I want to learn to take in the suffering of the world, and still enjoy a cookie.

That was the answer provided by a student of Buddhism when he was asked why he would travel to France and study with Thich Nhat Hanh at the Plum Village Monastery, giving up the comfort of his quarters for a rustic space where he was made to wash dishes and chop wood.

With so much suffering in the news, I wonder how we do that. How do we look on the faces of broken parents, children in pain, families forever changed, and still enjoy a cookie?

We are all woven together in interconnectedness. This life and imminent death are strands of a web in which we all exist, together, with a single breath. If we wish to make the journey in peace, we must radiate peace to our children. We must hold them close, and open our hearts to those left behind.

Peace is not an empty platitude. It's not an ideal or an objective, or a political agenda. It is a practice of everyday life. We must walk peace in our choices - the words we speak, the things we choose to bring in to our home and the way in which we listen to one another.

The national media is consumed with the task of blaming. Is it a question of gun access? Cultural violence? Masculinity's representation in society? Insidious references that stigmatize the mentally ill and improperly correlate autism with violence, aloofness with insanity, an inability to read social cues with a lack of empathy. And while the pointing of fingers may or may not be important, may or may not elude to the questions needing answered for the sake of creating good public policy, blame is rarely much more than cathartic. At the end of the day, we are left to wonder  how any of us (meaning the murderer) could get so far removed from love, from sympathy, from compassion, from basic common sense and decency that they could coldly and mechanically take life from other people in such a callous, unconscious and destructive way.

In moving forward, we must be both realists and optimists. Suffering has a place in the world. It is inevitable. At the same time, we must recognize the possibility of alleviating that suffering and see the opportunities to create peace in our own lives and in our home. The intentions to be kind, compassionate, helpful, happy, and liberated are among the most beautiful qualities we have as humans. Our thoughts, words, and deeds of empathy, love and caring are the needed counter-forces to hatred, violence, and despair. Our own efforts to find inner peace, our example to our children, can be an important force of wholesome change for people who don’t know of that possibility.

If there is light in the soul,
There will be beauty in the person.
If there is beauty in the person,
There will be harmony in the house.
If there is harmony in the house,
There will be order in the nation.
If there is order in the nation,
There will be peace in the world.

The day my mother died I wrote in my journal, A serious misfortune of my life has arrived. I suffered for more than one year after the passing away of my mother. But one night, in the highlands of Vietnam, I was sleeping in the hut in my hermitage. I dreamed of my mother. I saw myself sitting with her and we were having a wonderful talk. She looked young and beautiful, her hair flowing down. It was so pleasant to sit there and talk to her as if she had never died.

My mother.

When I woke up it was about two in the morning and I felt very strongly as though I had never lost my mother. The impression that my mother was still with me was very clear. I understood then that the idea of having lost my mother was just an idea. It was obvious in that moment that my mother was just an idea. It was obvious in that moment that my mother is always alive in me. ~Thich Nhat Hanh

When someone dies, you realize how many of your memories are history revised. I remember so many things about my mother and, as I have grown, the context of those memories has changed. My mother was kind and gentle. She was awkward in public, but I liked that about her. She loved her children deeply, and she was wrapped in the possibility of the people she was raising.

She was also lonely and sad. Somewhere in her history or her mind, there was a pull so strong that she was always a little bit apart from the rest of the world. She could never grab hold of that thing, discard it, push it aside and rise anew. As she aged, she was buried under the weight of that burden until, at last, she was bathed in hopelessness.

It will be two years tomorrow since my mother officially died. But she was gone long before then...

I don't know when my mother was diagnosed with diabetes. Like so much of her history, her health was a tightly guarded secret and, like all things hidden, the mystery of it served her. For years, she alleged that she was dying of congestive heart failure. Her body was swollen, and fluid would literally seep from under her skin, through her pores, puncturing the taught flesh of her legs and stomach. Her feet were cracked. Her breathing labored. She kept us all waiting in suspense, believing that any measure to help her would be undertaken in vain. The end was always just around the corner, because she was hopelessly dying.

That's me, in my father's arms.

But so are we all.

She sat in the living room, waiting for finality, for more than 15 years.

All that time, I had no idea that the actual source of her ailments was, simply, uncontrolled blood sugar. My mother had been obese her whole life over. She was often embarrassed and ashamed of her weight, like so many women. And, at times, she tried desperately to lose that weight....only to gain it back, and acquire a bit more shame along the journey. She gave up. She proclaimed that she would "rather eat well than be thin," and settled on a diet high in refined carbohydrates, fast food, processed food. She abandon the exercise bike in the kitchen, quit taking her afternoon walks, and slowed to an existence so sedentary that, one year, she stopped even walking up the stairs. Instead, the living room became the sum total of her world.

She checked her blood sugar sporadically at best, and administered insulin irregularly and infrequently until, one afternoon, I called to check on her. She'd been battling a harmless virus for weeks, and was sinking further into illness. That afternoon, she was barely lucid. I called my sister in a panic and, together, we tore the moulding from the doorways of my parents home as we wheeled her body to an ambulance. Moments later, her body in septic shock and her mind deluded, she became combative an irate. She punched and hit, kicked and shouted. My sister and I held her down as doctors inserted a picc line in to her unanesthetized neck as my father waited behind the curtain, hearing her scream.

I spent the next 30 days watching her liver and kidneys fail, holding her hands to keep the doctors from putting her in restraints, and waiting as she had waited all those years...

For her to die.

It turns out that every failed organ in her body had been the victim of uncontrolled diabetes. Her heart failure was due to Diabetic Cardiomyopathy. So, too, her chronic kidney disease. She could have, at any moment, chosen a different end...yet, it wasn't until those last days that she found a desire to live on. The tragedy of her life and death was perhaps that bit: That her will to survive, to get better, came only in the moments preceding her inevitable passing.

Checking my blood sugar
at 4:00am before heading
to the gym

My children remember her. They miss her. They ask about her...wonder if she remembers them. Her life here goes on, she just isn't available to see it.



When I speak about diabetes, I don't often tell the story of my mother. After all, those of us with diabetes hear her story all the time. Every time I disclose my diabetes diagnosis, I hear of the uncle who went blind or the grandfather who lost his toes, or the aunt in renal failure. Of course, that is part of the diabetes story...
 

But I'd rather tell the other side of the tale - the side marked by possibility, by good health, by limitless opportunity. I'd rather race my bike and eat good food and laugh with my kids. When I am asked if my mother would be proud of my advocacy from the seat of my bike, I answer an honest "no." She wouldn't understand it in the least. In fact, she bitterly babysat my children once while I was at a race, only to remind me that she "never did that sort of thing" when we were young.

But I also know that she was proud of me, the person I became and the mother I am to Henry and Midori. I know she loved me all too much, and I trust she knew that her love was multiplied and returned. There are people here who miss her deeply, who wish sadly for her, who think of her often. My mother's life and her death have made me more compassionate to the struggles of those with Type 2 diabetes, who try and try again, and who never quite make it work. We all have our failings. We all die in every moment.

 I also know that the story of her life and death has its place in the context of my own disease and my management of it. I promised my husband, as I watched her gasp for breath and pound her fists in the air, that I would never do that to him...to our son and daughter. It's not really about fear or inspiration. It's about finding your way in the darkness of diagnosis, to a spot where you can live fully without the weight of disruption from disease. I wish, often, that we'd found that space together.

 

That's my daughter...and two dead fish.

 

You see, I was shopping the Thai Basil at Whole Foods when I looked to my right, and saw my daughter walk to the fish counter, stare at the selection, and then courageously order two whole trout. The guy behind the counter advised her to ask her mother. She was adamant.

 

I don't need to ask her. She's good with it. All good here. Now, please wrap my fish in that paper, and I will cook them.

 

I frowned, and walked over to her.

 

What are you ordering? I asked, a bit exasperated.

 

She looked sternly in my direction, placed her hands on her hips, and replied, I'm getting some fish. That kind. She points to the glass case, and two shiny fish, awash in ice, glistening under the lights. Oh, please, mama! Please. I just want to have fish. Can't we? Yes, yes we can. They are lovely and right here. Right here. He'll put them in paper, and we can bake them!

 

Honestly, I haven't any notion of how she came to this. I'm not entirely certain my daughter has ever eaten fish, and certainly she's never prepared one. Still, her beaming face...the stare of the man holding the brown butcher paper behind the counter...and the fish with their glassy looking eyes...

 

I relented. Okay. Okay. But I've not cooked a fish in more than ten years. I'm not even sure I'd know how any longer...

 

She clasped her hands together, and gleefully ordered the man to get her fish. Those two, right there! We'll take them. And don't worry, mama, I will know what to do.

 

I was not reassured. Nor was I assuaged to hear the man behind the counter affirm that she'd made a good choice. They are well priced and quite fresh. She knows her fish.

My delighted daughter took her two wrapped fish, and walked through Whole Foods with them nestled in her arms. She told every person she met that she was having fish for supper. I'm making fish tonight. I'm going to eat these two beautiful fish for my dinner!

 

The thing I perhaps love best about my daughter is that brand of confidence. She is fearless, determined. She knows what she wants, and she isn't afraid to assert herself to get it. That is why I, a dedicated vegan who isn't even wholly convinced that a person should eat fish for any reason at all, is massaging garlic and olive oil into the flesh of a dead trout. It wasn't her enthusiasm to try something new, or her sales job to obtain it. It was that the decision was made without me. I was merely a passenger to her adventure.

 

The balance of parenting can be found in embracing the moment, even in the context of the mundane: dinner, shopping. My daughter knows that her voice matters, and had I pushed forward with my preference, I would have squashed some part of that independence.

 

So, here I am. A vegan. Baking fish. I hope she likes it. 

 

Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.
- Andre Gide

The other day, my daughter and I went for a walk before picking up her brother from school. It was an unusually warm day, so I figured we'd stroll down to a small lake nearby.

Along the way, my daughter found some sand beneath an oak tree, and she promptly sat down. I kept trying to cajole her to keep walking, just a bit further, so she could see the water in the distance. She wasn't having it.

I like it here. I don't want to keep walking. I like this sand. I'm not moving!

I knew she'd have a better time near the lake. I could see what she couldn't. I knew that the mountains and the water and the colors of the trees were more than she could even imagine, sitting in a small patch of sand under the oak. If only she were willing to walk a bit further...

And here we are, all of us, sitting under that metaphorical tree. We can only see this small patch of life and the world. We can't always know what is up ahead, if we persist just a little bit longer, go just a little bit further.

I've been so frustrated lately with my training. I never feel like I am where I want to be, and then I've had weeks of light efforts, thanks to injury.

I find myself sitting under the oak tree, thinking maybe I should just stay in this spot. It would be so much easier. 

Then, I remind myself that, perhaps, if I walk just a little further, things will be greater than I can imagine, and that someone might just have a bigger, better vision up ahead.

Looking forward to 2013 with Team Novo Nordisk.

After my tongue-in-cheek Turkey Day lament, I thought I would post something that speaks to authentic gratitude...mostly because my Thanksgiving turned out to be a pretty amazing 24 hours, during which I was reminded of all the things for which I am, indeed, thankful.

Josh Korda of Dharmapunx NYC did a modern riff on the traditional Theravadan Buddhist reflection. Thanks, Josh, for the modernity of your words.



Incalculable are those forced to toil without end, and who are driven by hunger and want.
I have enough to sustain my body and time to give it rest.

My day began at 4:30 in the morning, when I felt a gentle nudge on my shoulder. My four year old daughter was standing next to the bed, and whispered, I can't sleep. I sent her back to her room. "It's too early. I need some rest. We've got a busy day." And then I heard her, tossing about from the other side of the house...and I remembered that feeling as a child, of waiting awake in the dark for the sounds of movement, the loneliness of being alert in a house where everyone else was dormant, and I was moved out of bed. I crept back to her room, watched as she peered at me in relief, and I took her tiny hands. I slipped her coat off the hook on the wall, and grabbed her snow boots. Where are we going?

The only thing open on Thanksgiving Day at this hour of the morning is a doughnut shop down on Main Street, a few blocks from our home. I sipped a cup of bitter coffee while she ate a vegan chocolate cake doughnut with orange and brown sprinkles, and downed a cup of apple juice. She was delighted.

As we left, I ran ahead to open the car door for my daughter, cradling a doughnut for her brother. I turned just in time to see her spin around, and wave to a homeless man, counting change to buy a cup of coffee as he walked in to the warmth of the doughnut shop. He looked back at her tiny, beaming face. He smiled gently, came back through the door, and said, You have a Happy Thanksgiving, Sweet Pea. She nodded and wished him well in return.

Countless are those are born without physical or mental health.
I have been born with all limbs and faculties complete.

I went home, threw on my bibs and a workout shirt, and headed to Breakaway for my morning training ride. Pyramid intervals with Zach. I was about to earn my pecan pie. I changed in to my spinning shoes, and checked my blood sugar one last time. The guy next to me glanced over, seeing my bibs and meter. You must ride for Team Type 1? He unzipped his jersey to reveal a medical alert medallion. I've been diabetic for 34 years, with no complications. I blame it on the bike. No more racing, but I still ride five days a week. You guys are awesome. What you do? It's amazing.

We sat alongside one another and rode out a brutal session in the studio. 

Many are those who live in lands of strife and conflict, and who are deprived of security and safety.
I am living in a place where there is peace.

I turned on NPR on the way home, and listened as The head of the Senate Intelligence Committee stated that former CIA Director David Petraeus had agreed to testify to Congress about the Sept. 11 attacks on the U.S. Consulate in Benghazi, Libya, that killed the U.S. ambassador and three other Americans. And then, I remembered the sadness of this picture, both because this young woman was living in the middle of such violence and, more importantly, because she felt the sting of judgement for a faith misunderstood by many. I wished that I could reach out to her and assure her that no thinking American would assume otherwise.

Without number are those who live in regions where the light of the truth does not shine and its message is not heard above the racket of doctrines that cause suffering.
I have heard the good teachings.

I enjoyed the rest of the night in the company of my family. My daughter rode her bike with her beloved Great Aunt, and I sat and had a glass of wine with my father, who I don't see nearly often enough. My son lost a loose tooth, much to his delight. My Uncle laughed and told stories about me as a young child. In the warmth of that kitchen, in the sanctuary of family, my children played and giggled and chased the dog.

I saw that scores of people were waiting in the cold. Not for food or clean water or a much needed place to sleep. They were waiting for doors to open at Best Buy and Target and Wal-Mart. They were caught in the net of consumerism, in the idea that "more is always better," and that there is always something else a person requires to be content. I was glad to know otherwise...to have more than enough. I was glad that my husband and I belong to a faith that rejects those notions, and that we have refused to impart those values to our children. Instead, we retreated to our tiny, minimalist home and read stories, curled up on the old sofa with a warm cup of tea.

Truly precious and great are the blessings I enjoy.
Here I contemplate on my good fortune and the good of others.

To repay these gifts, I will use my efforts to overcome the obstacles of hatred, greed and delusion.

Afterward, I settled in with my husband, and watched this documentary. I had wanted to see it earlier in the week, but hadn't found the time. Thanksgiving was, perhaps, the perfect night to watch the film, which follows several young children and their families, and documents their lives as they struggle to survive in extreme poverty. If you've not seen it, you should.

I live in abundance. I have a lovely home of my choosing. I have beautiful children and a caring family. Our pantry is filled with good foods that nourish their body and spirit, as opposed to dead foods...or nothing at all. We are raising our kids in a place of peace, and with all the resources a child might require. My son, had he been born a world away or in a family without the same means, might never have spoken a word...might have been relegated to an institution. Instead, he is getting an education and has a college fund. My daughter might have died from a seizure. Instead, she has access to quality health care. I might not have been granted access to the tools I need to manage my diabetes. I might be blind, or in renal failure, or deceased. Instead, I get to race my bike.

The things we most need are not the things for which so many line up. Namaste.

"Thanksgiving." It sounds like the kind of totally awesome holiday that I could get behind. It's supposed to be all warm and do-goody and filled with gratitude for the stuff we already have (before Black Friday, when Americans go buy all the other stuff they don't have and totally covet). But here's the thing....

Thanksgiving was founded when the Pilgrims stole the Native American lands, and called it "sharing." That's actually a lot like how Midori shares. She takes what she wants, and then tells you that you can have it back later....when she's ready. So it's kind of sharing. And, to be fair, the whites did share smallpox, so that's something.

That aside, Thanksgiving used to be a good excuse for Americans to gorge on all kinds of high calorie, refined carbs and sugared desserts...but now, the excuse is called "Monday." Or "Tuesday." Or "Wednesday." You get my drift.

I should throw in my vegan card here, too. I don't even eat most of the Thanksgiving fare. That's probably a good thing, because the Thanksgiving bird is really little more than a ticking time bomb of disease, if you believe all the Department of Ag stats on salmonella. Basically, you can either cook the thing until it resembles a charcoal briquette, or you can risk your life while trying to avoid making eye contact with your drunk uncle eyeing the gravy boat on your side of the table. Or you can go drink a bunch of beer in your backyard, and throw the turkey into a deep fat fryer, and take your house and friends along with your meal.

I usually make some sort of extravagant vegan thingy that no one save me will eat, and call it "Happy Feasting" while I watch my carnivorous family pick at the carcass of some genetically altered fowl. Super awesome.

But worse than being vegan is being diabetic. Not only is there the whole carb-heavy meal thing, which wreaks havoc on blood sugar, but there is the added weirdness of going through the diabetic paces with extended family. I am pretty open about having diabetes. I don't hide when I test or when I inject...but I also don't think that entitles people to comment. The general public, however, and my extended family, totally disagree.

I get it. It seems innocuous to inquire about how long a person has been diabetic, or what a day with diabetes looks like, or how many shots are required, or what a person "can" or "cannot eat." But it is invasive. Do you really think that I don't get asked these kinds of questions all. the. time.?? Is it so hard to believe that someone might not want to discuss their entire health history over cornbread stuffing and cranberry sauce?

This also beckons to the diabetic food police, who think nothing of dropping the judgemental, Is it really a good idea for you to eat that? These people usually fall into one of two groups: 1) Folks with bad nutritional habits of their own who have no understanding of basic metabolic processes and will heap gobs of carb-filled taters on your plate while admonishing you for even thinking about a piece of pie, and 2) Those family members with an axe to grind, and find this a handy way to pester under the guise of "seeming helpful." They are the same people who will note that you've "put on a few pounds," or ask you about the last round of layoffs at your company's home office.

The whole thing is irksome, and my only real goal is to survive. And get home. And then eat something I actually like...like cold cereal, which I never get because it is really super bad for my blood sugar. But it works on Thanksgiving to offset the delayed low from all the booze I will need to consume to keep from tripping out.

Cheers.

“We are nothing more than the sum of our memories and experiences...”
― Michael Scott, The Sorceress

 

 

When people start talking "experiences," they generally mean that you got stuck with something you never really wanted, and are now in the position of making the best of the otherwise unfortunate situation. It's really a question of belief on the part of the individual, and whether a person chooses to take an experience and create a meaning that disempowers them, or whether they decide to use that same event as an offering to others.

 

Today is World Diabetes Day. It's a campaign that draws attention to the global diabetes community, and celebrates the experiences of the 285 million people all over the world impacted by some form of the disease - the people who never wanted to be living with diabetes, facing its risks and complications, waking each day with finger sticks and hypos and carb counting and an endless array of doctor visits and trips to the pharmacy and, yes, confronting the fears and the unknowns of a life blunted with the impact of this condition. All those moments when I have been caught in the net of low blood sugar, and wondered if I would be beckoned back...if I would have a seizure...if I would suddenly have to rely on someone else for help. 

 

Diabetes has changed the way I see the world. At the time of my diagnosis, I was faced with an overwhelming litany of details, all of which were designed to keep me healthy, and to keep me alive. More importantly, the force of this disease has made me want to prove that I can do anything. Accomplish anything.

 

The first time I gave myself a shot of insulin, I was sitting on an exam table covered in white paper. "Now, you know not to go home and get on your bike, right?" admonished my doctor. I smiled. Shut the door behind me as I walked out of his office. I drove home, and I got on my bike. I rode 50 miles, all alone, frightened the whole time. More important than the fear of going too low on a solitary road, however, was the unabridged terror of having someone tell me that I couldn't do something, and the notion of having a limitation suddenly thrust upon me.

 

I was driven, in those early days, by fear. 

 

Now, all these years later, I know I can do anything. I've run marathons and climbed mountains and raced some of the toughest events in the country with diabetes at my side. Fear is no longer part of the equation. My experience with diabetes has allowed me to tap untouched strengths and talents, and to let those once hidden gifts rise to the surface. So much of who we could be remains idle within us, shackled by our beliefs until something - some experience - sets free those attributes. We can either be prisoners to our fear and those things we never wished to happen, or we can use those elements to set free our true potential.

 

Diabetes was a visitor I never wanted, but it has given me armor plating to go into the world, share my experience with others, and find the unbound courage to push forward.