" (Yes, they capitalized the W on Went.) This caught my attention.

I'm not sure if it was the erroneously capitalized W or the lack of explanation in the question itself, but for whatever reason, I stood there, by the trashcan, staring at the bottle cap in my hand for a good four minutes before tossing it in. Went where? Why the capital W? Did they capitalize it arbitrarily to make me do a double-take? If so, kudos to them. It worked.

But then I started thinking of the ways to complete that question...and then many other questions began to enter my mind, all focused around one primary question - Are you content?

We spend so much time and energy focused on that question don't we? I can't check out at the grocery store without passing by O magazine exclaiming that it holds the new key to happiness. The key to being self content. The key to inner peace and endless joy. Turn on the Today show any morning of the week and some author will be touting their new book on how to find true contentment in life.

Am I content?

Yes. I am tired. I feel a little alone during the week (sigh), but I am content. I have peace. I have joy. I am trying to ignore the exhaustion this phase of my life brings and savor all the little moments with my babies. I count my blessings every day.

What is my secret? What is the key to my personal joy?

Here's my Sunday school answer: Jesus.

(Not the one that pooped on the girl in the outhouse....read my previous blog post if you are confused.)

Jesus. Such a simple answer with such complexity underneath. There is complexity to ones' personal relationship with Christ. There are things that words seem desperately inadequate to describe. Maybe that's why you don't often see Christians on the magazine covers or the tv shows letting everyone in on our little secret. We know where true joy is found! We experience the peace that only complete and utter submission to our Savior can bring!

Why aren't we sharing it?

I have felt the conviction of this question lately, as it is currently the sermon series at my church: SHARE. I have had, oh so many, countless opportunities to share my faith. On some occasions I have done so. But many I let pass me by for fear of sounding like those radical evangelicals that spout out scripture on TV but seem incapable of having a rational intellectual discussion.

But, then again, is the love of Christ rational? No. It is radical. How can I take the radical love of my Savior and reach those who prefer for things to be rational.

That is the challenge I faced the most in grad school at NYU. That's the problem with the academic elite. Intellectuals ask questions....lots of questions. Whenever I have taken the plunge and been brave enough to engage one of my non-believing friends in a religious discussion I have always walked away from it wishing I had been better equipped for the "debate." I would make one remark and suddenly would be bombarded with questions from everyone remotely close by....or at least, that's what it felt like. After a while I realized it would be much easier to just smile and nod when someone said something I disagreed with. I realized that...but those who know me, know that's not in my nature. It made for lots of interesting discussion, to put it mildly. I would often replay those discussions for months afterward wondering what I could've said differently, or searching the scripture to find that allusive verse I couldn't recall at the time. I can only hope that our talk may have planted a seed.

I pray that God will put the right people in my path and open my eyes to new opportunities to share the reason behind my joy.

Are you content?

Seriously funny shit...

Why on God's green earth am I about to write a blog post on poop?

I'll tell you...my life has revolved around it the last three days. No, seriously, it's been all about poop. Good times.

For some inexplicable reason my darling daughter as decided that this bodily function she no longer wants to do...and in doing so, my miserable two year old is making the rest of us miserable. Misery loves company, right?

During one of our many trips to the bathroom in the last few days I have had time to reflect quite a lot on...poop. (Sorry, folks. This blog post won't be tugging at the strings of your moral compass...)

Think of it...we use the word "shit" for so many different reasons: "Oh shit," "You're in deep shit," "I know you like to think your shit don't stink," "He's the shit" ...I will never understand that last one.

And what in the world makes poop so funny?

I was driving Blake home from school last fall when she made her first "poop joke."

"Guess what Mommy," she said sweetly.

"What, baby?" I reply.

"POOP!" she shouts, at the top of her lungs.

(No, I don't think she has a future as a comedienne.) I also should add that was the last poop joke she made.

But, turn on the tv, and there they are - poop jokes, bathroom comedy, whatever you call it...there they are.

I told Blake after her little joke that we NEVER talk about poop, unless we are saying we need to go to the bathroom. I'm about to break my own rule by telling a true story...yes, a poop story.

First, I have to give my cousin credit...he happens to have more poop stories than any person that has ever lived. Thankfully, this story did not happen to him...he just bore witness to it.

Summer time. If you grew up in a church youth group, you know what this means. Countless nights away at various camps, mission trips, and lock-ins. This particular summer the youth group at Grace Baptist Church (not really the name, but it serves the purpose of my story) was travelling to Jamaica. They were split into teams to serve in different areas: sport's camp, drama ministry, and children's church.

On this day their bus was travelling over the rugged dirt roads to a small school where the drama team would be performing their last show of the day. They were starving. Having gotten lost driving between shows earlier that day they hadn't stopped for lunch. Now it was late afternoon and at this rate their stomachs would be louder than their voices. Heaven smiled at them, however, because at the same moment that their grumbling was becoming unbearable to the chaperones, they saw a jerk chicken stand on the side of the road. This place was a dive in the worst sense of the word, but the famished teens couldn't care less. They downed plates full of jerk chicken and rice and within minutes were back on the bus hurtling towards their destination.

With their stomachs full they arrived in the small town and set up for their performance of the Passion play. Around the same time that their audience was getting seated the actors were finding that something wasn't quite right. (You know where I'm going with this.) Unfortunately, no one was experiencing an upset stomach more than their Jesus....oh, it get worse. There were no restrooms at the school...only a small outhouse out back.

Before any of the actors could protest (or use the bathroom) the chaperones were on stage starting the show. Nothing could done. The show must go on.

Luckily, they made it through the show without any incidents...or accidents, I should say. But before the actors could take their final bow, Jesus leaps off the cross, bolts across the stage, and sprints to the outhouse. He wrenches open the door, pulls up his robe, and lets it all go...right onto a little girl. No joke.

This poor child did not have the Jesus experience she had been hoping for. Instead she got pooped on.

Now, unlike what I've been experiencing the last few days, that's some seriously funny shit.

America the beautiful?

America is the only country in the world that...how many ways can you finish that sentence?


Too many to count.


Some of the possible ways to complete that sentence are fabulous, but others...not so much.

Don't get me wrong I LOVE our country, it's people, and what it represents to the world - countless freedoms and equal opportunities. Americans are leaders. Americans are innovators. Americans are rebels, patriots, and free thinkers. But let's be honest, Americans tend to be egocentric, and many in the U.S. live their lives in disconnect with the sufferings in the rest of the world.

Our innovative spirits have served us well in so many areas, but there are some in which our attempts to re-invent the wheel have failed us miserably.

While walking with a girlfriend this morning I was told about the book, "The Economy of Love," by Shane Claiborne. The premise behind the book is this: the U.S. is the only country in the world where our lives, and work are structured around the individual instead of the community.

In a sincere effort to be the best in whatever we chose to pursue it's become all about the "me" and the "we" has been forgotten about. So many people share the notion that "if it doesn't affect me it doesn't matter," or "if I help you what's in it for me?"

Now I'm not saying we should get some families together and live in a commune as parts of the book may suggest. (I'm sure that could be very entertaining though.) But I do feel that the sense of community, that so many cultures around the world depend on, is lacking in the U.S.

There are moments when I see a glimmer of this spirit of brotherhood, when the humanitarian heart is awakened across the country. It's a beautiful thing to witness. Neighbor helping neighbor. A person comforting a complete stranger simply because they're hurting and it's the right thing to do. It seems that it's only in the dark times that we experience this change of heart. In the face of tragedy it somehow becomes easier to put the "we" in front of the "me."

I can't help but wonder what our country would look like if we maintained this "community" through the good times. It would be revolutionary - to have individuals come together to solve issues that may not involve them directly but serve a greater purpose.

I'm not talking about giving those in need a hand out, but rather a hand up. I'm not talking about social justice or redistribution of wealth. I'm not talking about creating some government program that would give a forced sense of community. I'm talking about a change of heart.

What would it look like if Americans reoriented their hearts and minds to care as much about others as we do ourselves?

What would we see?

America the beautiful?

I find my happy place.

It's been one of those days.

All the parents out there know exactly what I mean - when both kids are screaming, dogs are barking, the phone is ringing and all I can tell myself is "find a happy place."

And then I started thinking...where would I go, literally, if I could choose a physical place that brings me peace?

We all have that place, don't we? The place where the weight of the world seems to magically lift off our shoulders. The place where we have a little extra pep in our step and can not help but smile.

I have two places that give me such a peace. They happen to be drastically different from each other: New York City and the NC mountains.

Let me take you to my city....

We signed the lease on our first apartment in NYC on my 22nd birthday. Our 298 sq.ft. Chelsea apartment (refering to the neightborhood, not myself) was a fifth floor walk-up with a fire escape that we would occassionaly use to sneak up to the roof and watch the cruise ships come in on the Hudson. It was too small, too old, and in a particular neighborhood that made my hubby too uncomfortable. But it was perfect...at least to me. I remember when we moved there the exhileration I felt walking along the city streets. A permanent smile was plastered on my face...in fact, I probably scared our neighbors with my over-enthusiastic grin, but I didn't care. I had waited for as long as I could remember to live in New York and I was finally there. My heart was meant to beat to the rhythm on Manolo Blahniks on the cobblestone streets of the Meat Packing district.

Can you see it? The hustle and bustle of the city. Prep school kids getting their lattes at Sant Ambroeus on the Upper East Side. The business man hailing the cab with his New York Times. The sparkling, albeit dirty, waters of the Hudson from the views at Riverside park.

Can you hear it? An expletive or two from the cabbie shouted at tourists standing too close the curb...because they will hit you. The opera singer doing their vocal warm-up beside you on the subway. The fabulous Yiddish words sprinkling the vocab of the Upper West Siders. (I miss hearing words like shlep, shmuck, and shmatte. I have no idea why they always seem to start with "sh.")

Can you smell it? The brick oven pizza from John's. The perfume of the socialites on Park Ave. The stench of urine in the subway on a hot summer day. (ah, New York.)

Are you there yet?

I had waited my whole life to be there and I was drinking in every second of it...that is, until the homesickness set in.

It wasn't until the fall that I started to feel this unfamiliar twinge of pain whenever I would hear or see certain things that reminded me of NC. It tripled in effect when the Christmas tree stands went up after Thanksgiving. (My family owns a Christmas tree farm in NC.) I would smell the fraiser firs from a block away and I would start to tear up. Bryan and I seriously had to map out where the tree stands were around our apartment so we could take detours to prevent my meltdowns. Seriously, messy crying, meltdowns. There was one occassion that I really wanted to just go close my eyes and smell the trees, no matter how torturous I knew it would be...and so I did. I stood by the tree lot with my eyes closed, breathing in the scent of the fraiser firs, and tears streaming down my face...that is, until I was noticed by the lot owner who asked if he could help me pick out a tree. I responded, "No, thank you. I don't have room in my apartment. I just wanted to smell them." I'm so glad I couldn't hear what he was thinking even if the look was plastered all over his face.

I missed NC, but I knew if I left New York I would have an equal longing for this city that had become my home.

I started running in NYC along the Hudson every day. I would tune my iPod to some good bluegrass like Nickel Creek and just run. The music of the mountains married with views of Lady Liberty. Priceless.

The homesickness faded away and by 2007 we found ourselves on the Upper East Side. So many good times.

New York City is my happy place tonight...along with this glass of wine I'm about finish. ;)

Some days I need to reflect on it, and sigh. I can end a chaotic day with fond memories of my time in a chaotic city.

Cheers.

Where do you draw the line?

We've all seen it.

Parents at dinner not looking at each other but catering the entire meal to the whim of their child. The baby wearing the bib that declares "I'm the boss," and you can tell it's not too far from the truth. The 11th place trophies. The toddlers playing games on their parents iPhones to prevent mealtime meltdowns.

The fact is we've become a culture of overindulgence without even realizing it. In a sincere effort to shower our children with love and admiration we've encouraged behavior that has snowballed into an epidemic of narcissism.

I say "we" because, try as I might, I know that I too fall victim to this behavior from time to time.

So many parents try to justify their behavior by saying things like: "Well, we give them all trophies because we want them to feel special," or "It's impossible to have a peaceful meal if we don't let her play with the iPhone," or "I really want my child to like me."

You know the saying "Give me a soap box and I'll stand on it?" Well I just happen to have one handy...this blog. Here I go.

"Well, we give them all trophies because we want them to feel special" - The effort made to make children "feel special" leads to nothing more than over-inflated egos and sense of entitlement. Am I saying that we need to tell kids "Hey, you really stink at drawing?" No. But we also don't need to tell a 12 year old they're the next Van Gogh when they can't say inside the lines of their coloring book. (Because this hypothetical 12 year old has a coloring book. ha!) I believe in encouraging children to work hard, praising them for what they accomplish, and helping them to find things they can improve on. Competition is healthy and without it we would all settle for the 11th place trophy. What would be left to work towards?

"It's impossible to have a peaceful meal if we don't let her play with the iPhone" - So many parents give up or give in because...it's easy. It's hard to listen to a whiny kid, especially in public. It's embarrassing to feel like people could be staring and judging your ability to parent based on the behavior of your child. So, it's easier to pull up some kid friendly iPhone app and hand it over to the antsy toddler. In the last week I have seen this happen at least a dozen times (oh yes, I started counting!) But all we are doing is robbing our children of a lesson in patience. Mealtimes are family time...the entire family. Children have to learn how to sit politely at some point, you might as well start young.

"I want my kids to like me." - Of course you do! But, that's not always going to be the reality. Nor should it be. My two year old recently told me after I told her we do not watch tv everyday, "Mommy, you're not my friend." To which I responded, "Honey, I didn't give birth to you because I needed a friend." ...She didn't get it, but it was true nonetheless.

And one thing I am CONSTANTLY the culprit of - ending a request to my kids in a question. Ex. "We're going upstairs to put our pj's on now, okay?" "Let's get in the car, alright?" Arghh! Why do I make it sound like I am asking their permission. Aren't I the parent? I realized this after reading a fabulous book last fall, "The Narcissism Epidemic: Living in the Age of Entitlement" by Jean Twenge and Keith Campbell. I have made a concerted effort to be very conscious of it since then.

Now...let me state. I am not saying to run your house with an iron fist, or exist as a dictator over your poor kiddos. Children need to feel that their thoughts are valued and their opinion respected. Giving them choices when available helps them practice independent thinking and nurtures their self esteem. Allowing a child to make a choice about their wardrobe is the perfect example that should be adapted according to their age. Ex. I give my two year old two choices every morning, sometimes three if I have nowhere to go. "Do you want to wear your pink shoes or your tennis shoes?" I never ask "What do you want to wear?" My child would undoubtedly choose her tutu and a bikini top or some other ghastly fashion faux pas! Now when she's a little older I expect that I'll be able to say, "It's cold outside today. What long sleeved shirt do you want to wear?"

Kids need some freedom within limits and it's up to the parents to set those limits. What a huge responsibility to know that decisions you make day in and day out affect a life other than your own! To sum it all up: Praise your kids wisely, indulge with caution, state the facts, offer choices when appropriate, and LOVE always!

Now it's time to self-evaluate...where do you draw the line?