Spirituality | thesmartlyny.com

I don’t want to be your Barbie doll. But I don’t want to be me either.

June 15, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 6 Comments

I think we women have gotten exactly what others think we deserve. And they have been so successful at it because we never fight back.

Now I am not going to go into each black hole we have climbed into, every enemy we have given up our souls to, but I want to chew the fat for awhile about the world of body image – the lack of it, the self loathing that surrounds it and I really want to be perfectly honest with you all.

I would like to start of by saying that I am one of the lost souls. I will always live in that land of touching thighs and upper arms being mistaken for wind chimes in a sand storm. And I will always hate myself for falling short when it comes to beauty. Always. To say that my self image has impacted every aspect of my life is a no brainer. In fact, if I find out that my brain is carrying around a little fat, I will start to loathe it and will try to starve it.

I was taught to despise my body early on. My father was critical because I had not lost all the baby fat, so the first man I loved turned against me because of baby fat. I never got past it. I was around six. And they wondered why I didn’t stand up straight. If people couldn’t see my face, they couldn’t identify the cubby girl who walked in front of a speeding train. I daydreamed about leaving the world because I was a fat freak of nature. You told me I was and why would you lie to me?

Then I got a Barbie doll as a gift and realized that I would never have her heat seeking missile-like breasts. And I hated myself even more. So I received more Barbies for my birthday and Christmas. I don’t believe the intent was to scar me, but I believe self-administered electrical shock would have been less painful. At least I could have controlled the pain.

And the plastic bitch was blonde and my mousy dark blonde hair became my crown of thorns.

I came into my teen years and found myself living in the same world as Twiggy, the ultra thin English model. God must have really hated me. The message was loud and clear – If you wanted to be admired, adored and wealthy shrink back into the body of a six year old. I took on the challenge and did acquire a “moderate” starved look. Not good enough. But if you mixed enough booze with pills you could lose the weight and your stomach lining.

Success. Finally.

But my body decided to reject me like a transplanted hand as I got older. I could actually feel my skin trying to shrink back around my bones, but my fat was holding unto dear life and kept pushing out. It kept winning as my self esteem tanked. Over and over and over.

I am a failure. People only see my fat and are repulsed by it. If I am disgusted about myself, how could I expect others to embrace me? If they did they would feel the back fat. Disgusting.

I have not enjoyed my body at all. Okay, maybe for a total of 10 minutes. I pretended I was someone else. But I sometimes feel like a highly functional woman who is in search of a vein to open because I never measured up.

And I know I am not alone. I am one of the millions of women who can’t accept an extra 15 to 20 pounds on their bodies. Is this not freaking insane? I am embarrassed but I know one thing is for sure – I will never feel any better about myself until the weight comes off.

I will feel accepted. I will feel loved. And most important, I will feel worthy.

So here you go. I finally got honest about myself.

So every story like this needs a silver lining. And here it is:

Take it from someone who will die feeling like I missed my mark in my life. I fell short and for that I apologize to all I have met in my life. You deserved a better “me.”

From this day on, get off your fat asses or highly toned butts and say “ENOUGH.”

I would love to help, but I don’t know the first thing to do about accepting myself.

But you all better reject what society says is beautiful and you must redefine it. I can’t be saved, but you still have a chance to reclaim your life. Do it for every six year old girl who is looking at her baby fat while she has her finger down her throat.

If you don’t, then we women will have gotten exactly what others think we deserve.

Filed Under: Opinion, Spirituality

The sun. The surf. The skin cancer.

June 1, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 5 Comments

As a young girl, I remember looking out the kitchen window and watching my father sunbath. He’d hold up a piece of aluminum foil under his chin and the sun would bake his fair, freckled face. The only thing that looked a bit out of place was that it was February and my father would be sitting in a foot of snow.

Years later, my very handsome father was having cancerous growths cut away from his nearly perfect face.

As teenagers we would go to beach, pour baby oil all over our hair and bodies and cook. And we would be told that we looked healthy. I rarely got sunburns because I assumed that while I had my father’s surname, I had my mother’s Italian skin.

When I first moved to San Francisco I got what I called “a sun and wind burn by the bay” and it was beyond painful. I think I had a 3 inch square of skin that was not on fire and I had to try to sit and sleep while balancing on that patch of skin. And I waited for the blisters to abate so I could go to Golden Gate Park and play Frisbee and tempt the sun god once again.

Once I was settled back in New York City, my friends and I developed a ritual where we would mock the people with the real dark, unnatural looking tans. We were fashionable mole people who believed that the pasty, sickly look was healthy. And we were saving our skin but only traveling at night. I wasn’t sure if we were bats or vampires.

Two years ago, I made my way to my dermatologist’s office for my yearly, “I will show you my skin and you will tell me everything is fine” dance. I had this little growth that my seat belt was rubbing against and it was annoying me. My doctor took a little snip and assured me that it looked pretty harmless.

It’s wasn’t.

I had what is called squamous cell carcinoma. And it needed to be removed. When I got off the phone with my doctor, I googled skin cancer and according to eHealthMD: Squamous cell carcinoma is more serious because it does spread to vital organs inside the body. Spread occurs in a few cases in every 100. It does so slowly. At first cancer cells tend to spread only as far as the nearest lymph nodes structures, which filter out and trap the cancer cells. If spread has occurred, the affected lymph nodes can be removed before cancer spreads to vital organs.

I was kind of freaked out but hopeful because this cancer moves slowly. And I thanked my seat belt for making me notice what I thought was nothing. That “nothing” could have really messed up my life.

I was in my doctor’s office two days later and as I laid there on the table he asked me how I was. My response was that I had had so many traumatic things thrown my way. I had dodged a few life bullets, had suffered from physical and verbal abuse, had lousy bosses, really bad dates and for those reasons alone I thought I would not be visited by Cancer. How dare it mess with me. I looked up at him and said, “I have cancer. Damn.”

He had to cut deep into my collarbone and got it all. A lovely little scar is the headstone for what was my cancer. RIP because I don’t plan on you winning.

But I feel 100% confident that cancer and I will meet again one day.

I think that is why the universe gave us dermatologists. Don’t assume that odd little growth or that maddening age spot that wasn’t there before is harmless.

Mine was not harmless, but I came out the winner. This time.

Filed Under: Spirituality

A virgin in the world of veganism: Just be gentle with her

May 20, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 5 Comments

I never shied away from a challenge. Well, that is not exactly true. I did turn down participating in the Iditarod. Even though I keep better in the cold, frostbitten is not my color. I sited religious reasons for not going out with a man who had a third nipple and I stopped eating a whole pizza with extra cheese and pepperoni at one sitting when I realized that going to work in one’s bathrobe was not acceptable business attire. But neither were trousers that you could not zip up.

About three weeks ago, I foolishly posted on Facebook that I could probably go vegan for a week. When the pressure from others commenting on my declaration became too great, so I convinced a blogging friend to go vegan with me for a week. I doubt I could go into the world of veganism by myself. So veggie burgers and beans, here we come.

Vegans do not eat meat, fish, or poultry nor do they use other animal products and by-products such as eggs, dairy products, honey, leather, fur, silk, wool, cosmetics, and soaps derived from animal products.

Okay, I am already in trouble. I can do all of that (I might be wearing plastic bags as sandals) but the elimination of my cosmetics might scare an organic bunch of carrots to death. I think I am going “lean into veganism” with a little eye shadow and lip gloss. But I will investigate cosmetics and soaps that are not derived from our four legged friends. I think I already use some items that would make a vegan proud.

One thing that did surprise me is that going vegan does not mean you have to fill up on sprouts and seaweed. You could, but you can add peanut butter, pasta, fruit, good old beans, popcorn and a lot more. And the dishes don’t look like all brown and nasty. Spices can go a long way to make it look, smell and taste great – repeat after me.

Tofu takes on the taste of anything you cook it with so I am going to try chocolate tofu with broccoli and cashews. First I got to find some vegan chocolate. And I will be searching high and low for vegan-friendly wine that compliments seitan, quinoa, or tempeh.

On a serious note, I have been reading up on the subject of veganism and although I have heard about the horrors the animals go through just to make it to our dinner tables, reading it again with a slightly different mindset just breaks my heart. I look at my animals (six rescued cats and a yellow lab) and think if anyone ever hurt them they would have deal with me before I would call the authorities. So how can I care so deeply for my little furry family and keep this form of animal torture and killing going?

I don’t think I can.

Now will I change completely in a week? Doubt it, but I am going to try my best to end the slaughter and torture of animals that would have ended up in my grocery cart.

And I just found out that there is vegan Nutella!

Filed Under: Eco, Humor, Opinion, Spirituality

What I won’t miss when the world comes to an end

April 1, 2011 By Elizabeth Cassidy 13 Comments

I can’t help but think that this little planet earth might not be around for much longer. I don’t stay up at night shaking in my bed sheets, but I believe Mother Nature has grown bored with our inability to get along, to exercise regularly and to share the TV remote. You got to admit that the frisky Mamma has been working overtime lately.

The other day I was getting so overwhelmed by the news of the world that it got me thinking. What would I not miss if the world comes to an end? I have to say it was this first time in weeks that a smile graced my face.

Think about it. When we become tiny little particles floating around the Milky Way, there will be no more:

Taxes
Boxed wine
Glenn Back
Fat free food
Water retention
Knock knock jokes
Charlie Sheen (ahhh…I just want to stay here for a minute)
Scales that lie
Paper cuts
Computer hackers (there is a special place in hell for them).
Songs about women and trucks
Certain shades of pink
A generation who feels they are just entitled to it all (while not doing a damn thing)
Snakes
Vomit of any kind – not that there is good vomit, but my cats like to leave it so I can find it with my bare feet.
Car repairs that you have to sell an organ to finance
Men who say they will call, but never do. Hey Hackers – please make some room.
Public bathrooms
Dressing rooms lighting
Making lists

So I have done my job with making the end sound a little sweeter.

What’s on your list?

Filed Under: Humor, Opinion, Spirituality

Looking for My Mula Bandha

February 24, 2011 By Deborah Batterman 12 Comments

Full disclosure: I’ve been doing yoga for a long time, long enough to have mastered some advanced poses I still won’t go near. Call me uncertain, call me cautious, call me teetering on an edge, the one between feeling fully grounded and light enough to let go.

Or maybe I just haven’t quite accessed that sweet spot, mysterious in name, mula bandha. Some yoga teachers I’ve experienced make an assumption of visualizing the internal, the ‘root lock’ (two inches below the belly button and one inch in) at the core, one of the three through which prana flows. Contract the perineum, think of Kegel exercises; sometimes it gets even more anatomically specific. Other teachers go from the outside in, focusing on form and structure, the inherent geometry of a perfectly balanced downward-facing dog. I’ve had the great fortune to work with an especially brilliant teacher who peppers her classes with Taoist wisdom, baseball imagery, and the unfailing measure of a right angle, and once said, while maneuvering one of my limbs into a place it did not know it could go, that I was a 70-watt bulb operating at 30 watts. I took it as compliment, a glimmer of possibility. Putting aside the suggestion that hands-on adjustments make for touchy topics these days, it all boils down to trust. When the student is ready, the teacher appears.

Everything evolves, even the way we inhabit the practice of yoga, and in a world connected in ways the ancients could never have imagined (or did they?), there’s cross-breeding of paradigms, niches to be marketed, no need for a one-size-fits-all mentality, East and West melding in some new direction. So call me a little cynical now, even a cliché: a woman on the brink of some enlightened life, my age (sixty-one-ish) in perfect sync with the era I most identify with, who has been doing yoga long enough to laugh at articles suggesting that yoga mats are passé, possibly even unsanitary (I <3 my yoga mat); or that Tara Stiles’s approach to teaching makes her a rebel in yoga clothes; or that laughter yoga (you can’t make this stuff up) is, for some, the best medicine of all.

What you get out of yoga – or any discipline – is what you bring to it. Fear of going upside down? Little by little it dissolves. I used to measure my progress by how close I was to doing a full wheel (don’t ask me the Sanskrit name, just think of a gorgeous backbend) each year. Now I’ve stopped measuring my progress, which may, in yogic terms, be the most progress of all. And if I still have trouble finding my mula bandha in mountain pose, maybe all I need is to shift gears, turn my gaze outside the box, take a Zumba class at the gym.

Visit Deborah’s website here . . .

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Spirituality

Monkey philosophy

February 17, 2011 By Jessica Safran 9 Comments

My six-year-old daughter has a bit of the philosopher in her. She asks a lot of questions. Often it’s the same question multiple times, as if asking it will make her desired outcome happen faster.

On a fifteen-minute walk to a friend’s house for a play date, five minutes into the journey she asked, “Mommy, are we there yet?”

“No … you know where we are.”

A minute of quiet walking, then: “Mommy, are we there yet?”

“Monkey, you just asked me that a minute ago. Do you see where we are?”

“Yes.”

“Are we there yet?”

“No.”

Ninety seconds go by.

Monkey, whining: “MOMMEEE, are we there yet? My feet hurt.”

Me, trying a new approach: “Yep. We’re there.”

Silence.

Monkey, smiling: “No, we’re not!”

Me: “We’re not? You’re kidding! Uh oh! Where are we then?”

Sometimes the questions are about bigger topics, like the one I got yesterday after we chatted about her six-week-old cousin: “Mommy, how does the mommy get the baby out?”

“Well, the mommy goes into labor. Labor means ‘work.’ Getting the baby out is hard work. Here, put on your socks, we have to go.”

The questions these days are more about the physical world, but two years ago when she was four, I was already getting the metaphysical questions. One night she asked me what God looked like while I was flossing her teeth. “That’s a very good question, Monkey. It’s hard to say exactly what God looks like because you might say God is everywhere.” She looked uncertain, either because of my vague explanation, or her anticipation of her least favorite part of the nightly flossing routine. I went for those two tricky back teeth in the upper right of her mouth. “Although some people imagine God as a man with a flowing white robe and long white hair and a beard,” I offered, pulling out the floss with a pop, as Monkey winced. She smacked her lips, happy to be done.

“A man with a white robe and long hair and a beard?” she giggled, not sure if I was kidding.

Later that night, I gave Monkey a big, squeezy hug as I tucked her in bed. “No matter how old you are, you’ll always be my baby!”

“Even when I’m old?”  she asked.

“Even when you’re old.”

“Even when I’m fifty?”

“Even then, when I’m eighty-eight.”   I thought of my own mother, whose age remains highly classified and who has always had the ability to reduce me emotionally to a cranky fifteen-year-old no matter how old I am.

“Eighty-eight? That’s SUPER old!” Monkey gazed at me lovingly, stroking my cheek with her hand. Her face then grew somber, and she innocently ambushed me.

“Mommy, what if you die? How am I going to find food by myself? How will I know what to do?”

My heart skipped a beat in my rib cage. “Oh Monkey … you will know how to take care of yourself long before I die. I promise.”

“I hope we die together—I want to be right next to you. Will we be together when we die?”

The nightlight blurred.

Suddenly, I squeezed her again, even tighter. I forced myself to breathe deeply in order to respond with a steady voice. “Monkey, no matter what happens, we will be together, always.”

“That makes me happy, Mommy.”

I released my hold on her and stroked her hair. “Me too, Monkey.”

*
We’re now two blocks from the play date.

“Mommy … are we there yet?

“Almost!” I declare, triumphant.

Filed Under: Humor, Nostalgia, Parenting, Spirituality