The House Diet
“The bones of the house are good,” they say. So, too, are the actual bones on which the analogy is based. Musings on home renovation and losing weight.
After decades of uncertainty, much of it driven by an idealistic desire to serve, as well as a constellation of interests and skills that don’t fit into neat boxes, I am settled in a job and profession I love. It’s been two months since starting, and I notice my eating is CRAAAAZY. Extending back further, in the past two and a half years I’ve put on fifty pounds. This coincides with reaching a middle-age milestone (year 50), weathering deep financial instability and two high-stress jobs, and a period of unemployment a mere three months ago. While short-lived, that period of seeming free-fall left me with some PTSD (a string in my bow is long-time work among people with trauma, so I recognize the signs). Imagining the homelessness that would follow an unsuccessful job search mid-pandemic spurs both generalized and existential anxiety. (My joblessness was chosen, rather than forced — a path forward with integrity. But, no public assistance). The fear of COVID-related death hurts, too.
To be honest (a lovely British term, bridge for forthcoming content), the seeds of portliness were sown decades before — in a personality and upbringing that skewed idealistic vs. practical. And in much moving, financial hemorrhaging from multiple degrees, and collecting of broad professional experiences, rather than deep ones.
Now I have a job I love…at last. I’ve reached home shores after much searching and danger. Yet, I had no idea the hero’s journey would involve so much fearful retrospection or disbelief in my present safety. (I have more empathy, now, for returned military veterans.) So I eat. I eat because the joy and simple, sublime pleasures seem worth celebrating; because I sometimes doubt my ability to do a job I’m still learning—and imagined failure seems catastrophic; because we are in a “life will never be the same again” pandemic. Because the structure of our democracy in the U.S. is faltering and may fail (more will be revealed post-election); because I work from home and driving into town for “food” midday seems as good a way as any to see other humans. Because my mom died last month and, though her death was long- expected, it’s still disorienting and painful.
I’m doing much of the right stuff: Some daily meditation, nascent yoga and gym-going routines, journaling on daily gratitudes and successes, prayer; attendance at weekly online religious gatherings; starting to tap along with EFT videos on YouTube; reading wise books about how to rewire my brain and grow in self-compassion; and knowing the dietary choices that are healthy for me.
All of this inner work itself raises feelings as I see more clearly foundational misbeliefs and errors of the past. My inner bully and critical voice are strong. But this is the time for self-compassion — and something else. Patience.
I’ve yet to learn patience. Before, in life, some things came easy, or I often chose escape into books, videos, or imagination. I have worked hard, very hard physically, at times. That goes better when I’m surrounded by a company, organization, and/or co-workers in the same pursuit.
A penny dropped last night on the key to self-starting and then self-going.
Though I’ve been reading more, and escaping less, I recently made a foray into YouTube and stumbled on Restoration Home. The show follows often-ordinary people, who fall in love with a piece of history and buy it to become their family home. They pour in accumulated finances and/or go into debt, and work extremely hard to bring the building back to its former glory, plus. The results have an elegance and aesthetic richness so English. The final product is anchored in rich history and strong enough for a long future.
Lessons and applicabilities:
- Run-down things can become beautiful again, with hard physical work and investment.
- Expect it all to take time, effort, and physical discomfort.
- Things often look more disarrayed before they get better.
- Renovation is an up-and-down process. Crises of confidence and unexpected setbacks are par for the course. They make the satisfaction of the “finished” next plateau all the sweeter.
- The final result creates a present-day anchor that connects past and future.
- Worth saying again: Expect it all to take time, effort, and physical discomfort.
It took me years to get this way. It will take lots of little inglorious choices to get back to something that feels pride-worthy and beautiful. At my age, lithesomeness may be past. But I can dress well, attend to hygiene, and build muscle. I can — slowly and patiently— replace cheap improvements with the daily preparation of nutrients that build up bones, and organs, and skin. While only OK-looking, I can enhance the accoutrements of beauty and order. Why not claim an ambitious restoration goal for myself? The beauty I seek will shine through my eyes and in a manner satisfied with life; in self-confidence from having faced life’s challenges.
“Distress tolerance” describes one of the last, under-used components in this health foundation. To build it, I am turning toward renovation. I will look for cumulative progress, revel in the blessings of “good bones,” and do that next, seemingly small step.
Renovation is a slow game. Yet, it builds character, allows the transmission of a gift to future generations, and subsumes the person in the cultivation of beauty (real beauty). It’s obedience to something greater than ourselves.
In the midst of all the forces of decay, I choose expansion. I commit to reclaiming and crafting something, someone beautiful.
