Leisa A. Hammett

Compassion: A Valentine 4 Self; Dr. Kristin Neff

Psychologist Kristin Neff is the mother and wife featured in the book and movie, "The Horse Boy." The movie was reviewed here on "The Journey with Grace." I found Neff's work via a Google search after I first viewed an advance copy of the film. What an incredibly, multi-talented, loving, amazing family.

 

 

 

Recently, I stumbled upon an online interview  about how Neff used her research practices on Self-Compassion for herself when her son was diagnosed with autism.

I love how this journey of autism/disAbility can use our gifts to transform not only ourselves but those around us near and far....

Happy Valentines Day, tomorrow. Love yourself. You are the foundation of your Life, Your Family, Your World. Compassion for others--so needed in our world--starts from Within....

Here's another incredible look at loving and taking care of yourself from the perspective of another special needs, mother. Julie Keon: What I Would Tell You.

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Interestingly, a week ago after walking Radnor Lake I returned to my car to see someone had gifted me two discount sale copies of The Horse Boy. (Who are you? Either you know me or you saw my autism bumper sticker and puzzle magnet...?) I am keeping one copy since you meant for me to have it and will donate the other to our local Autism Society. Thank you!

Passages of Time

 

"The days are long, but the years are short." --Gretchen Rubin, The Happiness Project

 

January 11, 2012...the date entered at the beginning of the morning's journal entry. It caused me pause....As the seasons come around...as the seasons arrive...yet another one is gone...another one is new. I am, once again, struck by the passage of time, as I tend to be when the seasons change--a key marker for the passage of time in my life. Maybe for others, too? It's as if I have a flashback, a quick deja vu. I realize: Oh. My. Another spring?! Another summer?! Another fall?! Another...winter?! Another year has gone by. Here I am again. Anew. A beginning. A chance to begin again. It's humbling in a way. Another year lived. Another sped by. And, here....I am. Now....[And a month has passed since I penned this in my journal.]

Photos, Leisa A. Hammett, copyrighted. I love the austerity of winter, especially as illustrated by bare tree limbs and expansive skies. GrateFULL.

Telling the Truth About Deen's Sugar-Coated Lie

The hoo-la over the diagnosis of the Queen of Fat & Sugar, Culinary Marketing Guru, Paula Deen, with Type-2 diabetes has simmered down a bit in the last week. I guess. At risk of sounding self-righteous: I really don't know because I rarely flick on the boob tube and best I knew, the controversy was never reported on my only news source, NPR. It was the blogosphere that tipped me off to the mean and nasty fest that was broiling over Deen's diagnosis. Talented blogger, special needs dad Rob Rummel-Hudson (Schuyler's Monster: A Father's Journey with His Wordless Daughter) posted on Facebook that making the Savannah-based Diva the butt of jokes was in poor taste. But via local Nashville fitness blogger Dyan of Don't Diet, Live It! that I learned the distasteful back story....

Dis. A. Point. Ing. Very.

From the headlines I expected a reformation. A new movement. I imagined the lives of foodie followers led down the table runner to salvation with Deen seated at the head teaching new math with a division of loaves and fishes and reversing her condition. (It is done. It is possible. I've witnessed it multiple times.) A reformed sugarholic for nearly 25  years now, I was excited, enthusiastic, as I clicked the news link, anxious to savor the details. Maybe this will be a wake up call for America's choice-ridden slide into obesity, I fancied. But. No. The scoop is Deen has known for three years about her diagnosis and sidles up to the public now with the endorsement of Big Pharma--Novo Nordisk-- a company that manufactures injectable diabetes meds. Her two sons, who do not have the diagnosis flank her as company spokespeople....Dialing up the heat of insult, Deen states in all seriousness:

She does not plan to limit her dietary excesses except her propensity for sugar-shocked, Southern tea. Writes "Coach Dyan" who watched Deen perform in a media circus parade, including The Today show: "She does not plan to change her lifestyle or cooking style[....]She said that she, like all other baby boomers, must face the reality of developing diabetes, heart disease, and high cholesterol."

There. Someone said it. Deen vocalized the sentiment of too many Americans. Descending into old, decrepit age, chock full of prescription meds and frequent consultations with allopathic medical doctors is just. The. Way. It. Is. Disease Rules.

Not.

Why am I passionate about this? Am I trying to pick at Paula? No. But I will speak the truth of my experience here. This mentality, as spoken aloud and lived by Deen, is a very real, negative reality in our culture today. But, I have chosen and live and believe in an alternative reality where Choosing Health Wins. As a young post-college adult, I began eating poorly, indulging in fat, excess sugar and fake foods. By my mid-20's, I developed a host of annoying gastric and transfered conditions. My trips to doctors became routine. By the end of that decade I was diagnosed with heavy metal poisoning, chronic intestinal yeast, chemical sensitivities and chronic fatigue syndrome. Eventually I found the ways of Western medicine and synthetic pharmaceuticals made me sicker. I quit listening to standard medicine and went the way of the quack, as our culture considered natural and alternative and diet-based medicine back then. Now? Science has proven those weird ideas...that too many in our culture still consider foreign. In one year I cured my chronic fatigue syndrome and heavy metal poisoning with the help of innovative, open-minded medical doctors in Atlanta, where I was then living. By first changing the content of what I ate, I immediately saw results in my weight, hair, skin and nails. I ate then and now a whole foods-based diet. Real. Food. Fruits. Vegetables. Whole grains. Some dairy and some quality meats. Organic as much as possible and lots of pure water. I have my dark chocolate and I drink wine on occasion. And if I let off the lid my sugar tooth will still rule. So, yes, those who know me have seen me big at the party buffet. The contents of my pantry? As pristine as a health food store.

My journey to whole food led me not only to whole health but to yoga and then to environmentalism because I saw how I ate affected how I treated the earth and in turn the earth's ability to sustain humankind. I learned as my mind cleared and my body cleaned itself from the inside out, that it is difficult to be fully conscious when I crammed fake stuff that my body could not process. And that clarity, slowly over the next couple of decades led me to a wider more inclusive spiritual path. In my experience, one led to the other, all so beautifully connected. I am so grateful for the journey that started with getting sick from a contemporary American diet and has served by body, mind and spirit so well the two ensuing decades.

We do have a choice about our health. And making a choice for optimal health is particularly important if you, like me, are a special needs parent. How can I meet the lifetime demands of my differently abled daughter if I am not preparing my body to sustain the long journey ahead? I do this--I eat pure the majority of time and I excercise regularly first for me and my quality of my Life. And then I do it for Her and any other loved one that may be in my life at a given time. And then, I do it for Us. What our culture is failing to realize is that WE ALL pay when some of us choose the path of disease. All of our costs go up. Preventative medicine via preventive diet, the bountiful foods of Mother Earth, are mighty cheap in comparison.

My Truth: Eat Well. Eat Real. Eat Whole. And do not accept that doctors, disease and decrepitness are the future. You bet the hell I am not. Make that I'm choosing the heaven of living well. Diss Dean and preventable disease and follow the path toward health. Quality lies there.

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What Deen's not taking into consideration with her refusal to change her diet and simply take medication: According to Mayo Clinic those with Type 2 diabetes may feel fine at first in the early stages but complications include: heart and blood vessel disease; nerve, kidney, eye, foot damage; skin and mouth conditions, osteoporosis and Alzheimer's.

Monday Morning Addendum: below, I've added three comments. The longest one shares two aspects of clarification, including more of my recent journey here for greatest authenticity. Thank all you who've visited here already this morning!

I'm Not Sorry....

It'd been nearly 10 years since I met up with my friend from the small, informal playgroup in which we were both members when our children were babes. Long ago she'd moved to Western North Carolina. When I vacationed in Asheville last summer, we shared a meal downtown. Time had passed, gray peeked through our locks and lines had crept from the corners of our eyes. Our children were grown now, one of hers had jumped from the nest and the other was perched on the edge. A far cry from the diaper swaddled, round-bellied children who lolled about on the floor as their female parents dissected our roles as mothers, wives, women, politics, religion...no topics were left un-discussed by this special, treasured, diverse group who met twice a month in each others' living rooms.

I told my old friend the news of my marriage ending and she began a refrain: "That SUCKS! That SUCKS! That. Just. SUCKS!" She repeated it several times during the download of current events portion of our catchup. I winced each time she said it. I knew it came from a place of love and compassion. She grieved for me, her friend. She knew how I'd left one marriage, bundled my hopes and then entered another almost a decade later. It wasn't supposed to turn out to be this way....Or was it?

After we finished our lunches and hugged each other goodbye I got in touch with the discomfort her words summoned within me. It was my Life. And it didn't and it doesn't suck. Was I disappointed? Hell, yes! I'd lost something that I'd expected. Something Big. But, my Life, despite "the current condition" didn't and doesn't suck. The experience and the Gift of Life is just too precious to let our conditions, many of which we create, mar our perspective--the total picture of The Goodness. The Joy. The Hope. And, The Blessings of Living. They exist, in Real Time amid what we label as heartache, frustrations and our loss of what we expected....

Journaling yesterday morning, I tried to parse out these feelings once again and decided to come here, vulnerable, open, and share them with you. It was here and on the social media venue of Facebook, where "The Journey with Grace" is also posted, that many readers were extremely kind, generous and gracious,  expressing in the comments on both online sites that they were "sorry" when I humbly and authentically shared the news of Divorce 2.0. Again, I knew, I know, the words, the sentiments of "sorry," were and are a sincere, heart-felt attempt from dear, compassionate people grasping for intangible words to communicate that they wished things had turned out differently for me.

But...Sorry? No, I am not. I am not because I know and I see the Great Divine Scheme in how Life works. This doesn't don me with some magical power that others do not have. There are others who also see their lives this way. It is in the teachings of the ancients and the great teachers of the 19th century, which formed  New Thought. But our culture conditions us otherwise. To Blame. To Pity. To proclaim "Woe is Me." Have I had my moments of sorry or woe-ing me? Oh. Yeah. I've hosted a number of pity parties complete with a band. (Grief is Good. It is Real. It is Normal. It is Necessary.) But then I snapped out of it. I took the handlebars and not the sidecar seat because I know that I am the author of my Life. It, this Life,  does not happen to me or others at random. I am not at the mercy and control of a Sky God who wishes me harm and unhappiness. I am a co-creator in this Life of mine. And when my choices are "less than optimal," as I choose to call them, I have the opportunity to mine the Gold in them. And there is Gold. There is Gold in all of Life. I've found Gold in Autism. I have found Gold in Job Loss. I have found Gold in Grief. And I have found Gold in Divorce. (I even believe there is Gold in cancer. Surely you've heard the stories of the jewels found?) I know with all of my heart that I could not have reached this destination of Now and gained the awareness of past influences on my choices without the mining, without plunging to the depths that I have in my Life. And, that I would not reach the Now of tomorrows had I of not gone down deep and learned what I needed to learn. Now the smart thing is to make sure I pave a path with that Gold that directs me to wiser choices that bring me less pain going forward. But it takes a lot more mining.

I've got perpetual helmet hair these days because of all this mining. But, I've no regret for the hard work of shoveling before me.

Sorry? No. GrateFULLness.

Photo: Leisa A. Hammett, my new patio garden. "Begin Again" stone from my all-time favorite catalog, Isabella.

An Irreverent Homage to a Mentor

Someone special left earth Monday night. I met Jim Newton when I was a whipper snapper still in college, a senior holding down my studies and commuting an hour from school to the 1982 World's Fair in Knoxville where I was the communications director for an on-site pavilion. We became friends and he, also a professional adviser to me. Two years later, when I left my next job, which would be in Nashville, I'd learn that he'd asked my employers if they'd loan me to be his communications assistant for a special assignment in Lausanne, Switzerland. They said no. (Insert explicative for male dogs and an exclamation point.) You'da bet I'd of said "YES!" and been packin' my bags if he'd asked me directly. But then the dogs and I eventually had a parting of ways and I ended up in Atlanta working for Jim.

This seasoned, veteran newsman, turned savvy public relations adviser was brutally honest. He cut me no slack in editing my youngster’s too-often sloppy copy. I learned from him as he wrote both pr strategies and disaster plans, literally pounding out their drafts on an old, noisy clunker electric typewriter. And while he could cut my ego to its knees, he always had a kind word to add that encouraged me to keep going.

Those were some of the best years of my youth. We had a special team of 20- to 40somethings working together in the communications department of a nonprofit agency. In our wing, we dissected world news, talked about art, politics, our shared the love our burgeoning city and our lust for good food. We eagerly consumed that food during lunch hours that were beyond the legal limits rightfully dictated by our employer.

Jim was my first mentor. There had been others before, but he was the first to whom I pinned that name. This was the mid-80s and "mentor" back then had another connotation in certain contexts. And Jim would grin slyly when I said that and remind me of that double meaning. But that was Jim. He loved the fact that he was "just a dirty old man." He flaunted it as a badge of honor. Back then he was the age then that I am now. And I remember well the belly dancer we whisked quickly into the building foyer and up to the fifth floor for a surprise performance on his 50th birthday. This was not an ordinary workplace. It was a religious organization. A conservative one. And what we'd done was delightfully taboo. And, frowned upon when word got out. Oops. Too late.

Jim thought that tagging himself as a dirty old man meant he could get away with certain comments and approving looks regarding a woman's appearance. In one of my angriest moments I'm sure I shook with anger as I fiercely glared at him, pointed my finger and threatened: "If this were IBM you couldn't get away with those kinds of comments! For the record they were mostly somewhat benign, but then they weren't. This was the 80s and women--particularly nice Southern girls like me working in religious organizations--didn't have words and categories to describe these situations. That was before Anita Hill.

Anita Hill left her mark in history, bless her, more than two decades ago. And she left one on my mentor, Jim. Internet technology reconnected us over the last decade and more than once via phone and email, he told me that he now got it, that commenting on a woman's appearance in the manner that he did within the workplace was not acceptable. Thanks to Anita, he now understood my anger. And he apologized. Humbly. Repeatedly.

And now I am humbled. During the holidays the "call Jim" notation never made it off my to-do list into an actually phone call. I had heard that his leukemia had returned and things weren't looking good. And then week before last, I heard that he had been moved to hospice. I exchanged emails with one of my former colleagues. It looked to be too late to call. And then, last Monday, it really was too late. Time was up...

Time has long been up, too, for my whipper snapper days. Despite his “dirty old man" behavior, I loved Jim. I am grateful for having worked with him. I am grateful for his honesty, even when it was a bit abrasive. For his kindness to me. For his belief in me. I sometimes then did not feel worthy. I think maybe he saw in me what I could become. I am appreciative in how he shared his knowledge. He took me under his wing.  Maybe I wasn't the only one he mentored that way. He loved me and he loved us all, all the talented people he chose so carefully to be a part of his team. He was good to us. But then he did expect something of all of us in return....

Every one of us in the department had a tale of being interrupted in our work in the late afternoon by a frantic Jim, high on coffee and sometimes antihistamines (this was Atlanta and pollen was plenty,) plus mega doses of adrenaline. (Jim subsisted on those three ingredients back then.) Could we take him to the airport he'd ask, his eyeballs and neck veins popping? And, he always asked us this wee favor with one hour (or less) to spare before his flight departed. Again, this was decades before 911 changed everything and now that one hour will barely allow a traveler to reach their gate. Jim always made it to the plane. Everytime. But by the time he leaped out of the passenger side and slammed the door, the veins and eyeballs of his once calm chauffer were also popping, their own heart pounding with adrenaline. I made that trek from midtown Atlanta to the airport, maneuvering rush hour jams more than once. At one point, we my colleagues and I may have made a pact, in those Nancy Reagan days, to "Just Say 'No'" to Jim.

The world has changed since 1982, when I first met Jim. But my fondness, my gratitude, they are eternal. Like the place that he has gone to now. Jim: I join so many who will miss you. Thank you for the multitude of blessings (and laughs...often at your expense) you gifted us here with your presence. I hope you are happy and that there are lots of coffee and maybe a few pretty women, cause, you know...some things never completely change....

The Epidemic of Comparison

"Please. Let's not do this to each other." In an Oprah Magazine article by Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love, those are the words said by one mother to another when one mother watches the other organize a scavenger hunt and claims, "I'll never be as good of a mother as you."

Yes, please. Let's not do this, Gilbert follows....And I say, comparison--comparing ourselves to one another particularly as women, today, is Epidemic. Whether it is our mothering, our careers, our special needs parenting...how well we do anything we do. It can be so easy to find someone who does it...Better. Or...that we judge "better."

When I used to scrapbook (as I did for 10 years, amassing about 60 gorgeous, artistically created scrapbooks) one of my Creative Memories scrapbook consultants would assure us scrapbookers that we each have our own life demands and priorities and that comparing how well someone else scrapbooked or how much they got done or how creative or beautiful their pages...it was pointless and unfair to ourselves to compare our accomplishments to anothers'. (You, see, even though I created beautiful albums aplenty, I still compared myself against those whom I judged as doing it "better." The problem was not "them" it was my attitude and how I viewed ME.)

My scrapbooking group leader was so right. In the parenting arena, some parents have more help. Some of have partners. Some of have more physical and emotional energy. To some being a mother comes more naturally. The deal, I think, is not to pick out what we each think we do less well than another, comparing our perceived "lack" to another's perceived abundance--but, rather, to remember, to know and to celebrate and hold dear that which we do best.

It's not about being being as Good As, but Good Enough. We don't have to be "Perfect" in the World's standards. Those ideals are just that and they are not fair. And neither is comparing. To me, the aim is to go within and know one's own strengths. And comparing? Fuhget about it. Here's to a New Year of Knowing what we each do best and bringing that and our Confidence to the Buffet of Life!

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I have written about the dangers of comparison twice on "The Journey with Grace": "The Never-neverland of Comparison"

"I Dare to Imagine the Dream" A New Year's Prayer

Western Lake, Grayton Beach, Fla., Fall 2009, copyright: Leisa A. Hammett

"I am aware, there is but One Life, I am this field of creative potential in all Its' power, glory and possibility.

"I accept there is always a way to greater good. I act like it, think like it, imagine it and behave like it.

"I anticipate what it feels like to achieve my desired outcome that blesses all. I dare to imagine the dream God has given me as really being so. I take the time each day to picture it as I know it can be, eager to be a lover to life. I do this with great love, joy and deep appreciation to Spirit that it is so. And so it is."

--Dr. Mitch Johnson, Center for Spiritual Living Nashville, 1.25.09

(This prayer-post has appeared the two previous New Year's. Here's last year's and can't seem to locate the other....)

Occupy Nashville

Dear Occupy Nashville, Thank you for fulfilling your civic duty, for telling your truth, for standing up for the little guys--most of us are they little guys. Thank you for being passionate, for being brave, for sacrificing for those of us who just cannot. Thank you for being peaceful, for honoring the Spirit of our uber friendly city. Thank you for giving voice to and living the change that must come. You are powerful, you are appreciated. Enjoy the scones and the clementines, Leisa A. Hammett, Sunday afternoon, Dec. 4, '11

Honestly? I wasn't sure quite what to make of the Occupy Wall Street movement at first. Or, for quite awhile. Especially when I learned it was a melange of political facets. But, over time, I began to digest the essence of the message and I applauded but stayed away even though many I knew were going there, some inviting me to join them. As a mother, I could not risk arrest. But Sunday, at the suggestion of a friend, I was able to deliver some grub to the hungry, grateful protesters.

I believe it is not coincidental that this American movement has formed now at the cusp of 2012. I have come to believe that 2012 is a precipice of change that must come, whether it is Arab Spring, routine environmental rape, corporate greed, or lack of consciousness on ALL OF OUR parts. I was interested to learn that many Europeans are fascinated by the Occupy movement. I gathered it was seen as a bit ironic that we, the land of plenty, the champions of democracy would have such unhappy campers (no pun intended) akin to much of the rest of the world, at least to the degree that is demonstrated by Occupy protesters nationwide. This, and 2012, are about the little people; the abused; the physical earth--even--demonstrating with its' own from of violent protest, saying, yelling: ENOUGH IS ENOUGH! We must have equality! We must have justice. For. Us. All...And. That. Is. Consciousness Rising!

Special thanks to my new friend Peter Burr, chairman of the Williamson County Democratic Party, for escorting me to Nashville's Legislative Plaza Sunday afternoon. I have walked the beautiful pathway to our state's capitol many times in my own pilgrimages to lobby our legislators on behalf of the rights of individuals with disAbilities, such as my daughter. I have stood listening to stump speeches by democratic party leaders. I have gone simply to admire and photograph the outdoor ambiance, architecture and statuary there. I have browsed the tables and booths of our city's beloved Southern Festival of Books. But, today, the view was different. Colored tents lined the periphery, and mostly young people, some of the most economically disenfranchised in our country right now, along with older compatriots, scattered about the plaza. I enjoyed the opportunity graciously granted to photograph the movement. Rock on, Folks! Power to the Little People! All 99 percent of us!

The Cure for Convertible Lust

If you drove by me topless between 2003 and 2004, then YOU'RE to blame! Now my English teacher friend corrected me for writing topless in the same sentence where I referenced driving my convertible. "Leisa, we must be clear that it was the car, not you, that was topless." Oh, but, I wrote back in our Face-less Book banter: "I say it all the time and it never ceases to raise eyebrows. I like that. And," I retorted, "I studied journalism and I R one!"

My convertible lust began sometime around spring of 2003. I'd spend Saturday mornings in bed, the laptop heating my legs thighs beneath the covers as I nearly burned up its' motor searching for deals. I got the deal of the decade when my dear old maid aunt died (did I write that? But, it's true!) and sent me a check. I cashed it the day after I totaled my Honda Accord. (I promise I didn't do it on purpose.) I paid cash for that topless baby and I've put the pedal to the metal more than 160,000 miles worth since that crash to cash occurred in the fall of 2004.

I love that car. She's my Divorce Mobile. I got her about the time I declared the Big D with The Wuzband. I was able to scratch that itch caused by convertible lust every time I passed some free spirited gal or dude whipping their manes and/or spirits in the wind. Oh, there's something about going topless on a perfect fall or spring day. There's something about cranking Sheryl Crowe and blasting down the interstate, flinging away your cares. It's therapy, I tell you. Sometimes I refer to the old gal as the Therapy Mobile.

And, though I satiated the the itch to own a convertible, sometimes there is an equally demanding itch that begs me...Ahhhh--to click a button, raise the roof and go topless.

Sing on Sheryl. Here I come. Topless. (Did I just write that?!)

(Are ya'll sick of this picture of me and "The Mothers From Hell" yet? I think I've used it at least twice here on "The Journey with Grace.")

Spooky Greetings!

 

Photo: Two Ghouls, 2010. You shoulda seen how they looked at us @ roadside Pops BBQ & Convenience Mart--near small-town Pulaski, Tenn.--when I paid for our gasoline. Wink....Today, beware of any witch-hatted women drivin' round in convertibles. (Or should that read broom-vertibles?) I have no shame. Ain't Life Fun? I'm thinking about making this hair color permanent. What do you think? Remember I did spring for purple highlights when Grace started high school! Read it on "The Journey with Grace" right here....

I started on the candy corn back at the beginning of the month. I might switch the hot pink witch hat I purchased for my emerging inner Great Pumpkin--no costume needed....Or, I might don my I pink beribboned tolle tutu and a matching sequined cat-eyes mask....Who knows?!

BOO! Ya'll! Have fun!

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Details on Leisa's Treasure Stash for the Oct. 10 "I Come From..." giveaway are announced in the comments of that post. Congratulations to giveaway entrant Lisa, who will receive a copy of Good Night Moon to read to her little. Dee, the other winning entrant, will receive a copy of the childhood classic: How Much Do I Love You? for his Mummy to read to him. The plush toy will be given to a local charity that accepts toys for the holidays. Suggestions for such organizations are welcome. Trick or Treat! You asked for it!