April the Meat-Eater: My return to being a carnivore

In August of 2006, I made the decision to stop eating all meat products with the exception of seafood (which made me a Pescatarian). This transition was no easy feat, especially since I have always been an avid red-meat lover. However, once I learned about the health benefits to avoiding red meat (and other animal meats), I was convinced that I needed to make this drastic change in my diet immediately. The issues concerning the environment, the terrible animal cruelty in slaughterhouses, and the disgusting practices in the meat industry also heavily influenced my choice. After just one month of being a Pescatarian, I realized that moving away from a carnivorous diet forced me to be more conscientious about my food choices in general. I was becoming far more aware of what I was putting into my body, and this shifted my perspective on health as a whole. I started learning about nutrition, I started exercising for the first time in my life, and overall, I felt great about what I was doing to practice well being. It was my move toward taking care of myself in a holistic sense (exercising made me want to eat better, and once I started doing yoga as my means of exercise, spiritual health also became part of that combination… which in turn brought emotional and mental health).

Around the beginning of 2012, I was busy watching documentaries on food (Forks Over Knives, Food Inc., etc.). I also read Skinny Bitch and other such “nutrition” books/articles/blogs/etc. In February, I decided to take a serious step to stop consuming animal products as much as possible. My refrigerator stopped housing milk, eggs, and other forms of dairy (with the exception of my one great food love in life—cheese). I stopped buying soy products and converted to almond and coconut milk products instead. The point is, I did another drastic overhaul on my diet, diminishing my consumption of animal products and upping my consumption of fruits, vegetables, legumes, nuts, and, of course, cheese.

All was well until May, when I was in the emergency room for eight hours, suffering from eye pain (which, at that point, had lasted for four days), lower-back aches, and a fever. All the signs pointed to something seriously wrong. I had a urinalysis and blood test… nothing. I was given a full eye exam… nothing. I was given a CT scan of my head… nothing. I was very unfortunately given a lumbar puncture (also commonly/notoriously referred to as a spinal tap)… nothing. When they ordered the MRI, I begged the doctor to release me. I couldn’t stand anymore. She did, but ordered me to closely monitor my symptoms and return if my situation didn't improve. Five nights passed of me breaking a fever through profuse night sweats. I went back to my doctor. They did more blood tests (once for Malaria and other such rare-bug diseases), and though they never did discover the cause of all these strange symptoms, they did discover that I have a heart murmur and that I have an odd form of anemia that was a pretty serious problem in terms of its affect on my red blood cells. This was the conundrum: I was eating more than enough iron (proven by two more blood tests) and there was no excess amount of iron exiting the body... so where was the iron going? And so I was given two more doctor referrals (one to a gastro-intestinal specialist and another to my gyn).

Absolutely exhausted from being poked, prodded, and examined, I decided to explore alternate methods of restoring my body to an anemic-free state. I recalled something I read about a year ago at my yoga studio in San Diego, which I have mentioned on countless occasions in this blog but will yet again take the opportunity to promote, Mosaic www.exploremosaic.com. It was about discovering my metabolic type. For more info, please check out Mosaic’s website. I did some research and decided to go ahead and try this out. Everything I learned about metabolic typing made logical sense, and it seemed to answer some of the questions I had from all the conflicting information I had learned through all the documentaries and books.

I purchased the book called The Metabolic Typing Diet by William Wolcott and Trish Fahey (available on Amazon), which explains the history of the diet and how it was discovered.

The crazy thing is this: 

Years ago, I made a decision about food because I thought it was what was best for my body. As I drove home last night after learning that I am a Fast Oxidizer (one of the metabolic types), I was both stunned-- to learn that what I have actually been doing (depriving myself of animal products) is actually having a negative impact on how my body and systems function-- and grateful-- to know that I have the chance to reverse my habits. Now, I am making major decisions to shift my diet back to what suits my unique system best. It has been a really fascinating journey, and one that I only wish I had learned about sooner. But maybe all this drama related to my medical fiasco was my body’s way to telling me that something just wasn’t working. The more I cut out of my diet in order to have one that I thought was healthier, the harder my body was working to adjust to what I was and wasn't giving it. Now, a disclaimer here: I still am and will continue to be super fussy about what kinds of animal products I eat. I still am someone who believes in being a smart consumer, which means, organic everything is key, being a locavore as much as possible is a true goal, buying free-range eggs/chicken and grass-fed beef is a must, and consuming Non GM foods. I am still not sure how I feel about eating pork and drinking raw milk… so perhaps more on that to come as the journey back to being a carnivore continues. But I will say that my one true guiding principle will be to listen to my body. It is trying to communicate with me all the time, letting me know the things I need. The problems come when the outside voices telling me what’s best for my own body are louder than what my gut, my intuition, and my well-being are trying to communicate. So, here’s to my new life as a meat-eater!

Bend: The Greenstone Center for Rejuvenation, Restoration, and Healthy/Adventurous Living

After my energetic welcome from Lily (13) and Arielle (5), I received a tour of the Greenstone home, which feels much like their home in Fallbrook—soothing colors, Lori’s art decorating every room, inspiring quotes and sayings on the walls, and the smell of something homemade simmering the crock pot (this time, applesauce). From their front room windows, I could see the Three Sisters (a mountain cluster with Bachelor and the Cascades farther off in the distance). 

For dinner, John prepared ahi tuna, mashed cauliflower, and sweet potatoes, accompanied with a local pinot noir. When the John and Lori’s sons, Scott (19) and Andrew (16), came home, I was astounded at how much they had grown from teenagers into young men. A year and a half didn’t seem like so long until I noticed how much the kids had changed. After dinner, Lori and I had chocolate and wine on her fabulous lavender awkwardly shaped couch until we made our way into her art studio, where Arielle positioned herself at her own special table behind us to create a work of natural artistic ability while Scott’s singing and piano echoed through the halls beyond the door… it still felt like nothing had changed much other than locale. As per usual, Arielle and I had our slumber party, where Teddy, a giant stuffed bear Arielle napped on during dinner, joined us in our little bed. Just before falling asleep, Arielle says, “I am so excited we get to sleep together.” Love her.

The next morning, Lily woke us up to come for breakfast. John had made cranberry, orange, and pumpkin scones, and Lori served me up some Chia-seed pudding. Lori and I then drove to the Old Mill shopping center, which is along the Deschutes river. Lori works at REI and had to attend a meeting, so I posted up at the Organic Coffee café to do some reading (Measure for Measure). After about an hour, it started to rain, and just as I looked up to see Lori walking in the café to join me, there was a rainbow filling the sky through the windows. This is likely a regular occurrence in the Pacific Northwest, since I saw countless rainbows in Portland and on my drive to Bend. After another coffee, we took a walk through downtown Bend, stopping into the library, poking in some of the local artisan shops, and admiring the old buildings with gorgeous exposed brick. 

We walked along the DesChutes river for a bit, admiring the myriad of fall colors lingering on the trees and making their way to the ground. 

Around noon, Lori took me on my first ever mountain biking excursion on Kent's Trail. After giving me a thorough explanation of rules to live by when mountain biking, Lori felt ready to unleash me into the trails. After a quick laugh at my putting the gloves on backwards, we headed out into the forest. Mountain biking was thrilling. At one point, Lori said, “Just let yourself go.” If only it were so easy! At first, I dreaded going uphill, until I realized that the only thing more terrifying than facing the uphill climb is facing the uncontrollable speed of downhill. Eventually, I got the hang of it. I got better at assessing the terrain. I got better at keeping my eye ahead of me, willing myself to go where I wanted to go instead of focusing on the here and immediate (a certain way to get yourself in a wreck). When large obstacles came, like trees or rocks or bushes, sometimes I had push off of them to propel myself forward. When the path became too dangerous, sometimes I had to step off and choose a different route. When the smaller obstacles covered the path, I had to bend my knees and hobble along until things smoothed out again. When I gained momentum and glided along, I had to remind myself to be cautious for what could lie ahead. As with any sport that affords you an hour of silence, pristine nature, and mental/physical challenges, I started to see the sport, like many things in life, as a set of principles to take beyond the trail. At one point, Lori said to me, “Are you scared?” I answered, “Just enough to make it exciting.” Even though I had a moment of sheer terror when I nearly toppled over myself and had to stop the bike from barreling over my back and head, Lori noted, “At least you’re laughing.” This adventure was somewhat out of my comfort zone. But I want to be someone who adventures in life... this is one of my favorite things about being with Lori. Life becomes the adventure. The value of taking that step beyond what feels safe was not only a complete thrill, but also a chance to learn something new about life and myself. Maybe the trick is to view every day as an adventure, seek out the thrill in every-day life. But, I made it to the Phoenix... which apparently makes me an official "Dirt Diva."

After biking, we picked up Arielle from the bus stop, had a snack, played Go Fish, and then went to Lily’s volleyball game. 

For dinner, Lori and I had a night out in Bend. We went to McMenamin’s for dinner and then to a Wine and Chocolate bar for dessert.

Upon coming home, we did inversions on Lori’s yoga swing, practiced staying off the ground on the balance board, and revisited some writings from grad school. For bedtime, Arielle, Teddy, and I read some Hop on Pop by Dr. Seuss before turning in for the night.

The following morning, John made broccoli and Swiss cheese quiche, which we ate all together before I had to leave for Seattle. The Three Sisters were covered with snow from the night before. It was a beautiful morning. 

After my sad goodbyes, I headed out for my 6-hour journey to Seattle. Bend was sunny and clear. Going through Mt. Hood was a bit scary because it was snowing. Fortunately, it wasn’t quite cold enough to have the snow stick to the ground, so I made it out safely. When I came to Portland, it was raining harder than I have ever seen before. In fact, I had to turn up my audio recording of The Untouchable (which I would NOT recommend… it is the first novel I haven’t liked from my Contemporary British Fiction syllabus) because I could barely hear it through the loud smacking of raindrops on my car. The road from Portland to Seattle was interspersed with rain, but when I arrived to the city, it was sunny skies with clouds off in the distance. I made it to the conference, and now I am preparing to see Shelley and Brad.

Portland: where Autumn, too, has arrived

I arrived yesterday, and I was immediately impressed with Portland when the first three restrooms I used all had the eco-friendly, water-conserving dual flush system on the toilets. A small, perhaps random and bizarre detail, but one that I think speaks a great deal to the character of the city, and perhaps myself. After picking up my economy rental car, I wandered around downtown Portland until it was time to meet Kim and her friends for happy hour at a swanky hotel rooftop bar. The view was incredible. And, I apparently “lucked out” in terms of the weather. It was cool but not cold… brisk. And the sky was cloudless. In fact, I lamented the fact that I had left my sunglasses in the car the moment I stepped onto the large patio area. Departure, aside from boasting of its excellent panoramic views of the city and river, had incredible ambiance. The décor was trendy yet sophisticated, the waitresses wore super fashion-forward eggplant-colored dresses, and the crowd in general was very posh… not really what I was expecting to find in Portland. Friends of mine who have recently visited the city reported that Portland isn’t really one for promoting fashion, but my first night in town told a completely different story. The girls I met (Kim’s friends: Jen, Deb, Rachelle, and Sarah) were all dressed in high style. In fact, I had fashion inspiration from all of their unique and individualized outfits. After dinner, Kim and I went back to her house in Burlingame, where Kip, her husband, and Cruz, their darling 17-month-old son, welcomed me. Cruz was supposed to be asleep, but when we arrived at the house around 8:30, the crib was more his jungle gym than sleep zone… so Kim and I went in to say hello. Aside from the lovely hospitality, Kim and Kip’s house is the kind you want to snuggle into. There were old hardcover books EVERYWHERE. I thumbed through books that were so old, I couldn’t even find the date of publication. If not for some of the inscriptions, I would have been unable to guess the dates. The books had gorgeous pages with patterned colorful designs on the opening pages. They just don’t make ‘em like that anymore. Sonnets from the Portuguese and Pride and Prejudice were my favorite finds. Kim showed me her wedding photos, which were stunning… they looked like a movie-star couple. After one more glass of wine and a tour of the house, which had an air dehumidifier (a crazy notion to a SoCal girl), we went to bed around midnight.

When I woke, Kim prepared a hearty breakfast, I chased Cruz around a bit, and then I was off to explore Portland. I walked along the Park Blocks for my morning, and then headed down to the Pearl District, where I wandered about art galleries, shops, cafes, and one of my favorites, Powell Bookstore—any literature lover’s haven. Then, to rejuvenate myself from hours of strolling, I happened to stumble across an Italian restaurant that, despite the few old men drinking coffee at a single table and the young barista tending to the morning duties, I was sure they were closed. However, the minute I saw the name, Piazza Italia, I recognized it—Rachelle’s recommendation for great Italian food. I assessed the situation more carefully, and against my better judgment and hesitation to entering a restaurant that was clearly not yet open to the public for lunch and was definitely not a coffee shop, I ventured in. I sat alone at a table near the window and ordered a cup of black coffee (a real treat for this tea drinker). The owners and their son, the barista, were speaking Italian. The men at the table across the restaurant were speaking English. I noticed one had a copy of Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, and I hoped that perhaps they were there as part of a book club or something. Piazza Italia has televisions showing Italian channels, so I had a chance to practice my deciphering skills; PI has jerseys from professional soccer teams hanging from the ceilings and an impressive wine wall along the exposed brick (another thing I love about Portland because it seems to be the backbone of every building); PI has a deli area with Italian meats (prosciutto, mortadella, salami, bologna… you name it) and freshly baked Italian rolls and loaves. One of the men says to the barista, “We were thinking about your beautiful sister,” to which the barista replies in his gorgeous Italian accent, “Yes, you think too much about my beautiful sister.” I smiled. It was a rare moment for me. I had plenty of work to do, and yet I didn’t pull anything from my backpack. I just sat and listened to the television reporting American news in Italian. I listened to the chatter of the men. I watched the passersby. I sipped my coffee without any distraction to remove me from the present moment. It was incredible… something I should do more often.

After coffee, I walked over to YoYo Yogi, a yoga studio that is my kind of studio—no mirrors, the kind of place that values the spiritual side of yoga. I then drove over to NW 23^rd Avenue, where I enjoyed a glass of red wine (Vajra Rosso) and beet salad with Portland chevre at Kim’s recommendation, Papa Haydn. After spending the rest of the day walking around the area, I departed for the three-hour drive to Bend, where the Greenstone’s had dinner waiting.

The drive to Bend was absolutely stunning. Once I was on highway 22, I noticed that the roads were wet. This puzzled me. Not a cloud in sight. Certainly no sprinklers… it was the middle of unadulterated nature. Then I saw the hovering above the steadily flowing river, which ran along the road nearly the entire way with only a break for the lake, was a thick mist or a fog or billowing of moisture. The trees were all different colors, there weren’t houses for miles and miles, and the views of the Bachelor flooded the distance around every turn. Autumn was in full swing, and it made me sad that California keeps pushing off my favorite season.

As I pulled onto the gravel road leading to their house, Arielle and Lily came running out the front door and barreling down the driveway to greet me. It was the best part of my day, and let me just say, this was a damn fine day. More to come on my adventures in Bend.

Thoughts on Poetry

I always try to write during moments of inspiration. And this is one. Claremont Graduate University recently hosted its 20^th annual Kingsley & Kate Tufts Poetry Awards ceremony. The day before the ceremony, there were three poetry panels, featuring previous Tufts winners as well as the two current winners. Though the panelists all threaded wonderful, poignant words of wisdom through their dialogue with one another and the audience, there are a few phrases and concepts that I hope stay with me always, and so I share it here in case they might speak to you as well.

The first is that writing poetry is not necessarily a thing that comes from talent; rather, according to our Tufts poets, it is a craft that, like any other skill, must be cultivated. As an aspiring writer, this idea brings me much hope. Their promise is this: if I can just make the time to sit my butt down to study poetry and write, I might be able to produce something of value… or at least something not terrible. But, in order to counterbalance any unrealistic fantasy I might possess about becoming a poet someday, I immediately recall the words of my dearly beloved John Keats, who said, “If Poetry comes not as naturally as Leaves to a tree it had better not come at all.” With that, my Tufts-induced illusions of becoming a poet are again dashed. Is it obvious why I am inclined to trust the words of Keats more than those of the others? The truth is, I need to stop allowing Keats’ words to prevent me from writing. Poetry, plain and simple, does not come as naturally to me as leaves to a tree. But I won't let that stop me. I also need to stop letting my fear—that my academic, scholarly voice is sucking the life out of my creative one—keep me from writing. My promise to myself is that I will devote a large amount of summer break time to writing. I will work to cultivate my craft because I don’t want to think the same thing of myself as I think of Keats, where I mourn all the things I might have produced, if only.

The second comes from Katherine Larson, the 2012 Kate Tufts Discovery Award Winner. She said that she is more engaged with the world when she is writing. This concept is exceptionally attractive to me because I believe myself to be someone who strives to actively, intentionally participate in life and the world. Larson’s words are yet another motivator to get me writing creatively again. On that note, Timothy Donnelly, the 2012 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award Winner, said that there are two things he hates: laziness and blarney-ness. When he said this, my inner voice cried out a resounding “YES!” I hate indolence and bull-shit talk, too! But what he was really getting at is the importance of living a meaningful life, and how this way of being impacts the way he sees the world and, therefore, the way he writes. Larson’s comment is the yin to Donnelly’s yang. The two concepts work together: if one strives to live a meaningful life, one produces good poetry; if one writes poetry, one engages more fully with the world, thus creating a more meaningful life. I will work to cultivate my craft because I care deeply about living a meaningful existence.

The third is to take advantage of the valuable influence of great writers. All of the Tufts poets mentioned their love affair with reading, and, when asked about their education, they discussed it more in terms of their independent reading and less in regard to their formal university education. When I was writing my Master’s thesis, I wrote out on enormous poster paper the three Elizabeth Bishop poems I was studying. There was something magical about seeing the poems hanging in my hallway everyday. I noticed something new each time I walked by—the placement of a colon, the rhyme of the last two lines, the stanza breaks, the unique word choices. Each thing came to symbolize something more. The poems were speaking to me because I gave them a permanent presence in my everyday life. I will write out again a handful of the best poems I know and hang them on my walls. I will work to cultivate my craft because I have the help of the masters at my disposal. I trust that they will speak to me; I trust in their power.

The overall, larger impact of this experience and this inspiration is that I love having experiences in my life that reaffirm my path. I know it sounds super cliché and cheesy, but it is how I feel. Occasionally, I question whether or not I am moving in the right direction. And sometimes, when I really doubt my efforts, I look for some kind of reassurance. The Tufts poets, with perfect timing, gave me the nudge I needed, assuring me to keep going, assuring me of my path.

I have to emphatically say that I fell in love with Katherine Larson’s and Timothy Donnelly’s poetry. Larson’s Radial Symmetry has already made its way to my bookshelves, and Donnelly’s Cloud Corporation is en route to my house as I type.

And so I leave you with a bit of poetry from Larson. This is my favorite of her poems:

Solarium

The pomegranates are blurs of rouge

in the sky’s tarnished mirror.

The city, bleary with heat. Each day the eyes

of my cat assemble a more precocious gold.

We press our blackened flesh against a sky so bright. I hold

her in my arms at the fading windows.

We gaze together at nothing in particular,

down an avenue that leans so far her tawny eyes

Gutter out. In my laboratory, immortal cancer cells

divide and divide. The pomegranates

Are almost ripe. Some splintered open the way

all things fragment—into something fundamental.

Either everything’s sublime or nothing at all.

This is my favorite line from Larson’s poem “Love at Thirty-Two Degrees”:

Science—

beyond pheromones, hormones, aesthetics of bone,

every time I make love for love’s sake alone,

I betray you.

A Handful of Poems

I am currently taking a course entitled American Women Writers, and in the last few weeks, we have read a handful of great poetry, some of which I am meeting for the first time. The poems are funny (humor itself being an challenging endeavor for women writers to execute successfully makes the humor even more amusing), they are witty and clever, they are complex, and they are incredibly thought-provoking.  Enjoy!

The Pope’s Penis

by Sharon Olds

It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver seaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat – and at night,
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.

Self-Exam

by Sharon Olds

They tell you it won’t make much sense, at first,

you will have to learn the terrain. They tell you this

at thirty, and fifty, and some are late

beginners, at last lying down and walking

the old earth of the breasts—the small,

cobbled, plowed field of one,

with a listening walking, and then the other—

fingertip-stepping, divining, north

to south, east to west, sectioning

the little fallen hills, sweeping

for mines. And the matter feels primordial,

unimaginable—dense,

cystic, phthistic, each breast like the innards

of a cell, its contents shifting and changing,

streambed gravel under walking feet, it

seems almost unpicturable, not

immemorial, but nearly un-

memorizable, but one marches,

slowly, through grave or fatal danger,

or no danger, one feels around in the

two tack-room drawers, ribs and

knots like leather bridles and plaited

harnesses and bits and reins,

one runs one’s hands through the mortal tackle

in a jumble, in the dark, indoors. Outside—

night, in which these glossy ones were

ridden to a froth of starlight, bareback.

Matins

By Louise Gluck

You want to know how I spend my time?

I walk the front lawn, pretending

to be weeding. You ought to know

I’m never weeding, on my knees, pulling

clumps of clover from the flower beds: in fact

I’m looking for courage, for some evidence

my life will change, though

it takes forever, checking

each clump for the symbolic

leaf, and soon the summer is ending, already

the leaves turning, always the sick trees

going first, the dying turning

brilliant yellow, while a few dark birds perform

their curfew of music. You want to see my hands?

As empty now as at the first note.

Or was the point always

to continue without a sign?

The Applicant

by Sylvia Plath

First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,

Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand

To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed

To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked
How about this suit –

Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.

Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that?
Naked as paper to start

But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk, talk.

It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it's a poultice.
You have an eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.

Delilah's Story

Five and a half years ago, Samson came into my life. It seemed to be a good idea to get him a playmate; however, due to tumultuous living arrangements over the years, it never quite worked out.

But now, fate aligned, and Samson has his playmate. Meet Delilah:

At first, Samson and Delilah were not such fans of one another. But after just a week, they are regular buddies and can't get enough of play time together. Samson is learning to be very gentle with her while she is still so small, and Delilah is learning how to be more bold during their playtime... her courage astonishes me most of the time. In general, their temperaments are very complimentary--she is very passive and sweet, which is a good combination for dominant Samson.