Giving Up

For years, I refused to give up chocolate for Lent like my dad does every year. (The closest I came was giving up Pillsbury break n' bake chocolate chip cookies in 10th grade--a weekly occurrence that then became nonexistent, probably a good thing overall.) I knew I wouldn't be doing it for a really spiritual reason, but a health-related one, and that was a good excuse to not do it at all (how clever!). But junior year of college, with the temptation of regular dining hall desserts in full reach, I decided to dive in and give up chocolate. I'm not sure what sparked it, exactly; maybe I was more sure of myself after spending a semester abroad, maybe I knew what I was capable of in terms of... discipline? Big picture time and perspective? Who knows. Anyway, I didn't tell anyone for the first few days after Ash Wednesday, just in case I decided to back out. But I followed through, until midnight on Easter Sunday, when Dad made a batch of chocolate chip cookies.

This year, I decided to give up all desserts and sweets for the first time. I knew that at this point in life I can't go full Whole 30 or paleo--don't want to, really, plus I didn't want to hold myself to something that I logistically and practically cannot achieve right now. But even though sugar is in everything these days, I knew that could at least control my sweets intake. My work environment is full of folks who I affectionately refer to as "food pushers," and sweets pushers in particular. We are big on potlucks, birthday cake, and frequent leftovers from catered meetings or events. It's fantastic, don't get me wrong, but I felt like I needed a reset. So after lunch on February 28, I bought myself a massive chocolate cupcake (pictured above), polished it off, and said farewell not only to chocolate, but to any and all dessert.

So what have I learned?

Even though I went into this "giving up" mode without as much of a spiritual bent (primarily health-driven), I feel like I have been enriched spiritually and otherwise by simply realizing that I can say no. That I have control. I can attend a birthday party at work without eating cake. I can go to a meeting without grabbing a cookie, I can sit across from someone savoring a sumptuous restaurant dessert. And though sometimes friends have tried to make me feel "better" by not eating sweets in front of me, I've felt a lot less bothered or irked than I thought I might, and always encourage them to enjoy what they're eating. Does it look good? Yes. Do I want it? Kind of. Do I have to have it? No. 

If that paragraph sounds super angelic and perfect, of course I've still had sugar in my diet--bread, condiments, what have you. One night in lieu of dessert (when everyone else was ordering it), I went for cornbread and lemon butter, which definitely involved le sucre. I've found myself looking at nutrition labels more frequently, picking salad dressings with very limited sugar, getting hooked on Triscuits (0 grams of sugar), treating an orange or blackberries as dessert, being more aware of how many veggies I eat. And I've noticed how much I love (and rely on?) cheese and other savory items that can also be bad in excess. So maybe that's a goal for another Lent. But, in the meantime:

I can say no. I can hold back and be aware of what I need or don't need in that moment. It's possible, I've proven it to myself more than I ever have before, and that feels good.

Now: What the heck do I do come Easter Sunday?

Part of me wants to keep going. I'm on such a good streak! I know it can be problematic to put "good" and "bad" labels on eating, but I really do feel good about achieving this and knowing that I'm probably healthier for doing so. Plus, I'm mostly used to it now--why go back?

And yet, I chose Lent as my time to lessen my sugar intake partly because it's a set period of time. Forty-seven days (I count the Sundays). I didn't want to attempt it on January 1 because then there's no sense of when it might end and it's harder to say no when you're in charge of when it ends. I don't want to live a life completely without the dessert menu. But I'm also afraid--if I can use that word very, very lightly here--that once I take one bite of whatever sweetness next crosses my path, I'm going to backslide. Hard.

Maybe that's the in-between of Lent and Easter, temptation and giving in, despair and hope, dust and sky, death and life. Bitter and sweet? Finding that balance. Sometimes it tips one way for a bit. But I think the most important lesson I've learned is that I can be proactive in tipping it back towards even-keel.

Mindful March.

Wanted to recap March before we got TOO far into April (yes, I know it's 1/3 over)...

March 1 marked the beginning of Lent this year, and I set for myself two Lenten "goals" (if it's right to call them that): I would give up all dessert/sweets, and I would take on praying the hours with Phyllis Tickle's Prayers for Lent Through Easter from her Divine Hours collection. Both have been good in different ways, and I hope to write some thoughts about both practices during this Holy Week.

I've had a chance to serve as a Confirmation mentor to our seventh graders at church this year; not only has this experience caused me to reflect on my own confirmation 16 years ago, it's also meant that I've gotten to scratch the surface of faith and life with these great kids. Part of that included a day retreat here in Atlanta, working in the Clarkston Community Center garden in the morning, writing a creed for Confirmation Day during lunch, and bowling at the Comet before dinner.

It's far from a bad thing when you get to listen to amazing speakers for "work," and last month I got to hear from two prophetic voices of our time: The Rev. Dr. Amy Butler of the Riverside Church in New York City (that historic church's first female senior pastor), and the Rev. Dr. William Barber, president of the North Carolina NAACP and organizer of the Moral Monday protest movement in that state. Both pastors preached stellar sermons that spoke truth to power in a way that I needed to soak in, and I hope and pray that many more are exposed to their messages of authenticity, hope, and the need to dismantle systemic racism in our country.

Can't remember the last time that I went to a movie on opening day (probably a Harry Potter midnight showing), but a good pal and I took a Friday afternoon to go see the new version of Beauty and the Beast. Sang along like crazy, of course. Music really does make me well up, especially when I realize how imprinted on my brain and heart it is, even after years of not singing it. And while seeing B&B onstage in Dublin on my first trip out of the country will always be my favorite experience of it, Hermione, Matthew Crawley, Gandalf, Olaf, Obi-Wan, Professor Trelawney, Audra (doesn't need a character name because she is a legend) etc. were all lovely. Watching it also made me pretty sure that the original is where I first heard/learned the words "provincial" and "asylum." Who knew?

We got together with a group of friends that hadn't all been together in awhile for a delicious meal, laughter, and fellowship. It also happened to be the day that Sean passed his Certified Financial Planner licensing exam (woohoo! so proud of him), so that added to the celebration!

I was thankful for two more chances to get to know others in my community and talk through important issues of social justice, specifically racial justice: another Round Table dinner at Emory (subject: March? AKA, what does it mean to be an activist?) and as part of a group from our church meeting with a group from a predominantly black congregation. Both felt so important to me, the experiences themselves and beginning to process them (like I did in this post). There's so much more to be done, and I'm excited for future discussions with both of these groups. I strongly recommend--especially to my fellow white people--trying to find an opportunity like this in your own community, and pray that more will crop up for me and for you, wherever you are.

Switching from the profound to the superficial, a thrift store near us is having a going out of business sale and I got some sweet (nearly) new spring things for a VERY discounted price. Since I go shopping approximately 1.5 times per year and only enjoy it for about 1.5 hours, this was an excellent development!

My folks celebrated 32 (!) years of marriage in March, so of course a dinner was warranted. We tried out M572 and really enjoyed it--the atmosphere and the food were both top-notch!

The next day, I drove out to a double birthday potluck for two of my best friends (happy day, A&A!), and got to see one's new house. It was a perfect spring day and besides good friends, there was pimento cheese, so really nothing could have been better. 

I spent an afternoon hearing from Edward Mitchell, the executive director of CAIR (Counsel on American-Islamic Relations) Georgia, in a talk dispelling myths about Islam and refugees. It was really great, and taught me a lot about Islam that I didn't know before, in terms of the belief system itself and the origins of important practices like prayer five times a day and the Hajj to Mecca. A really great opportunity! 

I'd love to hear: what were your favorite March moments? Or any from April already?

Sit and listen, stand and speak.

Last week, I attended my third Round Table discussion (I've mentioned the other two in my monthly recaps). Students, faculty and staff from the university where I work, as well as members of local churches in Atlanta, gathered for a meal and to discuss the question: What does it mean to be an activist?

This is a question I've been internally thinking about a lot recently--since the election, mostly, which is a very white woman thing to even be able to say. Lots of people have been thinking about it long before that. I won't say it didn't entirely enter my mind on November 9, snippets of thought about how to stand and speak up have floated into my head and heart since Ferguson. But even then--others have been asking what it means to be an activist, and defining it for themselves, for decades, even centuries, before I got here.

What does it mean to be an activist?

As it was at all the tables, my conversation partners were both black and white, female and male, a range of ages--all with meaningful stories and powerful voices (even if they spoke quietly). Some of the ideas and thoughts shared:

Activism is standing up in dissent.

Activism can't happen unless we take care of ourselves, and don't burn out.

Activism means different things for different people.

Activism means using your particular gifts to stand in solidarity. (You may not feel comfortable at rallies or marches; but maybe you're an artist and you can create beautiful signs for your friends to take downtown. You may not want to go speak up at a town hall meeting, but you can have a one-on-one conversation with someone who doesn't see the same way.)

I greatly appreciated the conversation, especially the pieces about using our particular gifts, about claiming the role of activist in different ways based on our personality, our talents, our passions. That speaks deeply to me, as an inward-looking, self-aware soul who loves deep personality tests and dumb Buzzfeed quizzes equally. I savor the sense of knowing myself, and knowing what I'm good at, and applying that to my space in the world. 

But there was something itching at me as we sat around the table, and I voiced it to the extent that I knew how at that moment, and I'm writing it down now to see if anything new comes out.

The itchy piece stems from being a white woman, and being more aware of those roles--particularly those two roles smushed together--than I ever have before in my life. The itch says, Hi y'all, I'm Claire. I'm an introvert who loves cozying up on the couch with a book or a movie. I hate calling strangers on the phone and I don't love standing in crowds, or shouting, or even chanting. If it is not made easy for me to get somewhere, I will usually make the choice to stay home.

The itch ends with the question: But aren't those some pretty shitty excuses, white girl? By the way, where have you been up til now?

I feel like maybe I've been myself too much up til now; that as a white woman, existing in that demographic that so overwhelmingly voted for Trump, even though I did not, I now have to prove extra to the world--perhaps especially the black world, the Muslim world, the immigrant world, the LGBTQ world--where I stand, and who I stand with.

They're not going to know it simply by looking at me. They're not even going to know it simply by seeing the ring on my right hand that bears a cross. 

And you know what I realized as I wrote this? Maybe that's how my black neighbors, my Muslim neighbors, my immigrant neighbors, my gay and lesbian and trans neighbors--have been feeling for an interminably long time. That they have to prove extra to the world. That the world won't know or trust or see inside them simply based on how they look. Or it will be based too much on how they look, and the ones doing the looking will make up negative things to see. And so they have to try harder.

Maybe in this itch I'm sensing a small, small part of how that feels.

The voices around my table, black and white, echoed over and over again the importance of being an activist in your own individual way, and seeking self-care and avoiding burnout in whatever form suits you. And part of me--most of me, if I'm honest--clung to that, like a permission slip to work for justice in (what I think for me would mean) a quieter way. But there was/is still part of me struggling with the need for white people, women and men, to use our base of privilege--present whether we realize it or not--to speak louder, to march more, to make ourselves uncomfortable on behalf of our neighbors who need that from us in this historical moment, and have needed it long before.

Part of me wants to say it's a balance between those elements--the what-comes-naturally and what-feels-harder. But even saying it's a balance feels a little undercutting, shallow, copping out. Not saying that it is. But for me, those exist in tension.    

Bishop Rob Wright of the Episcopal Diocese of Atlanta was also present at this Round Table discussion. He closed us out, sharing what he thinks an activist is: "Activists quietly or loudly point out the gap between stated aspiration and current reality."

Then he asked us to think about our purpose. "Purpose" stems from a root word (in what language, I forget) that means fire, he said. It's different than passion, he said. "It's a journey to find out what you have to do to be you. Purpose gives you immediacy and authenticity."

We are "bundled with gift and capacity, but beautifully unique," he said. "Given your unique gifts, capacities, all that you have, what does activist mean for you? What's stirring in you to try or to do or to land more squarely on?"

Yesterday afternoon, I joined about 15 church members from my (predominantly white) congregation in conversation with about 15-20 church members from a predominantly black congregation. The topic? White privilege.

We all gathered in a circle of chairs in a classroom, smiling politely at one another, writing out name tags and introducing ourselves, making small talk about how many years we'd each been at our respective churches. After opening us in prayer and an introduction about why we were here, we broke into small groups and discussed several different passages from Jim Wallis's book America's Original Sin: Racism, White Privilege, and the Bridge to a New America (which is now on my reading list).

As soon as we began, I knew that this was something I had been longing for. To be in true conversation, not disrespectful, but honest and open and tough. I have spent so much time over the past year-plus reading and posting articles, maybe having a brief Facebook comment discussion, commiserating with coworkers (often very helpful) and writing posts like these--but so little time actually listening to the stories and thoughts of my black sisters and brothers who encounter the negative impacts of white privilege every day. I shared pieces of my journey as well, but I really aimed to listen and soak it up, even when it was hard to hear. And a lot of it was.

I'm still processing the experience--which I hope will be the first of many, as our churches continue this growing relationship--but a couple of items that we discussed stand out to me in this moment.

It resonated not for the first time, but maybe for the deepest time, that we really are living in more than one America--that the way I teach my someday children about how to interact with the world will be very different than how the people sitting next to me have had to teach theirs. They are having conversations with their children that we never even have with ours. "Look for the helpers," Mr. Rogers told us, and it's a quote that's always trotted out after a mass shooting or terror attack. But what if the helpers you're supposed to be looking for don't always want to help you? I always feel that I will be respected and taken care of by forces outside of myself and my family. The police officer. The store clerk. The bus driver. The hiring manager. Never once have I thought or expected or experienced anything different.

"I don't think any of these white people would want for a second to trade places with us." It's a concept that I've heard before, but I've never heard it stated directly to me, about me. And I felt ashamed that the speaker was right.

One person said that on November 9, they weren't surprised at all, just went on with their day, while a younger white woman arrived at their office in tears. I was one of those naive white women in tears, downing a doughnut and wiping my eyes, scrolling my newsfeed, still in disbelief. I got absolutely zero work done that day. 

Why does the idea of equality for all evoke such fear, even subconscious fear, within white people? Why is there this foreboding and hand-clenched sense that in order for others to gain access to equal rights and justice under the law, we must lose something? That's not the issue, that's not what is being asked of us.

The lack of white men in attendance (there were only two from our church present) did not go unnoticed, when white men are going to be central to dismantling the structures that currently hold our country's systemic racism in place.

After two hours, I was mentally and physically worn out. But I was so, so pleased and almost relieved that we had begun to have these conversations. That our black sisters and brothers were willing to have them with us, to go over experiences and emotions that they have had no choice but to carry, that they can never put down. "We know that this is a white problem," my friend (one of the two white men) said to the entire group before we closed, "And we are thankful that even as you bear the burden, you are also willing to teach us." (Paraphrasing his eloquence here, but I hope the sentiment is understood/felt.) My eyes filled with tears as my fellow church members and I murmured affirmations of his words. We held hands and prayed, we thanked each other for sharing. I was thankful, I am thankful. 

I am a listener. I am one who connects. And this was activism as I feel called to it.

As I continue to sit and listen, may I be moved to stand up and speak. 

(P.S. I'm becoming more and more convinced that these sorts of conversations should be mandatory for, like, the whole country. Just an idea...)