by Geneen Roth
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To my teachers
Contents
Introduction by Anne Lamott
Prologue: Dropping the Me Project
PART ONE: AROUND THE TABLE
Chapter One: Manna
Chapter Two: The Last Bite
Chapter Three: Lasting Weight Loss
Chapter Four: Heavenly Bodies
Chapter Five: If I Were Gloria Steinem
Chapter Six: The Red String Project
Chapter Seven: In the End
PART TWO: THROUGH THE MIND
Chapter Eight: Zen Mind, Puppy Mind
Chapter Nine: Be Kind to the Ghost Children
Chapter Ten: Hoodwinked by Suffering
Chapter Eleven: The Four-Month Virus
Chapter Twelve: Hummingbirds on My Fingers
Chapter Thirteen: Crushed Stars
Chapter Fourteen: What Remains
PART THREE: INTO THE SUBLIME
Chapter Fifteen: A Big Quiet
Chapter Sixteen: The Breaths I Have Left
Chapter Seventeen: Waiting for the Apocalypse
Chapter Eighteen: What Isn’t Wrong
Chapter Nineteen: The Blue Vest
Chapter Twenty: Not Minding What Happens
Chapter Twenty-One: Snorkeling in the Night Sky
Epilogue: Stop Waiting to Be Ready
Last Words: Touchstones for Breaking the Trance
In Grateful Acknowledgment
Women Food and God Excerpt
About the Author
Introduction by Anne Lamott
Just once, I’d like to read a piece on Geneen Roth that does not mention food.
All those thousands of articles over the years have driven home the radical message she carries, embodies, exudes—that food and weight are not the problem or the solution to the wound, or to the losses of so long ago that we try to numb or redeem by stuffing or starving or weighing or rejecting ourselves.
Yes, her pioneering books were among the first to link compulsive eating and perpetual dieting with deeply personal and spiritual issues that go far beyond food, weight, and body image. She changed my life twenty-five years ago when I read my first Geneen Roth book—the same day I swallowed ipecac in an effort to lose just five more pounds, which would make all of life spring into Technicolor, like when Dorothy lands in Oz. I had never before made the connection that the way we eat is the way we live—and that our relationship to food, our bodies, money, and love is an exact reflection of the amount of joy, presence, and oxygen we believe we are allowed to have in our lives.
Never before had someone expressed so brilliantly, and with such wit, that curiosity and self-love were the way home—not the latest diet, kale cleanse, or fair-trade coffee colonic.
So I discovered Geneen’s writings on food, and was hooked. Yet there is just so much more to her.
For starters, there is the exuberantly real, and the cranky.
Geneen is brilliant about psychological and spiritual matters, the deepest levels of healing. She can speak with profound honesty before a thousand people who are moved to tears by her radical acceptance of who they are, and what they have thought and tried—sometimes for decades, often as recently as that morning. But she can also be a goofball with a wild imagination. Somehow she manages to be hilariously self-deprecating while also being militantly on her own side, moment by moment. She also invents new languages. Passages in this book made me laugh out loud.
There is her life with her pets, with whom she shares great comfort and joy, and gleans wisdom about restoring our primal connection to Love. I think she might have a pet disorder, though. You may have read her book about the sainted Blanche, her two-hundred-pound cat, or heard of her darling and elegant poodle Celeste. Or perhaps you’ve encountered Izzy, her current dog—who, ironically, has disturbing food issues, including anorexia. Izzy is the only dog I know that I can leave in my kitchen with the cat’s bowl. (A portrait of Blanche, who was male, still hangs in a place of prominence in Geneen’s living room, as might, in other homes, a painting of the Queen.)
There is her beloved Matt—her husband and best friend and foil, who conveniently shares the disorder regarding pets. I never think of one without the other. Astonishingly, Matt is very loving and gentle about her other fixation: fancy sweaters. As far as I know, he has never said a word when she has brought home the latest, although he does make a quiet keening noise. (None of us—including Geneen—knows what the sweater thing means, and I do not feel prepared to discuss it further here. I’m just saying.)
There is her smile, which is huge and irregular—one of a kind, almond-shaped, toothy, and frequent. She not only laughs at all my jokes, which I love in a girl, but laughs with infinite compassion at herself and her foibles, failures, victories, silliness, and ordinary human behavior.
There are her tears of empathy—for the child she was, for us all, for how hard it is here, for how deeply weird and impossible life and families can be, and for the world.
There is her contagious delight in the sensuous. I have seen her nibbling a bit of exquisite dark chocolate for whole minutes, as if it had to last her the month, savoring it as if God had given her and only her this one and only piece. Some of the essays in this book will help you learn to do this, too—while also teaching you radical forgiveness if you have recently set upon a sack of Halloween candy like a dog.
I love the depth of her spirituality, and her absolute, total commitment to it (along with the pets . . . and the chocolate . . . and the sweaters). I also love her plainsong erudition, which is in equal proportion to her thrilling humanity.
I can tell Geneen any horrible secret I may have, one that I believe reeks of depravity or madness or general loathsomeness, and she will hear me, and say the three greatest healing words on earth: “Oh, me too.” She will reach out to stroke the back of my hand and smile that almond smile.
And man, can that girl pay attention. And so she knows. She knows our hearts, because she listens to hers. She pays attention to her best friends, to strangers, to God, to pets, to Matt, to her spiritual teachers, to the grasses and birds, to the cats, the dogs, the child.
Many pieces in this book, and in fact in Geneen’s life’s work, center on developing the trust and intimacy with one’s own deepest self that are necessary for practicing radical self-care, awareness, and good boundaries. Perhaps as a result, Geneen is as generous as anyone I know. A few weeks ago we were on the phone and I mentioned that I was frantically cleaning my house because people were coming by for a fund-raiser for a village school I support in Myanmar. A few days later, her huge check arrived in the mail.
Geneen reads the same way she did as a little girl: as an act of devotion, discovery, salvation, meditation, and joy. This has helped her to hone her God-given gifts as a writer—her innate curiosity, her elegance and truth-telling, her brilliant or hilarious turns of phrase, her care.
Forgiveness is the center of her being, of her life. From that springs a deepening awareness of It All—one’s tummy, the physical hunger; one’s skin, longing for gentle touch and accepting eyes; one’s body and its incarnational realms; one’s heart, the umbilical link to God; and what e.e. cummings called the gay great happening illimitably earth.
Oh, yes, the food stuff. Has anyone else’s writings on compulsive eating and the healing of the heart, mind, and body thrown the lights on for more people, or changed the lives of more of us when we sit down to eat? Or pull up a chair at the fridge? Or open the half-pound bag of M&M’s in the 7-Eleven parking lot? Has anyone else helped so many of us develop the muscles to keep ourselves company—loving company—when we’re halfway through a sack of Cheetos, or starving ourselves yet again, or purging, or crying in a fluorescent-lit dressing room while trying on swimsuits?
Some of the stories in this book will give you insight and encourage self-forgiveness around money. And here is the scariest thing of all: this book will encourage you to become big and juicy and real, no matter what your parents, your teachers, and your culture have told you over the years.
There is a lot in this book about learning to make (or let) food be about food, and love be about love. There are also stories about the path of learning to trust yourself alone in a room with a cake—or, for that matter, a pile of bills, a clutch of memories, a family, or a set of deadlines. There are stories about true love, loneliness, and the places in between. There are stories about God, and writers, and parents, and gardens. But mostly these are stories about us, as told by Geneen.
I’d tried versions of not fixing myself before, but always with the secret hope that not fixing myself would fix me.
PROLOGUE
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Dropping the Me Project
From the beginning, I was always more anxious than the average bear. I was told at various times that I was too sensitive, too emotional (i.e., too female), too big, too curious, too demanding, too intense. The adults somehow forgot to mention that I was also sassy, silly, and keen-eyed. Regrettably, gaining and losing the same fifteen pounds every few weeks did not improve my self-worth. So at age twenty-four, I started looking for a way to handle “the full catastrophe,” as Zorba the Greek described living.
At the start—during the 1980s—my focus was on untangling misguided beliefs about food. Along with most women who struggled with their weight, I believed that if I could resolve what seemed to be the source of my self-hatred, I would be thin, happy, free. It made so much sense: take away the source of the pain and the pain will go away, leaving a bright spirit in its place.
As I lost weight, I quickly understood that issues with food were cover-ups. Yes, they needed to be addressed on the physical level, otherwise they could turn into more serious illnesses. And yes, most of us needed to learn what our bodies longed for and needed, because we’d been brainwashed into craving junk, but the genesis of compulsive eating was not physical, and unless its source was addressed, a range of equally painful behaviors would emerge.
When my misery with food ended—and didn’t change anything except the size of my thighs—I kept trying to fix other broken parts of myself by immersing myself in therapy, intensive meditation retreats, and rigorous spiritual practices. Now, I think of these last thirty years as similar to the wandering period in the Buddha’s life, minus a few essentials like his willingness to sleep on nails and eat one measly grain of rice a day. Furthermore, it took him twenty-nine years less than me to catch on to the truth. In my own case, it was only recently that I was willing to relinquish the Me Project and stop trying to fix what had never been broken. I’d tried versions of not fixing myself before, but always with the secret hope that not fixing myself would fix me. This time I only wanted one thing: to be at home in my mind and life as I knew it.
I used the same practices I’d used to end my suffering with food. If being vigilant about stopping the harshness with which I treated myself had unraveled the most obsessive behavior pattern of my life, if allowing my full range of feelings without acting on them had dismantled my suffering with food, why wouldn’t it dismantle what caused it: the ongoing, low-level discontent of what it felt like to be me? And finally, if being resolute about feeding myself with awareness and a large dose of kindness changed how I ate, why wouldn’t it change how I lived? What if, as I once did and still do with food, I could live as if nothing was broken, nothing was wrong, while nonetheless questioning the constellation of beliefs that led to anxiety, isolation, and self-hatred? What if I believed what Zen teacher Shunryu Suzuki said: that we are all perfect and that we need some improvement? Or, as they say in Texas, God loves you exactly the way you are; and she loves you too much to let you stay like this.
Freedom from mental suffering is not a mystery, but a willingness to examine what keeps us from directly experiencing the deep-blue peace and quiet joy that are always accessible and forever unaffected by the passing show.
This Messy Magnificent Life is about the path I followed and the obstacles I encountered along the way. It also challenges the conviction that everyday ease and freedom, no matter what the external situation, are reserved for the very few—that is, not for poor doomed Little Match Girl moi.
The book starts where Women Food and God ended: around the table, because the way we eat is always a primary gateway to the mind that creates the suffering about it. My ongoing work with retreat students—their stories and their breathtaking changes—continues to provide a groundwork for not only the work with food but also with an assortment of everyday doorways like illness, anxiety, hatred, misogyny, intimate relationships, and the guy paying with change in the express line.
This Messy Magnificent Life chronicles the shift from feeling as if we are secretly defective, helpless, and too often walking on the barbed wire of our thoughts, to waking up with the ever-present, always-sublime freedom from our incessantly restless minds, right in the middle of ordinary life.
Freedom from mental suffering is not a mystery, but a willingness to examine what keeps us from directly experiencing the deep-blue peace and quiet joy that are always accessible and forever unaffected by the passing show. If the drama and chaos in the outside world are expressions of the minds that create them, then naming and questioning the way we live in these minds, and on this earth, is the only way that true change can happen.
And so, we begin.
PART ONE
Around the Table
Attention is everything. Without it, all else is a temporary fix and no long-lasting change is possible.
CHAPTER ONE
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Manna
Iam making a cup of tea in my favorite purple-flowered mug when I smell smoke. I look through the windows behind me and see plumes of smoke through the trees. I call the fire department and they tell me there is a fire down the road, that it’s not contained, and that we might have to evacuate our home. They’ll let me know. My husband, Matt, is away—he never seems to be around during the panoply of biblical California disasters (earthquakes, fires, mudslides)—so I will have to deal with this myself. My heart races. I feel panicked. But then I think, “This will be fine. Sometimes bad is good.” I remember a haiku by Zen teacher Masahide that I read just yesterday: Barn’s burnt down, now I can see the moon.
Since I have the luxury of time, I walk around the house looking at the things we’ve accumulated—my mother’s antique Bombay chest, doors from Bali, a cabinet from Japan. The photographs of Matt and me at our wedding, of my mother and me at my twin nephews’ bar mitzvahs last year. I put five framed pictures and three photo albums in a pile near the front door.
I walk into my closet and I look around, a bit dazed. All these clothes. The only time my father hinted that he knew he was dying was a few weeks after he was diagnosed with stage-four lymphoma, when we were walking past his closet. He said, “My clothes. What’s going to happen to all my clothes?” As if they had lives of their own and would miss his legs, his arms, his wrists, or had meaning beyond his insatiable hunger for things and his inability to understand the meaning of enough.
I look blankly at my shoes, my sweaters, my pants. If our house burns down and I am left with only the clothing I take now, what would I want? What can’t I live without? I finger an embroidered jacket, t
hink about throwing it in my car, but then I realize I haven’t worn it in a year and although it was once my favorite piece of clothing, it isn’t now. I leave it hanging next to the black wool jacket with the short sleeves and the distressed gray corduroy jacket.
I call my neighbor Susan—whose husband is a volunteer firefighter—to find out if she knows anything more about the fire. “What fire?” she asks, voice rising. And then Susan begins to scream. “I’m in a wheelchair! I’m alone! I’ve just had back surgery! I can’t move!” I find myself thinking of the movie Sorry, Wrong Number, when the wheelchair-bound Barbara Stanwyck overhears a plan to commit a murder that turns out to be her own, but I keep this thought to myself. I tell Susan I will pick her up if we need to evacuate.
I move slowly, as if underwater. I put jewelry in a backpack—my wedding ring, my father’s Masonic ring that he wore until the day he died, my grandmother’s earrings, my mother’s enameled snake bracelet, my father’s first watch. I zip up the backpack, walk out to the car, and put the bag in the trunk. I can’t decide if I am numb or if I am enlightened because I’ve taken nothing else besides my purse, a computer, the stuffed toy pencil my first editor left me when she died, medicine, some underwear, the photograph albums, my favorite sweatshirt, our house insurance policy, our dog.
I call the sheriff’s office. They tell me they are going door-to-door and asking people to evacuate; it is not yet mandatory for our particular road, but soon may be. I decide to preempt the evacuation order, take the dog, call and pick up Susan, and leave, grateful that the flames I saw haven’t cut off my escape down our one-lane road. At least I am alive. I dial Matt’s number from the car and remember the call I placed to him on a Russian icebreaker in Antarctica a few years ago. (Hi honey, no one died, but Bernie Madoff’s been arrested and we’ve lost every cent of our money.)
