Archive for Coaching

The Walking Dread

I used to make lists of things to do for the day. I’d find them all over the place: crunched into dehydrated balls at the bottom of the dryer, in coat pockets from last season, and at the bottom of my purse with stray hair clips, pennies and the odd sugarless gum wrapper. I’d jot things down on scraps and stuff them down into my pockets and then forget to look at them. Later, if they weren’t annihilated in the laundry, I’d find the lists with shorthand on them standing in for some lighting bolt idea I had at the time, and I’d have no clue what the hell it meant. Little stray pieces of would-be genius littering corners of my life, physical refuse of what could have been and the loss of each idea that might have brought me a nice essay or a great client or a recipe to thrill people with. Detritus of what never was.

And the thing about these lists is that conveniently losing them or forgetting them let me see  that I tend to carry bullet points around in my mind, pinballs of things I should be accomplishing or mastering. This luggage brings with it a sensation of dense dread like a Pig Pen cloud following me. I watch people bob and weave around my anxiety as if they’ll get sucked into the fray like a smoothie in a blender.

DREAD.

It is almost always so much worse than whatever the thing is we are dreading. Since here we are in April, let’s take taxes, for example. I can put off doing taxes as well as the next guy. Something about all those rules, all those numbers, all those facts that tell me things about my abilities, or lack, as a new businesswoman. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to watch the little calculator at the top of Turbo Tax telling me that after all that toil, I still have to send the government MORE MONEY. I don’t want to face the hours of sitting. The resentment of spending time doing taxes while I could be LIVING MY LIFE.

And there’s the rub. Dread is about tricking ourselves into believing that we are not CURRENTLY living our lives. We think that if we put off doing our taxes (or breaking things off with our date, or going out for a run, or quitting smoking, or, or, or…) that we are staving off the discomfort of the bane of this event.

The reality is that putting it off keeps us in the dread itself, torturing us with our own worst fears about the impending unwanted event. It keeps us in the cycle of loathing a fiction of a thing that has NOT EVEN HAPPENED YET. In addition to the experience of that dread, it also does the work of withholding the possibility that the thing we are dreading might, in all actuality, turn out ok. Or might be an experience that we can bear or grow from or laugh at or tolerate. Or it might suck even more than we think it will but at least it only has to suck while it is actually happening rather than the hours of dread leading up to it PLUS its attending real-time suckage.

Dread is a thief. It robs of of our peace in the moment of the life we are actually living to rake us over the coals of a future that may be nothing like what we are living through in our imagination. That’s two problems at once. The present is given over, and the creative power we possess is being used to hurt ourselves.

So. What to do?

Take the object of this dread and break it down. Splinter it. Do your taxes for ten minutes. Set a timer. Maybe the first ten minutes isn’t so bad. Do another ten. Put them away. Now you have 20 minutes of taxes under your belt with the added victory bonus of having spent 20 minutes of doing your taxes and not having anything be uncomfortable yet. You are now armed with a triumph going into day two. And since taxes, in this example, are something we’ll do again and again (if you believe in that kind of thing, but feel free to substitute a dread you relate to) we are also rewriting the story of how they actually feel. Turns out, the first 20 minutes feel fine. Maybe the first hour does. Maybe then it gets horrible and it feels clearly worth it to hire someone to do it next time or to start 4 days earlier or WHATEVER.

This experience of eradicating dread isn’t about curing our lives of discomfort, but it is about alleviating pain and struggle we create for ourselves around fictions that we create to haunt ourselves. The world is going to serve up plenty of real struggle for us. We don’t have to help it. And so when the real discomfort comes, we can show up for it in our lives and experience it as an honest and actual kind of difficulty. And the other thing is, we might just be wrong. I spent my whole adult life dreading the eventual truth that I would have to live in a body I wasn’t that psyched about.

Turns out, I was wrong and I now have the great pleasure of making amends to my body each and every day for the rest of my life. Even on days like today when it really didn’t do what I wanted it to. Maybe especially on days like today.

It’s like Mr. Whitman says,

“There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.”

So be here now and not with dread.
And good luck on your taxes, everyone.

 

Compare and Despair: Keeping Our Eyes on Our Own Papers

I went to five different high schools. With so much of my energy being shuttled to alleviation of social discomfort and trying to assimilate to puberty, cliques, smoking weed and soccer, I did my best to limit the time I spent studying so I could get away with the best possible grades for the least amount of work. That often meant straining my little eyeballs trying to see what Kevin Phillips came up with on his chemistry paper.

Which is to say, I cheated.

I’m not proud of it, but frankly, I don’t feel too bad about it either. I wish people would have told us all what I suspected, and WE ALL SUSPECTED, to be true: most of what we learn in high school, we will never use again. School is for training our brains, teaching them to stretch and think and bend and open. Unfortunately, some of the schooling I had also trained my mind to close but I suppose that’s a whole other post entirely. Have I ever, really, needed anything I learned in high school chemistry? Not really. And even though I was good at it, did memorizing all those state capitols help my life? No. No it did not. But the ACT of memorizing has helped me. The ideas behind chemistry, the cause and effect of things has really shaped me. The ways in which seeing that putting two things together in one way can be an act of genius and one small difference can blow shit up. Chemistry is ripe with metaphor and THAT has been a deep benefit for me. Chemistry has been the undercurrent of the alchemy that happens in the kitchen. What has happened over time with love, with age, with atrophy and stretching.

What about the cheating, though?
Well. I liked getting away with things. I liked the velocity of getting over, the feeling of rebelling and subverting authority. I liked the thrill of wondering what the outcome might be with what I could manage to get by on with my wits and what I’d have to explain away to my parents who were Very Busy doing everything they could to make my future solid while I listened to The Cure and tried to figure out how to keep my head above water in the many predominantly white suburban John Hughes high schools of my life. I picked up some cigarettes, Marlboro reds, and learned to pack them into 4 inch bullets. I picked up little metal pipes full of shitty weed and snuck out of school dances. I picked up the tool of a Malleable Truth and carried it in my backpack from school to school, sanding down my edges to fit in anyplace I could. And while all this happened, I missed out on the offer of learning in school. My brain could have been doing all kinds of gymnastics and honing itself to be a ninja in the universe of interesting information but instead,  I treated it like a stoner on a stinky couch outside a frat party in Santa Barbara.

The kicker is, I find myself doing it today in still more insidious ways that are much more costly. An old friend was talking about how she was going to stop looking at fashion magazines because it was making her feel so bad. The way advertising somehow manipulates us in comparing ourselves with images on a page. There’s a few ways to wrap our minds around how this NEVER serves anyone too well.

This photo was taken in 2011. I don’t really look like this. I didn’t look like this then, really, and I sure as hell don’t look like this now. Since this was taken life took a lot of difficult turns and I added some pounds, hacked off a foot of my hair and grew all the gray out, plus I shot it of myself from the most “flattering” angle above. And it has at least two different romantic filters on it. But I like this photograph so I use it in press and print. I’ll use a new one with the gray hair soon or I’ll mix it up.

1. The “I’ll Never Look Like That” Edition: Thankfully, this one can be pulled apart in all manner of directions. First of all, she/they/he doesn’t look like that either. We all look so many different ways at different times of day, in light, with digital manipulation, angles of a shot. We are people of full dimension, not just two, so the reality is, we don’t even look the way the image says. I know this because I am a photographer. So there’s that fiction. The second thing is, let’s say for argument’s sake that the model really DOES look like that all the time from every angle, no matter how much sleep they got or who recently broke their heart or whether or not they actually have the flu. If that person ALREADY looks like that, then you’re off the hook. Somebody already has the job of looking like that and you can get busy doing the job of looking how you already look. No one else is doing that important job. So we need you. Not even your identical twin looks like you exactly so get to the business of living in your face and your thighs and your ass just the way they are. This is the body you have. It’s fucking great no matter how it looks because it is the vessel of your life. Without it, you join the ether. Without it you do not get to write, to do a tarot reading for your best friend. You don’t get to roller skate or swim or watch your kids learn to read. No singing. No listening. No plump cherries to bite into and no getting laid. So this Edition of Compare and Despair isn’t going to work in your favor.

This is what I looked like yesterday. Size 8 billion overalls, hat on bad hair, no make-up, and I still kinda like it.

2. The “They Think I’m Fat/Crazy/Nerdy/A Loser/Fill in Your Nightmare” Edition: One time I went to a beginner’s hip-hop class in Brooklyn. I had just been through back to back breakups with not one, but TWO women who felt ambivalent about their feelings for me. What the fuck, right? (Side note, Don’t date people who don’t think you’re fantastic. Getting your self-worth from trying to convince an ambivalent lover that you’re the one is a sure way to misery. You are already the one for someone or several people who are wholeheartedly stoked to hang out with you.) So I’m already feeling less-than and I head to this class to have fun! To exercise! (Which at the time I did not do so trying something fun was key). To be with great women! I get there and it’s in this gorgeous old studio, vaulted ceilings and original red looking wood with swirly accents way up high and the front of the room entirely covered in mirrors. Before the music even started I could feel my throat tighten down looking at the room reflected back to me. Scads of easily stylish beauties greeting each other and limbering up like a Fame outtake. Me? Jesus. I’m the pudgy girl at the back, sweats and an ill-fitting t-shirt to go with my bruised ego. The music starts and I can’t get my body to do anything the other bodies in the mirror are doing. This is the warm up. I start to feel humiliated by what people must think of me, oozing my incompetence into their fun place. It barely takes any time at all. So little, in fact, it’s like a sad miracle of a thing how quickly the imagined judgment moves me to sobbing. I bolt from the class, a bad after school special moment in real life. God, it’s so horrible just to type this out. More judgement so many years later like, “Poor you and your luxury dance class problem. Inept Pudgy Lesbian is so sad and alone.”

BUT THAT’S HOW COMPARE AND DESPAIR WORKS! It’s actually none of my business what anyone thinks of me. Whether they think I’m pretty or ugly or loud or selfish or fake or funny or devious or dim. My business is to keep my eyes on my own paper and either learn the dance or don’t. This was about giving my body movement and treating my battered little heart to some levity. I cheated myself out of that and left with quite a little internal gash.

I am not a minimalist.

3. The “Why Don’t I have That Couch” Edition: There is nothing like an issue of Dwell Magazine to help this one hit home. In some ways this one is harder for me than the fashion magazine one. This one is all about What I Don’t Have. And there are a million versions of the ways I don’t have the things I don’t have. There are the modern boho versions of it featuring interesting globetrotters who select the perfect items to bring home and place Just So in their incredibly homey and chic living rooms with giant dangly light fixtures and bold patterns and colors you can sink into on oversized cushions and guzzle micro aged bourbon and talk about film together after the retractable screen disappears. There’s the sleek, minimal modern version of Things I Don’t Have because I have no fucking restraint and don’t know how to make minimal work no matter how many times I study it. I don’t understand negative space in writing, in paintings, in design or in conversation, really. But I love it and it defines what I am not. And in this case, what I cannot afford.

And isn’t it always the couch?
It is.

I have always wanted to buy a new couch for myself, somehow exclaiming my independence as a woman. A real, live, adult woman. All these people in the magazines with all their beautiful houses and their stuff and their COUCHES, they count, and so therefor I do not. Because I have never gotten myself a new couch. And that is how Compare and Despair works. I look at a photograph of a couch in an image and I let it define my life, if only for a moment, into nothing at all. Which really pisses the old dog off, who would like me to give him dinner now, thank you very much.

So I guess what I’m saying is, I can’t go back. I don’t believe in regret. I made the choices I made and so did you and here we are. But I think when I go to my new ceramics class next Monday, which I have always wanted to do, I will bring curiosity with me, wondering what it is I’ll learn to do. I’ll keep my eyes on my own paper and only look to the other clay in the room to admire it, wonder at all the possibilities, and watch myself be a beginner in a world that would only value a master. Maybe I should write Kevin Phillips and say something. But I don’t know what.

Anyhow, I hope I get super dirty in messy clay.

Fearlessness, Cereal, and Courage.

Fearlessness is bullshit.
There.
I said it.

What might happen if we spent time getting to know fear rather than trying to banish it? What if we sidled up next to it at the campfire and checked out the curve of its cheekbones in the light of the flames? What if we let it be real, a hungry visitor, instead of letting it lead us around by the nose?

If we do something we’re afraid of, let’s even say terrified, we come out the other side a changed person. There’s a kind of alchemy that happens between fear and courage. I say, LIGHT IT UP, BITCHES, because without fear, how do we know where an edge is? And if we’re not afraid to try something, if there’s no risk or growth potential, who gives a shit? What’s moving about witnessing someone pour their Cheerios in the morning? I’ll tell you what’s moving:

Jenny’s been in physical therapy for over a year after being stabbed on street in a back alley someplace in Minnesota. She felt his breath on her neck before she ever saw him. So quiet. She remembers thinking, “I wonder if that’s why they call them creeps…” as the blood soaked the arm of her flannel. She didn’t have time to get out the way before turning and lifting her arm into the blade. She barely felt it at all. It slid right in, across the muscles like a tailgate party steak. Then she couldn’t feel anything but the rush and the heat. She can’t tell you exactly what happened, just squared off images come to her. Even the smells and sounds feel like squares. The beer in her collar. The dull metallic smell of that much blood all at once. The way his voice left his throat when her knee came up. And then her boot in his teeth. But she didn’t feel afraid then. No time.

She felt afraid after she woke up though. She felt afraid every second of every day with her arm strapped to her side. She couldn’t go out after dark anymore. A grown woman imprisoned for all evenings. Then there was the shame of that too. The rage. That high crimson screech of rage caught in her ribs, laying in wait. It’d come out in physical therapy when she tried to move the arm. She went four times a week, and she’d meet Peter at the door. She felt like Eeyore, glum and blue and sluggish.  He’d coax her to move through it. And it wasn’t just the pain, Oh, HELL no. On top of that, there’s the FEAR of the pain. The fear of no results. The fear of the depression of so many months of the things taken by the pain, and her bad hair done with a clumsy left hand. Buttoning jeans took on a new set of challenges.

One time she saw Peter wince when she tried to move the arm to the right. It’s the only slip he ever had, mirroring her sorrow. And that was the exact moment her courage took root. She saw him feel her pain and she let herself be touched by it. She stayed with it then, not just the pain, but even before that. The bus ride to the office, knowing it was coming. The searing. The failure. The exhaustion of it all. For hours. And days. And months.

So when you see Jenny in the kitchen one day about to grab the cereal with her left hand and pour, and then stop. You see her fix her eyes at an angle, her chin follows. You watch her lungs open up and fill and watch her wide hips pivot to the right. You watch her move the right hand toward the box and clutch it, sweat beading along her hairline. And then just as she begins to raise the box, her mouth opens and all that rage, the shame, the hours of agony and the smell of beer in an alley come tumbling out of her mouth and she manages to get half her cereal into that bowl while the dog eats the rest off the floor and, well,

That’s what’s moving about watching someone pour their Cheerio’s in the morning.

So when you think that fearlessness is the point of doing something, when you imagine yourself strapped to a parachute and about to hop out the floor of a plane and even the thought brings the twitch to the back of your throat and up from your belly, when you aren’t quite sure if you can face the rejection of telling the beloved the truth of your heart, remember it is the alchemy that takes you from terror to courage that awaits.

So I say,

Be afraid.
Be very afraid.
But don’t let that be the
Only
Reason you stop.

I May Never Be a Gazelle

I keep trying yoga. I’ve tried Vinyasa, Bikram, Kundalini, Anusara and Hatha.  I’ve tried new teachers, both incredibly peppy and those that brought quiet and calm. I’ve had men teachers, women, and some delightful people somewhere else on the gender spectrum. Done it outside. In ashrams. Tried it with video. And I’ve done it simply to prepare for meditation.
Everything about it is an obvious match for me. I like a practice that keeps us in the present. I am a devout believer in tending to our bodies with physical care and reverence. I enjoy a group endeavor that can bring together a diverse gathering of people. I am fantastically inflexible with hamstrings chiseled from granite. I got a nice mat. Obviously, yoga could be just the nourishing practice I fit into my life. All manner of people have tried to help with introducing me to teachers, styles, and giving me support.
But still, I kind of hate it.
For me.
Not for you.
Making my way through a packed city to a packed class to spend a ton of money on a series doesn’t feel inviting. Rushing to serenity doesn’t make sense. And when I let people know I have not yet found a yoga that works for me, there’s a certain way the face looks back to mine. I know the face. The eyes soften at the corners, and the mouth drags across the teeth into a quarter smile. It borders on pity, pulls up just short of it. People are sad that I have not found the joy they’ve found. Or they feel sorry for me that my enlightenment is so off track. Or they remember their own yoga story of being where I am now, adrift from the mat, body gnarled up with muscles begging to be unfurled. So I go again. But I’ll shift around some old stuck spots and get nauseous. Starting feels terrible. I know it will pass, but do I care? My yoga friends see a way that I could.
I see it too, and sometimes I agree. That’s why I keep going. Every few months or years, I’ll try again. A friend will convince me they found just the class for me. And so far, they haven’t.
Now here’s the thing: when’s the point what I just let myself agree it’s not my jam? I don’t like the culty vibe of some studios or the cool, popular vibe of others. I don’t like doing it alone because I can’t tell what the fuck I’m doing. Plus I am also prone to a compare and despair problem where it’s difficult sometimes to be the platypus in the room of gazelles. No offense to the platypus. Of course I understand that no one in the room really cares what I am doing. I also understand that there is a path to when one finds a gazelle in the mirror eventually.
What feels like the tough part is to tell when it’s time to just maybe accept that my path isn’t this one. I do not have that gazelle reflection waiting for me. AND THAT IS FINE! It will save me many hundreds of dollars in Lululemon wear, and I can continue my humble stretching in the corner of the gym. I will be the awkward running lady. I never got good at that and I still like it. I can do that. I like lifting small weights. I like walking and I enjoy the feel of a good badminton game in the summer. I do balance exercises and I think often about boxing. Doing what I’m drawn to seems to serve me and it definitely kicks the ass of making exercise a chore that feels like a torturous Game of Thrones undertaking.
Still, the last time someone described Yin Yoga to me I thought, “Maybe I’ll try that one.”

What if it wasn’t a problem?

That’s what I’ve been asking myself a whole bunch this past month. It’s a simple question I’ve been toting along in the spiritual back pocket of my Jordache jeans like we used to have those combs in the 80s. I can’t believe what a difference it has made for me.

Here, I’ll show you what I mean.

Me passing a reflection of myself on my way to the gym: “I can’t believe I work out this often and I still have days when I cringe at my own reflection.”
Pocket: “What if it wasn’t a problem?”
Me: “Oh. I can just be grateful that my body works. That I am loved. That I just got to move my body and feel exhilarated. Maybe how I look isn’t today’s big PROBLEM.”

Or how about this:

Me at the end of a long day of not feeling productive: “I sat at this desk for 8 hours, didn’t finish my article, left emails on my desktop, didn’t make soup, and now it’s far too blustery to go running.”
Pocket: “What if it wasn’t a problem?”
Me: “Holy crap. What if productivity wasn’t the yardstick I chose to judge myself with today. What if I coached five clients really well, I took some time to pet the dog, and I read a ton of articles that inform my life? What if I let that be enough today?”
Pocket: “What if you are enough?”
Me: “Now you’re testing me, Pocket.”
Pocket: “Let’s talk again tomorrow.”

It’s just a tiny question that can get us out of a malaise or a self-imposed despair that we are not required to carry. You can turn around in your own prison cell and just walk right the hell out. Try it. You got nothing to lose but some sorrow.

 

The Great Courtship of Inspiration

I’m a passionate person. A Leo. A Jewess. The youngest and the only girl in the family. I have good lungs and spent a great deal of time using them for volume to get what I needed from a crowd. I wanted ATTENTION. I wanted to fit in. I remember thinking that as a writer, I didn’t NEED to edit anything because editing connotated the notion that the purest of inspiration was going to be squashed by a system of shaving the rough edges off oozy and sharp words. Editing might somehow dilute the original bolt of lightning that birthed a paragraph, a poem, or a good old fashioned rant. As time marched on, I began to find that inspiration was a bit of a fickle beast. Some years it took its leave for months at a time. I’d hang around smoking weed and drinking tons of coffee while I left the door open for Inspiration to wander in, club me over the head and ravish me like a brand new lesbian looking for a hot butch top to show her the ropes of Sapphic surrender. Sometimes she showed up. But mostly, Inspiration, like any other grown up, is a creature that works more fully with support.

A bath is a perfect tool for Inspiration courtship. It relaxes the body, draws out toxins, and can help shut down the constant chatter and let the light(ning) in.

Now, you may be thinking that support means inviting others in. And it CAN. But it can also mean developing patterns for ourselves, quiet patterns that we can employ solitude for. But either way, one of the strongest supports for Inspiration is practice. A consistent practice builds a fertile ground for Inspiration to flourish in. It’s like setting out the fine china for ourselves instead of just leaving it in a dark box, gathering dust. Our inspiration gathers dust too, like forgotten knick knacks we only remember when we get ready to move again and wonder what was in those boxes in the basement anyhow. Then we open them and the light hits something and we remember, Oh Right, I totally forgot that Incredibly Exquisite thing I have sitting in a Box in the Dark. That happens to our ideas as well. Once in awhile we take the time to dust them off and parade them around, but if we practice setting the table, it’s more likely we’ll see them on a more regular basis.

Get some nature up in your grill. Whether it’s a walk in the woods, a rowboat on the lake, a beach bonfire or a desert stroll, taking a regular quiet period with the wind and the birdsong always sets a nice stage for Inspiration

The thing is, a habit is more reliable than Inspiration. I mean, sure, being alive will eventually bring inspiration. But habit will do more than just allow you to happen upon it. Habit breeds a fertile ground for inspiration. Habit creates a constant and inviting space for inspiration to land in. Our consistent agreement with ourselves to Show Up, willing and open to receive, lets us meet Inspiration halfway, not asking her to trudge through enormous swaths of desolate landscape alone. Sometimes life is like that. It’s like that right now for my favorite baseball team, the San Francisco Giants. In fact, athletics are a great place to look at how a solid habit can work. Pick any athlete who stuck to their career for decades. You don’t even have to pick someone famous. But you know, the people who practice, the ones who just show up and do the work? Those are the ones whose bodies last. Those are the ones who feel the best, who learn from the path and who stay for the next chapter. It’s the same with writers. If I just waited for inspiration (which I have done for years and not come up with anything good) I might never write again. But if I sit down every day and just write a few pages, that’s when the magic happens. Sure, I write a ton of CRAP. But I also assure myself by the act of facing the page that I am willing to keep it going. I write through the crap to the sentence that sparks something. I stare at the page and see all the old demons and, fuck it, I write about them too. Because no matter what, they are also my companions here. Practice, habit, consistency: these are the pillars of a life. Not just a sparkly cameo appearance on Three’s Company or Cheers. This is the whole hog. Where the rubber meets the road. Getting through the empty to where the squeaky wheel gets the grease and it all begins to move right again. This is how we learn to love the edits. We run the extra miles when they feel painful and sluggish because we know they will turn into the ones that feel sponsored by the wind herself. We have the excruciating conversations with our loved ones because they ultimately let us practice who we are, rather than practice hiding.

For the past few months I’ve been practicing writing each morning with a group of friends. Each of us alone but together. The words show up this way.

I like to think of Inspiration as a lover worthy of creative and dynamic courtship. Of steadfast devotion. Building habits goes a long way to romancing Inspiration, which to me feels 100% great every time I find her in my life.

Coach’s Seasonal Cleanse Prep Suggestions

IMG_5253

Although I lead a cleanse every season, Spring is The Big Poppa of them all. You can join my Spring Fling ’13 here. According to Traditional Chinese Medicine, Spring is the season associated with the liver, one of our most heroic organs. The liver is the filter of the body, sifting all the toxins out and shuttling them to a swift trip out of our bodies.

Like any irrigation system, things build up, and the system can tire under strain. Ours is no different. This is the absolute best time to give your liver a standing ovation, a shout out, and a heartfelt thank-you note in the form of trying a cleanse. It works 24/7 to keep us as poison free as it can, no matter what manner of horrors we ask from it.
There are a billion different cleanses out there, from whole foods cleanses to elimination cleanses, to Master Cleanses, to juice regimens. Take some time to consider which cleanse offers you the best chance of serving your body well.
You may pick a cleanse in which all the meals are made and you don’t have to cook at all because the kids are home on Spring Break. Or maybe you got a new juicer and you want to try taking it for a serious spin with a 7-day juice detox. Or perhaps you’d like to build your cooking skills and overhaul your kitchen into a temple of health so a group with an online support element might be the best for you.
No matter what you choose, detoxing is no joke. Often the first days of a cleanse arrive with headaches, mood swings, fatigue, and fitful sleeps. As the body detoxes, some of those poisons get freed up from being trapped along our digestive tracts and they can be re-absorbed causing us to feel like we have a mild flu or a major bad mood. It will pass. I swear.
But before you even get to the first week, there are steps your can take to support your cleansing experience and help you ease into your Spring Cleanse with a sense of adventure and clarity.
1. Let people know your plan. 
Pick a few people around you who will be supportive of your plan for a Spring detox. Tell them know what your particular regimen entails, and how long the process will take. Let them know you’d appreciate their support as the first few days might not be so cute for you. For the ultimate in support, see if a friend would like to do the cleanse with you.
2. Clear out your schedule.
You’ve got your whole life to get freaky and party on down. Use this as an intentional time to prioritize your health. Block out the cleanse time on your calendar and keep your social plans as easy and laid back as possible. Go for walks with friends. Weekend matinees are great. Gentle exercise and museum meetings are perfect.
3. Prepare your kitchen. 
Look over your protocol and as the cleanse approaches, make your way through your everyday food so what remains in your kitchen are foods that make you feel strong and clean. Remind yourself that the foods you feel attached to are not going anywhere and when this cleanse comes to a close, you still have the choice to go and get them again. Although, magically, you may not want to.
4. Practice. 
If you’re doing a juice cleanse, start looking up juices on the internet and getting familiar with them. Get a feel for how much produce makes how much juice. See which herbs you like in your tonics and so on. If your cleanse is more on the whole foods tip, start dabbling is clean eating blogs and do some research on what kinds of cleanse foods might appeal to you. Begin practicing before the cleanse arrives so you have some established comfort with your new materials. It’s like Spring Training for baseball.
5. Ween off the heavy hitters.
If you are a coffee drinker, a sugar eater, a gluten eater, and/or a whiskey appreciator, you may want to begin to week yourself off these common ingredients that most cleanses abstain from. Going off coffee, sugar, gluten and booze is a lot for some people all overnight. Start drinking decaf or downgrade to green tea. Begin cooking with whole grains instead of serving dinner with bread. Just ease off things as your start date approaches.
Here I offer you one of my favorite cleanse tools. I like to prepare this broth and offer my body not just hydration in the days leading up to my cleanse, but also the rich potassium broth is a great source for electrolytes and building the blood up. I just tote it around in a quart sized mason jar and drink it like a tea.
The Cleansing Potassium Elixir

Ingredients
  • 3 T olive oil
  • 2 carrots, diced
  • 1 bunch dark leafy greens (chard, kale, collards)
  • 4 stalks celery, diced
  • 1 beet sliced
  • 2 cloves garlic, sliced
  • one knuckle ginger, sliced
  • 1 turnip, cubed
  • 1 onion, diced
  • ¼ stick of kombu
  • 6 cups filtered water
  • a tiny dash of sea salt
  • 1/4t black ground black pepper
Preparation
Heat your olive oil in a heavy pot. Put in your onions, garlic, carrots and celery. Heat these for about 5 minutes. Cover with water and bring to a rolling boil. Add in your beet, turnip, kombu, greens, and ginger. Boil for about 3 minutes and then turn down to simmer for 1.5 hours. Strain out all the vegetables and set aside. Pour your broth into mason jars and add your tiny amount of salt and pepper to taste. You can puree the vegetables for a side dish or compost.
This article originally appeared on MindBodyGreen.

Everyone Deserves Healthcare

This month I have been lucky enough to have the opportunity to work with so many new people. Part of the reason for this is that I reserve a certain amount of slots in my schedule to work on a sliding scale. Through doing some free Discovery Sessions with clients, I’ve been able to make some discoveries myself about my business. I wanted to post here about one of my sacred kind of beliefs I incorporate into my practice so that maybe I may be able to reach some people who thought I wasn’t available to them. Though there has been a short wait list in the past, right now I have some slots open that work this way:

* I believe EVERYONE deserves healthcare. Because health insurance often doesn’t cover coaching AND because so many of us do not have coverage, I have taken steps since my practice opened to make sure this is a place everyone can come. Individual and couples coaching options retain schedule slots for sliding scale and bartering options for twice a month meetings. This will always be the case, so please write to me if you’d like to work together.

I do not have a traditional sliding scale. I do not make assumptions about people’s finances. I ask the client to take a bit of time to go over their finances and to really see how much money they have available for Health Coaching without adding undue stress onto their financial plate. Often finances can cause such stress that it begins to affect our health, making it a wonderful time to begin coaching and working toward financial fitness and peace as well. When the client has decided what figure works for them from $1- full price, I agree to this.
I always assume that respect for each others’ time and work has been figured into this important relationship. As the client’s financial situation changes, which it often does, check-ins can reflect a change in payment. Bartering is also a wonderful option for coaching.
If you’d like to work with me, do not let finances stand in the way of making progress toward a healthier and happier life.
Warmly,
Sara

Quit Sugar with Me! Super fun.

I’ll be like Julie McCoy, your Cruise Director

It took me so many tries to quit. And there’s no magic to it. But there are tools that make the possibility of success a little bit closer and a lot more fun that just a white knuckle sandwich.

I can’t know the story that brought you here. Maybe it’s all the news you hear about how terrible refined sugar is for your body. Maybe it’s the way Type II Diabetes keeps cropping up all over your family tree, and beside you with friends and co-workers. Or maybe it’s the annoyance of being such a slave to sugar, unable to say no even when you truly want to. Whatever the reason you come to this series, you’ll find the information you need to make changes, you’ll get support, use your inherent creativity, have fun, and build community.

This four-week course will happen on your own time with a group that meets online all day, every day, for the duration of our studies. You can literally come to the group at any time to write what you need or share a discovery with the group. This frees all of us up to have our own schedules and make these meanigful changes in our lives as they happen. You’ll also have a coaching call with me every other week, one on one, to support you through this work. In this way, support can also be customized to your needs.

Each week we’ll tackle a different topic or angle about the Great White Beast. You’ll get handouts and documents to keep for continued support long after the class is over. Together we will do exercises, make recipes, deconstruct cravings, keep journals, and get our bodies moving as we look at our attachment to sugar.

If giving up sugar has been a longtime goal of yours, this course is just the thing to help you.

Join me by signing up right here.

My Article on Quitting Sugar from MindBodyGreen

Quitting Sugar is a tough fight, but it’s worth it.

Sugar is taking a public beating this week, as the internet is crammed with articles on why to avoid it, including Michael Moss’s fascinating NYT Magazine piece on processed foods as well as yesterday’s NYT column column by beloved chef Mark Bittman.

Bittman’s article explores findings from a study that links sugar consumption, not obesity, to diabetes. According to the piece, “researchers found that increased sugar in a population’s food supply was linked to higher diabetes rates independent of rates of obesity. In other words, according to this study, obesity doesn’t cause diabetes: sugar does.”

Going beyond the link, Mr. Bittman finally says from the center of chefdom what health coaches and researchers like Dr. Robert Lustig have been saying for years:

Sugar is toxic.

Which is the best reason to quit sugar.

One of the forty million times I quit eating refined sugar (and hopefully the last), I had the magnificent idea to start a journal and track not just my food, but my THOUGHTS about food. How much of my intellectual life was being held hostage by food obsession? And how much of that chokehold was related to sugar? And finally, what might be available to me mentally if all that room was suddenly liberated for me to use in a less exhausting manner than the vicious mistress of obsessive thinking?

I also decided to do a little research about my sweet tooth and see why I felt so helpless in the glitter of its outstretched fingernails. I found this lecture that Dr. Lustig gave a lecture called Sugar: The Bitter Truth in which he shows us that sugar actually stimulates the exact same region of the brain that cocaine goes to work on. I like to call it the Euphoria Lounge. Who doesn’t want to be transported from feelings of suffering, boredom, fear, or betrayal simply by adding a substance to our systems? It is so much easier than talking it out, going for a run, being present in pain or accepting responsibility for things that are causing us harm. NO WONDER I LOVE SUGAR!!

But my journal revealed that the effects of sugar didn’t end simply with the stimulation. Without indulging in the initial impulse, I was able to keep my brain off the endless hamster wheel of desire and denial. “I want this but that’s bad so I can’t.” and then on an even worse day, “I want this so I WILL and now I AM BAD.” Then the sugar appears and the blood sugar Olympics begin their relentless training: the high, the crash, the craving, and mental gymnastics to deny the desire and so forth. And the whole time the mind is engaged in this cycle actively, countless hours are robbed from our waking lives.

So how do we get off the ride? Here are some basic tools for support in quitting sugar, serving the health of your body, and freeing your mind from obsession so you can go about the fantastic business of living.

1. SOUR: Just like on a color wheel where hues opposite from each other cancel each other out, so too is the landscape of our tongues. Having a sugar craving? Grab a pickle. The sour taste will physiologically kill the impulse long enough for you to make a different choice for yourself and mindfully return to the life you are in the middle of living.

2. SUPPORT: Grab a friend or a posse and do it together. The first few days and even two weeks can be so intense when we try and let go of a crutch that no longer serves our health. It’s ok to ask for help and having a friend engaged in a common goal serves to strengthen the entire team. I see this over and over in my group cleanses, how the power of community creates a momentum for everyone.

3. CHANGE OF SCENERY: When the impulse feels at full banshee-monster-head-banging massive, make a physical move. Walk around the block. Take yourself up and down the stairs at the office. Go swimming. Take the dog out. Move from one room of the house to another. Call up your sugar-free pal and talk it out. Remember the craving will pass. Everything does.

4. ADD MORE PLEASURE: Congratulate yourself each day by furnishing yourself with a pleasure. Giving up sugar is not about living in denial, it is about a new perspective of pleasure. Run yourself a gorgeous bath with essential oils and bath salts for added detoxification, aromatherapy, and muscular relaxation. Bring yourself flowers. Treat yourself to a mani/pedi or give one to yourself. Masturbate. Let’s face it, no one is ever mad about an orgasm.

When I was finally able to let go of sugar, I realized through my journal how much of my mental space had been taken up not just by the sugar craving and acrobatics around that, but by just food obsession in general. My mind is now so much freer to be creative, to be curious and alive. My focus is more clear and my relationships with people are deeper, more authentic and loving. I don’t sit with my friend over tea and wonder how long until I get to eat. I sit with my friend over tea and I think about how nice it is to have time to catch up with such a hilarious woman, and how lucky I am to know her.