The Bering Blog

Resolving Not To Resolve

All I’ve seen online this weekend are articles on how to make and keep a New Year’s resolution. I took all the Christmas decorations down this morning just so I could reclaim my house and have some semblance of normalcy again and now I’m supposed to “resolve” to change? I don’t think so.

Why? Because New Year’s resolutions feel so mandatory; they’re so guilt-laden. I don’t feel any “renewal” on Jan. 1. It’s cold and snowy, I’m in a huge emotional let-down from the holidays – hardly a good place to be when resolving to change something negative about myself – and it’s all I can do to throw away the old and hang the new calendars around the house. The only difference from Dec. 31 to Jan. 1 is a number at the end of the year, but still I feel such angst, such pressure to change something. I’ve felt that way every month – no, every day – for three years now.

It all started in earnest on Jan. 1, 2005, when I resolved to lose weight. It was the first resolution I’ve ever kept. It was a good thing to do, losing weight. No doubt it’s changed my life. But in the ensuing months and years, I’ve sought to improve everything about myself. And believe me, my friends, that’s a lot of self-improvement, most of which is still in progress or waiting to be discovered to be improved. I’m exhausted. I’m downright, absolutely, beat-to-the-ground exhausted. I don’t want to improve anything right now. I simply don’t have the energy.

So it was with great relief that I read M.J. Ryan’s little article in this month’s Health magazine about resolutions. I read it last night as I fussed in my head about my exercise routine, my eating habits, the way I am (or am not) organized, how I spend money, what I will change about myself this year. Then I read, “This year, forget the resolutions!”

‘What?’ I thought. ‘You mean that’s possible?’

“What if this year you and I resolve to accept ourselves exactly as we are?” writes Ryan. “Imagine the relief we’ll feel if we kick the relentless self-improvement habit. You know – if we stop reciting chapter and verse about all our failings and mess-ups, and, instead, take pleasure in who we are right now.”

Taking pleasure in who I am right now isn’t something I’ve thought much about. I take pleasure in the person I’m becoming. I forgot that there really is a person I am right now.

“Can you do it?” Ryan continues. “If it seems difficult, that’s no surprise. In fact, I once read that the most frequent question to Ann Landers was, ‘What’s wrong with me?’

“Because we see ourselves as endless self-help projects, we’re constantly holding ourselves up to impossibly perfectionistic standards in everything from relationships to body shape to clothes-washing. And there’s no good reason for it. The truth is, our imperfections and inconsistencies, our messy closets and unmade beds, are just incidental parts of our wonderful, fulfilling lives.”

Did you hear that? Our imperfections make us who we are. I’m not intentionally mean or forgetful or unorganized or flat-chested or someone for whom belly skin is an issue. I don’t mean to forget to call someone back or send an email or take out the garbage or pay a bill. Generally speaking, I’m a nice person. I’m a good person. Chances are, you are, too.

This year, I’m adopting M.J. Ryan’s philosophy. I guess you could say I’m resolving to make no resolutions. Like the Rush song says, “If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice.” If I choose in 2008 to change something about myself, which no doubt I will, I will do it because I want to and not because of a date on a calendar or because everyone else is doing it.

Are you making a resolution? Post a comment. Let us know if you are or are not, what it is or is not, or if you are, like me, going to breathe deep and get to know the you you are now.

Here’s Ryan’s advice on “How to say no to perfection.” It made me smile last night and took a huge load off my shoulders:

Take a break: For a full month, do nothing to improve yourself.

Make a mistake: Try a small, intentional slip-up – on purpose – and notice what happens. Don’t call back the moment you said you would. When you do call, apologize and ask how you can help now. Leave the house a mess before having guests, and then check in with yourself after the party. Did everybody have fun even though you aren’t perfect?

High-five yourself: At the end of the day, notice at least three things you did well and say, “Good job.”

Story-Telling At Claire’s House

It’s Saturday morning and I’m at Claire’s house. We got here yesterday with the boys in tow to celebrate Christmas with the whole family.

You’d never know a baby lives here at night. If she makes a peep, wants to eat, her mom and dad are right on top of it. That’s so courteous of them. After a good night’s sleep, I’m sitting on the couch watching Claire groove in her vibrating chair, talking to her hand, laughing and kicking her feet.

Last night at dinner, Cassie asked me…wait, no, she whined, “You’re not gonna tell Claire stories about me when I was a kid, are you? At least, not the one like the time I put a penny in the light socket, right?”

“Are you kidding me?” I laughed. “I’ll not only tell her, I’m gonna show her the penny!”

We’re a story-telling family. It’s what we do at the dinner table when we’re all together. Last night I told the family how old I felt the other night when Andy observed out loud, “Next summer I’ll be able to drive here,” and how it reminded me of the day 14 years ago when Carlene’s Aunt Flo came to visit and she sat down at the breakfast table and said to me, “This means I can have babies.”

The girls laughed, but of course Andy and Kevin moved around uncomfortable in their chairs because I dared mention that their sister got her period like normal girls do, so the point of my story was a little lost. There was a lot of looking around the room at that moment.

For whatever reason, apropos of nothing, I remembered my movie-star dress. When I was 5 years old, I had a short-sleeve blue sparkly dress that I wore every time I watched “Gilligan’s Island.” I wanted to be Ginger when I grew up. The kids found this amusing.

That’s how story-telling goes with us. One thing to one thing to another.

When we were driving here yesterday, the song “The Cover Of The Rolling Stone” by Dr. Hook came on. The boys were playing video games in the back seat when I turned around and started singing, “Well we’re big rock singers, we got golden fingers, and we’re loved everywhere we go…” They looked up for a second, gave me a blank look, and went back to their games. Undeterred, I launched into my story.

“When I was 9 or 10 years old and living in Jasper, a school bus would pick a bunch of us kids up in the park and take us 11 miles north to the Pipestone public pool to swim for the afternoon. We sang this song all the way up there. That and ’99 Bottles of Beer…’,” I said dreamily, a little lost in thought. My story only rendered a small smile from Kevin, but I didn’t care. I just looked out the window and kept right on singing.

“(Rolling stone.....) Wanna see our pictures on the cover. (Stone.....) Wanna buy five copies for my mother..... (yeah) (Stone.....) Wanna see my smilin’ face. On the cover of the rollin' stone…”

I guess that’s why I’m a writer. I love telling stories. I love hearing stories. I’m currently reading “Little Heathens” by Mildred Armstrong Kalish. It’s a fun book of memories of growing up during the Great Depression. Not that the Great Depression was fun, but Kalish is a fun story-teller. I highly recommend this book.

Time to get ready for the day. What stories will today hold? That’s what makes living so fun. You just never know what’ll happen next.

I Need To Be Needed...I Love To Be Loved

My girls moved out years ago and my stepsons don’t live with us, but I’m still the mom with everything.

My oldest daughter was home this weekend for a wedding. She was getting ready for the rehearsal dinner Friday when she realized she forgot her razor. And she had a hole in her stockings. And the shoes she brought weren’t suited for her outfit. And she didn’t have a lighter jacket than her winter coat. And the batteries in her camera were losing power.

That’s where I always come in. I’m never without an extra razor or two and the junk drawer is stocked with assorted batteries. Carlene and I wear the same size stockings and shoes and I had a sweater that she could wear and not be bogged down by a heavy coat.

When the kids visit and forget a toothbrush? Mom’s got an extra. Forget deodorant? Mom has both roll-on and stick. Need to ship a package? Mom’s got boxes and tubes and tape and a postal scale. Cold? There’s always plenty of jackets, mittens, boots, and hats. When my girls don’t have quite the right shirt or skirt, they know I probably do.

Do you remember “Let’s Make A Deal”? Sometimes Monty Hall would ask people in the audience if they had things like paper clips, egg timers, string, magnets, clothes pins, odd things like that in their bags or purses. If they did, they’d get $50 or a chance to win a prize behind door number one, two or three. My purse is “Let’s Make a Deal” ready. I’ve got Band-Aids, a nail file, Tic Tacs, two kinds of gum, retail “member” cards from every major store, paper, pens, pencils, a $2 bill, lipstick, lip gloss, dental floss, hand lotion, a compact, comb, aspirin, Celebrex, Xanax, antiacids, Kleenex, vitamins, postage stamps, and god knows what else in there.

The funny thing is that I’m not a pack rat. I don’t hang on to things that I won’t use within a reasonable amount of time. In fact, I’m prone to throwing things or giving things away and then realizing a short time later that I need them. I think it’s just years of practice that keeps me in supply of useful things beyond the scope of normal. Why have one screwdriver when three or four in varying sizes have more potential uses? One curling iron is a good thing, but one half-inch iron, one one-inch iron, and a flat iron is  even better. If you have straight hair, I have shampoo for that. Curly hair? Yup. Got that, too.

My pantry and refrigerator always have enough food for unexpected company or for days when I don’t feel like making the meal I’d planned. I hate running out of cooking spray so I always pick up a can when at the grocery store. Same with dog treats and sweet potatoes. They keep, they’re cheap and I avoid running out at a time when I need them the most. (Not that one needs sweet potatoes, but they’re an easy back-up food when I don’t feel like cooking anything elaborate.)

Besides, I like being the mom with everything. When your kids leave home, you still want them to need you in some capacity. I’m glad my daughter could wear my shiny black boots last Friday. I’m glad I had a razor she could use, and pantyhose to wear and a sweater. Having batteries on hand saved her a trip to the store thus preventing her from rushing to the rehearsal dinner.

My kids take for granted that I’ll have extra stuff on hand, but they don’t live their lives expecting everyone will have extra stuff on hand for them. They’re quite independent. But I won’t lie. I like that they still rely on old Mom once in awhile.

They’ll all be here tomorrow for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I’m sure there will be something they’ve forgotten or realize they need. I’m ready. I bought a few extra toothbrushes at the store today. I’ve got plenty of laundry soap, a Tide and Clorox pen, gift wrap, tape and scissors, and extra blankets and slippers in case it gets cold.

I’m like that Peter Gabriel song, “I need to be needed…I love to be loved.”

The Lutefisk Is Here! The Lutefisk Is Here!

I’ve got the best dad in the whole world. Among all the boxes shipped to my house from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Harry & David and every other retail outlet on the Net was one yesterday from Broton, Minnesota, marked PERISHABLE in permanent marker. I knew exactly what that meant: Dad came through for me. The ambrosia had arrived. All the other boxes could wait on the porch. PERISHABLE from Broton was urgent.

The one-pound package of lutefisk had defrosted but was still cold. Not that that mattered much. Unlike other previously frozen fish where it’s not a good idea to refreeze, you can do pretty much anything you want to lutefisk. Freeze, defrost, refreeze, hang outside on a clothes line. It’ll pretty much taste the same once you cook it.

My grandmother, Katinka Hagebakken (no, I didn’t make that up), called lutefisk the “poor man’s cod.” Technically it is cod, but unlike cod that you stuff with crab and bake in butter and lovely exotic herbs and spices, lutefisk is salted and dried for storage. Then to inflate it, it’s soaked in water and lye. Yes, lye. Tasty. And I’m not being sarcastic. It really is tasty. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Hundreds of people stand in line for hours at small country Lutheran churches throughout Minnesota when they host their annual lutefisk dinners. Check out this website for a comprehensive list of lutefisk dinner sites throughout Minnesota (and Wisconsin and Seattle and even Las Vegas): http://www.geocities.com/napavalley/3227/events.htm.

I know most people don’t like lutefisk and can’t understand why those of us who love it bother using a fork when a straw would be so much easier. But I’m used to the jokes and the insults and the references to Jello-O. Sticks and stone, my friends. Sticks and stones.

My dad was my lutefisk dinner partner for many years, but he lives in Minnesota and I in Pennsylvania so in recent years I’ve had to eat my lutefisk feast alone. It’s not that we talked much when we ate. You don’t talk when you eat lutefisk except to say, “Please pass the lutefisk” or potatoes or lefse or butter or sugar (for the lefse). We were united in our cause, two lutefisk soldiers who together fought the onslaught of insults hurled at us from our loved ones. My mother was the worst and my husband was a close second. Every year they’d snidely insinuate that the barbecue ribs or eggplant parmesan or chicken Kiev they were eating was superior to our “stinky old lutefisk” (their words, not mine). “Smells like an armpit” is something I heard on many occasion. My father and I just ignored them and kept on eating, confident in our consumption, delirious in our butter coma.

My father didn’t forsake me. The lutefisk is here, safe in my freezer. Next week, my stepsons and I will make lefse. While there isn’t an ounce of Norwegian in their blood, they have mastered rolling and flipping.

Lefse is the “perfect child” of a lutefisk dinner. Everyone loves lefse. Lefse this and lefse that. Sure, it’s good. I love it. But its primary purpose is to scoop lutefisk on to your fork, kind of like bread at a roast beef dinner. Lutefisk is the featured act. Lefse’s the backup singer. 

Here’s my plan. Some lunchtime after January 1, when everyone’s back to work and school, I will prepare my lutefisk, slap some butter and sugar on a few lefse rounds, boil up some white potatoes, and sit down at my dining room table alone with a photo of my father by my side. I will eat my lutefisk in peace. No insults, no talking, just me and my all-white-food feast. It will be heaven. I can taste it already.

Dave Fox writes about lutefisk more, oh, how do I say, “realistically?” than I do. He’s certainly more humorous than I am about it. I’m way too serious about my lutefisk. (Click here to read “Make Love, Not Lutefisk.”)

Blogcleaning

I will try to blog during the holidays, but Claire will be here and I lose track of time when Claire’s around so I might not get a blog out here until after Christmas. Don’t give up on me! Check back after your own feasts and get-togethers. I promise more blogs then.

One last thing. I found out my People Magazine debut will be January 5. My weight loss blog (www.freewebs.com/lynnsjourney) will be featured in their “Half Their Size” edition. I have NO idea how it will look, what they’ll say about me, nothing. They did a photo shoot a few weeks ago, I hated my hair, but whatever. It is what it is and we’ll go from there.

Merry Christmas, everyone! Be safe, stay in touch, and don’t forget to breathe.

For Dan Fogelberg, Whom I Miss

I couldn’t write about his death the day it happened (Sunday, Dec. 16) because when he died it was like losing a member of my extended family, and writing about him at that moment would have felt awkward and disrespectful.

Now I’m missing him, or at least the thought of him because I never met him and only saw him once in concert. But Dan Fogelberg’s music has been a part of me since I was 14 years old. He wrote the kind of lyrics that are only found deep inside a questioning, searching individual, and his sound is so unique that you can pick out his music in just a few notes.

Dan Fogelberg’s were second only to Elton John’s in the number of albums I owned from one artist. My brother-in-law gave me the vinyls “Home Free,” “Netherlands,” and “Captured Angel” back in 1977 and I added “Twin Sons of Different Mothers” and “Phoenix” to my collection as soon as they came out. My first husband, Bruce, gave me “The Innocent Age” our first Christmas in 1981. “Only the Heart May Know” became our anthem, made even more poignant after Bruce died. I still don’t own all of Fogelberg’s music, but some day I will.

I’m sure many of you have been to a wedding where the vocalist sang Fogelberg’s “Longer.” Bruce, with his lovely tenor voice, sang that song at the first wedding we went to together. He looked at me while he sang it and I can still feel the look in his eyes in my heart.

Fogelberg taught me about the dangers of nuclear power in his song “Face the Fire” and I often think of the song “Power of Gold” when I read of the maladies of the rich and famous and politically corrupt.

When a friend of mine was murdered in 1986, the lyrics of Fogelberg’s 1984 song “Tucson Arizona (Gazette)” were hauntingly close to reality. And the song “Windows and Walls” achingly reminds me of my grandmother who lost her sight and her hearing in advanced age and sat for hours staring at the walls of her nursing home, her mind still alive and active. 

“Seeing You Again,” “Since You’ve Asked,” “Tell Me To My Face,” “Paris Nocturne,” “Next Time,” “Run for the Roses,” “Leader of the Band,” “Same Old Lang Syne”…the list of songs goes on and on, as do the memories they invoke – some take my breath away, some make me cry, some make me smile and others make me think.

Fogelberg was a prolific songwriter and from what I’ve read (much of which in his own words) a complicated person. I think that’s why I’m drawn to his music. Not that I’m so complicated, but his music has followed me throughout my life and shaped and molded my memories and even a few of my beliefs and passions. How many people you’ve never met have done that for you?

Dan Fogelberg died from advanced prostate cancer. He was only 56 years old. His voice will live on in his music, but his future music is silenced. Please educate yourself about this disease. Click here for the link to the Prostate Cancer Foundation.

I don’t have one favorite song by Dan Fogelberg, but I will leave you with the lyrics to one that is particularly real for me. Those of you who know me best will know why:

Go Down Easy

Linda lost her lover in the early part of autumn
And she moved out to the country hoping all would be forgotten
The last time that I saw her she was makin’ sure the winter
Wouldn’t come through that old door frame
Where the door is several inches from the ground, the cold hard ground

(Chorus)
And it’s hard to go down easy
And it’s hard to keep from cryin’
And it’s hard to lose a lover in the early part of autumn

Well, she learned to cook the meals and she learned to start the fire
And she learned to make jewelry out of stones and precious metals
She sits down to the table with her friends and several others
And she tries real hard to never be alone
(Chorus)

Now the winter wind blows cold upon a fair and gentle soul
And she feels as if her time is a-passin’ easy
Her friends are sometimes lovers, though they’ll always be another
She thinks about when the night time lays on down
(Chorus twice)

“Skinny Bitch”: A Book Review

I just finished the book “Skinny Bitch” by Rory Freedman and Kim Barnouin. Its subtitle is: “A no-nonsense, tough-love guide for savvy girls who want to stop eating crap and start looking fabulous!” I picked it up for the tagline, even though I’m not actively losing weight, and because I know there are parts of my dietary regimen where I’m lacking and could use a good kick in the ass. Sure enough, the authors wasted no time pointing out that I still eat a lot of crap.

Overall, the book is well researched and insofar as I can tell, accurate in its facts about processed foods, how animals are raised, fed and slaughtered in our country, and the f’ed up state of affairs at the USDA, FDA and EPA.

The authors are unapologetic animal-rights activists and, ergo, are vegans, and so the book focuses on a vegan diet. But as with any self-help book, I know to use the sense the good lord gave me to weigh the facts and decide for myself what parts work for me and which parts don’t (unlike many of the reviewers I will tell you about later).

Choosing to eat healthier requires a balance of conscience and health considerations. While I would be more than happy to eat more soy-based foods such as “fake” cheese, these products are still notoriously high in sodium, even more so than real cheese, and I need to take that into consideration given that I have sodium-sensitive high blood pressure. I can choose, however, to buy cheese made from milk from cows that have been fed organic grains and are allowed to be outdoors and not penned inside a factory farm.

It’s the same for eggs. While I only eat egg whites, they are still eggs and they come from chickens and let’s face it: chickens don’t have much of a life in factory farms. Choosing eggs produced by chickens that live cage-free and are fed an organic diet makes the most sense to me.

The book convinced me to change a few of my eating habits. I have decided to finally let go of my turkey habit. I haven’t eaten beef in more than 20 years or pork in five years, and I gave up chicken sometime last spring. But damn if turkey isn’t my Achilles heel. I love the low-sodium turkey breast lunch meat and turkey bacon from Trader Joe’s. There is still some of each in my refrigerator. But as of this morning I decided I’m going cold turkey (sorry, I couldn’t resist) and giving it up starting now.

I will also search for organic wine made without sulfites and drink that instead of what I drink now. Sulfites make my nose stuffy anyway, so this will be an easy change. I’ll also be more diligent in reading the ingredient list before I buy foods I’m unfamiliar with. For instance, I bought Skinny Cow ice cream treats the other day thinking they were “good” for me because Bob Greene recommends them, Oprah loves them, and they have three grams of fiber. Um, yeah….read the label, Lynn. They’re made with trans fat. Yuck! In the trash they go!

The book has raised a number of eyebrows, particularly because nothing riles up the masses more than vegans and the use of vulgarity. Add insulting fat people to the mix and you’ve got anarchy, at least that’s what some of the reviewers at Amazon.com seem to believe. Yes, the authors use a lot of profanity. Yes, they are insulting. But they write with the assumption that their audience is fat people who want to be thin, and quite frankly, if they want to scream at their audience like drill sergeants, then they have that right. Members of their target audience can choose at any time to stop reading. “Skinny Bitch,” just like any book by Dr. Oz or Bob Greene or any other fitness guru, is a tool in helping me make good food choices. I’ve got a brain. I know how to use it. And I’m not easily offended by the “f” word or its friends.

I found more balanced reviews at iVillage.com and The New York Times if you’re interested.

Like most things in life, if you get yourself educated and choose moderation, you’re probably going to be fine. Sometimes the best way to get educated is to look at the extremes and then make a balanced decision. “Skinny Bitch” takes us to the extremes, to be sure, but it’s not a bad read and certainly not something to get your undies in a bunch about.

A Quieter Christmas

I went light on the Christmas decorations this year. I didn’t hang garland outside. Or lights. No coniferous cornices in the doorways. No lavish candle displays. I didn’t dig out my Christmas Snow Village, either. I even replaced our 7-foot tree with a little 4½-foot pre-lighted tree.

There’s just no room. We had to squish so much stuff in the living room when we turned the den into a gym because of the new Oprah elliptical that there wasn’t enough space left for a large tree.

I also didn’t have the heart for decorating this year. Aside from the many changes in and the busy-ness of my life since October, there were no kids around to help me decorate and that was particularly sad to me. I especially missed the part where my girls and I would tell stories about each of the ornaments we’ve collected over the years.

This year, when I stuck the little 4½- foot tree on a table in front of the living room window, I simply went through the ornament boxes in the basement and picked out my favorites: the ones my girls made when they were little; the only remaining decoration from the Christmas trees when I was growing up (a little yarn angel); a studded green and red ball my great aunt Louisa made; the photo of our late dog Sasha (the best angel to ever top a tree); and my newest ornament – a miniature See ‘n Say.

Remember See ‘n Say? “The cow says: mooooooo.” “This is a horse: neeeeeeigh…” “Do you hear the frog? Ribbbiit…ribbittt.” It came with three tiny batteries and I actually put them in right so it works. It drives my dogs nuts every time I pull the little string. They cock their heads, perk up their ears and wonder where the hell I’m hiding a duck or turkey or pig.

I haven’t watched any of the Christmas cartoons yet, and I probably won’t this year. I think I’ll wait a few years until Claire is older and I’ll watch them with her, sans “Frosty the Snowman.” I hate that cartoon. That little Karen is such a wimp and her boots are way too big for her body.

Give me “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” Those are the best.

Ironically, I heard on “Wait, Wait…Don’t Tell Me” this week the truth about the little doll on the Island of Misfit Toys. From Wikipedia: “Misfit Doll is an unnamed, but seemingly normal girl rag doll. Her presence on the island is never explained on the special. According to NPR's ‘Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me’ news quiz show broadcasted December 8, Arthur Rankin, in an interview, revealed that the Misfit Doll was abandoned by her mistress and suffered from depression.” When I was little I wanted Santa to bring me that doll. Now I know why I felt such a connection with her. I wasn’t abandoned as a child, but I know depression. Yet unlike that little doll, who was good and kind when she was depressed, I’m pretty sure I’d have strangled that irritating Charlie-In-The-Box if I were stuck on that island with him in my more depressed times.

I also learned on “Wait, Wait…” that the actual Rudolph puppet used for the cartoon was recently acquired by a toy restorer from a former employee of Rankin/Bass (creators of the cartoon) who used Rudolph as a candy dish. (Read the complete story here.)

But enough about Rudolph. My favorite Christmas cartoon is “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” (The Internet Movie Database site has some good info on the cartoon here.) Every year when I was little and we’d go pick out a tree, I’d want the rattiest tree on the lot. “But Daddy,” I’d say. “No one will love that tree!” I took to heart what Linus said about Charlie Brown’s choice of tree for the school play: “I never thought it was such a bad little tree. It’s not bad at all, really. Maybe it just needs a little love.”

I always felt responsible for the lost, the lonely, the out-of-place. I still do. It’s why I limit my media intake. I feel overwhelmingly remorseful and guilty when I watch too much news or too many sad movies or television dramas. Christmas enhances my feelings of responsibility for things I’m not responsible for. 

Sharing Rudolph and Charlie Brown with Claire will help me remember the happy sides of both cartoons. We still won’t watch Frosty, though.

Wait! We’ll add “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” to our agenda. I forgot about that one. I still cry when the Grinch whips his little dog. Claire and I will hide our eyes during that part.

OK, I’ve played with the mini See ‘n Say long enough. The dogs aren’t amused anymore. It’s time to hang it back on the tree. I think I’ll shut off the computer and just admire the sparkling lights for awhile. The tree is small but pretty. It’s enough decoration to make the house feel like Christmas.

I want to leave you with the best scene from the Charlie Brown cartoon. Linus rocks.

Charlie Brown: I guess you were right, Linus. I shouldn't have picked this little tree. Everything I do turns into a disaster. I guess I really don't know what Christmas is all about.
[shouting in desperation]
Charlie Brown: Isn't there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?
Linus Van Pelt: Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you what Christmas is all about.
[moves toward the center of the stage]
Linus Van Pelt: Lights, please.
[a spotlight shines on Linus]
Linus Van Pelt: "And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, 'Fear not: for behold, I bring unto you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the City of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.' And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, 'Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.'"
[Linus picks up his blanket and walks back towards Charlie Brown]
Linus Van Pelt: That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.

A Primordial Christmas, Written in December 2000

Note: While this is seven years old, it’s one of my favorite family columns that I’ve written and I wanted to give it life again this Christmas season. I hope you don’t mind.

Last week I realized my father’s eyes are not simply blue, but a water lily Monet blue. They are a cold Arctic sky blue.

I don’t know what made me look. It was a few nights before Christmas and I was curled up on the couch, my head resting on his shoulder, and I saw the affects of time on his skin – the patches of brown on his hands, the pale pink of his forehead and the few more creases in his cheeks. And the moment opened my mind to other details and I wondered if maybe, as scientists map our genes, they’ll find one that holds thoughts and memories passed on from one generation to the next.

It’s the only explanation for my Midwest family’s consanguineous connection to mountains and oceans or my love of lutefisk and lefse and cold, bitter nights and darkness, and my fascination with all-night sun. The knowledge of the waking and survival and the habits of the generations before me can’t entirely be known through facts and proof. Some of it must be sensed.

I knew little more than my maternal grandmother was born and raised on the Lofoten Islands, 100 miles north of the Arctic Circle. When she was a young girl, her family left the centuries-old tradition of fishing in Norway for farming in Minnesota. It was a move which left them all with regret and pervasive sadness. It caused some of them to make reckless and life-altering decisions, compounding the despondency in my grandmother. The only time she seemed happy was when she talked about Norway.

Recently, someone found a few pages of my great-grandmother Sandra’s journal. For the first time my great-grandmother was more than a shunned wife with young children and my ancestors were more than the chance compilation of genetic material that got me here. They had names and they had purpose and through her words, and this is hard to describe, I got a better sense of the familiarity of their, or should I say “our” home.

I had a great-great-great-great-grandmother named Hanna who was married to Hans and they had several children – one named Anne who bore Hansine who bore Sandra who bore Katinka who bore my mother, Ardith.

Anne married Gulbran Knudtson and they were serfs for a community called Grunstad. Some of their children lived, some died, but in Sandra’s journal they were happy and content.

My great-great-great grandfather’s name was Anders Jakopsen and he was a fisherman on the island of Borge. He died during a winter storm and left his wife Abigal with five children and very little money, so she gave up her children and sought a job. My great-great-grandfather was raised by the local grocer.

Is it our intuition, our sense of past adversity, that helps my family endure hardship with our heads high or to do what it takes to make ends meet? And is it any wonder that so many of us are drawn to the cold waters of the north Atlantic or to the lakes and streams for fish? As a young girl my favorite books were about the wild ponies of Chincoteague and the children of Lapland. I finally saw the ocean when I was 24, at midnight on a beach north of Boston. I’d never smelled ocean air, but I recognized it and felt it to be something beyond my life experience. While we are all naturally drawn to water for survival, there are those of us who are also drawn to it for asylum.

This Christmas my dad brought lutefisk from Minnesota and Mom (bless her heart) soaked it, baked it and served it with only a few comments about the smell. It has to be familiarity passed on through the generations that would explain why my father and I love to eat a cod which is first soaked in lye for weeks and then in hydrogen peroxide for days creating a gelled substance that could be sucked through a straw if it weren’t bad manners.

My Houston-raised husband of another descent inherited a different taste because after one bite of lutefisk he about passed out. He politely swallowed it, but gave the rest to the dog.

My children are another thread in this ancestral fabric and with them I can look forward as well as back. This Christmas I listened to my children recount memories of my parents to my parents – the silly songs they sang with Grandpa, the nights Grandma put them to bed and tucked them in like mummies. We sang a few of those old songs while the others around the table sat on the outside looking in. There are some things that are just ours, that exist only in our genes.

During Christmas dinner, Dad and Mom speculated that I inherited my love of writing from my great-grandmother. That may be true. But after reading her journal what I’m sure we share is a love of detail and the tendency to daydream. As I write this I am distracted by the falling snow and am fascinated by it even now, even after 37 winters, just as I know Sandra was distracted by the ocean and brought her memories with her to the States and hid them in her dreams to be passed on to another generation.

“In 1872 on the 18th of September, I saw daylight for the first time, on the outside coastline of Lofoten, against the huge Arctic Ocean where my cradle stood…. Yes, in all truth, there was a rich opportunity to listen to the song of the ocean, which many times would rock you to sleep. But, there were other times when the towering waves would break with all their force against the shore and there was no time to sleep, because your dear ones were out on the stormy sea. There were many tears shed for the ones (who) never came home, but such was a fisherman’s lot in life.

“All in all, the sea gave of its riches to the people and therefore they loved the sea as it was. And when we go back on our memory we will remember…the sea (when it) looked like a mirror, and the beautiful summer nights with light and sun.” – from the journal of Sandra Peterson.

Catching Up and Feeling Good

Is there any greater feeling in the world than feeling caught up? You know that feeling of accomplishment when your “to-do” list is whittled down to just a few things to do and the seemingly endless list of items are scratched out in dark ink? Caught up is that narrow band of time between almost done and here comes more to do.

Today I feel caught up. I’ve written this blog, I’ve updated Shari’s writing page (an emotional and thoughtful blog on her Oprah experience, which was very different than mine) and Val’s writing page (a blog about her thoughts on family written in Val’s fabulous writing voice), my Christmas shopping is under control, and I’ve nowhere pressing to be at this moment. I can sit back and enjoy this space between busy and busy.

I’m notorious for creating work for myself. It’s almost like being quiet, being still is a crime. I wasn’t always this way. Growing up, my siblings and I learned to never tell our parents we were bored if we truly didn’t want to be put to work. There was always something that needed to be done: ironing, dusting, cleaning the finger prints off the refrigerator. Mom could always find a chore for us around the house and Dad certainly had plenty of them at the grocery store.

When I was bored and didn’t want to work, which was most of the time, I’d often get on my bike and ride to Split Rock Creek. I’d walk along the banks just thinking, sometimes talking out loud. Once in awhile I’d bring along my fishing rod, or in the winter, my ice skates.

If I stayed in, I sometimes made art projects in the basement where I’d set up a table with paper, colored pencils, paints, crayons, and charcoal pencils. I’d listen to the AM radio and just create. That was the time I went through my paint-by-number phase. Have you seen what those go for now on eBay? Oh my. Who’d have thought ugly formulated paintings on velvet would be collector’s items?

Anyway, today, I don’t get bored enough. Here it is, two and a half weeks from Christmas and I’m still wondering where did Halloween go? I don’t give myself enough time to listen to the radio and just create. I want to change that. Call it a New Year’s resolution, but I will rearrange my life so that I have more caught-up time.

I challenge you to do the same. What on your to-do list can be whittled down in no time or completely eliminated? Things that seem important at the time we write them down might not be so important after we’ve had some time to think about it.

And what will you do with your caught-up time? Can you fill that space in time with nothing? Just be?

Let me know. Write a comment or send me an email. I’ll let you know in future blogs how I fare at this, too.

My Post-Oprah Challenge

Finally watching the Oprah show last Wednesday was a relief. As I said in an earlier blog, I don’t remember much about the actual experience except that I hugged Bob Greene and Oprah and said something about my workout. In the three weeks between the taping and the airing, I was sure I’d stood on that stage stiff as a board and quiet.

Then I watched the show.

My first response: Where the hell did those legs come from and where did I get all those teeth?! I moved across the stage like I had the right to be there and that surprised and delighted me. My body didn’t let me down, my smile didn’t let me down, the person I am on the inside didn’t let me down. In fact, she came out just the way I wanted and I didn’t even try. The nervous me was in my head, but the confident me did the talking. Thank God.

Life post-Oprah continues to amaze me. I suspected a few people would write or call after seeing the show, but the response is more than I imagined. I’ve gotten hundreds of emails and phone calls and I’ve appreciated them all, especially the ones from long-lost friends and family members, and from strangers struggling with weight-loss issues. This has challenged me to think about how best to use this momentum to help people who face their own weight issues. More on that in a moment.

I love to be a part of anything that unites family and friends, brings them out of the woodwork, like reunions or even funerals. I never in my wildest dreams imagined it would be because I was on Oprah.

A few of my elapsed relationships that have been rekindled are with Teela in New Mexico, whom I’ve known since I was 5 and had no idea I was going to be on Oprah and happened to be watching it when I walked out on stage; Kayla in Texas, a good friend from high school, who confessed to reading my blogs but not writing as often as she’d like; Jason, my nephew in South Dakota, who shared with me his own weight-loss success: nearly 100 pounds lost; and Rhonda, a fellow flute player from junior high band who is now a doctor and living in Florida.

My mother got an email from her cousin Nora in Texas whom she hasn’t seen in years. Nora got an email about the show from another of Mom’s cousins and the chain reaction began. Mom was very happy to be reconnected with Nora and no doubt they will get reacquainted through email. Thanks, Oprah!

Then there are the strangers and online acquaintances who found me mostly through the Weight Watchers 100+ Pounds to Lose discussion board and my weight-loss website. They’ve shared with me their stories of weight gain and weight loss and many have told me that seeing me on Oprah helped them know that they can succeed, that it is possible to get to goal. Some have said that hearing my voice and seeing me “in person” helped them read the words on my website with more clarity because they now have a face to put with the words.

I’ve said all along that if my weight-loss story can inspire just one person to take control of their weight and fitness, then telling it in any way I can is worth it. I’m merely paying a debt. I’m paying back the people who encouraged me and helped me reach my own goals. If I’ve inspired someone to lose weight, it’s because I was inspired to lose weight by someone else who lost weight.

Losing weight, while a solitary physical act, does not have to take place in a vacuum. We all have questions, we all have doubts, we all have victories, both on and off the scale, that we want to celebrate with other people who “get it.” The people who inspired me also answered my questions, calmed my doubts, and celebrated with me. It’s my turn to do the same for others.

Thus the challenge.

I’ll be featured in People magazine’s Half Their Size special edition coming out at the end of this year or the first part of 2008 (click on the link to sample the last special edition). A writer at People found my weight-loss site through my host, Freewebs, and asked me if I’d be willing to share my story. They will focus on others, too, who have kept an online diary of their weight-loss.

Oprah was great, People will be fun, but I think it’s time for me to own my own story. I already told you how Oprah’s folks got parts of it wrong, and because I’m not writing the story for People, it will be filtered through another writer’s senses. I will probably write a book, which is all good and fine, but I am just one person. There are so many inspiring people out there who have so much wisdom and heartaches and successes to share.

I want to develop a space in which these stories can be heard, either in print, online, on radio, the television, whatever media outlet I can find. Why? Because 65 percent of our nation’s citizens is overweight. We’re suffering physically and emotionally and we’re dying younger. Our bodies need respect. And there are many people out there who can encourage us to respect and care for our bodies because they’ve been down the same road.

What are your thoughts? What recommendations do you have for creating a space of support? This is all new to me and I welcome your suggestions. You know how to reach me!