Feeding with Love - Love Feast

[Note: The Sunday before Thanksgiving this year, I went to the All Souls Unitarian Universalist church in Brattleboro, Vermont. They were kicking off the “Guest at Your Table” campaign, so the service was about hunger and providing food. It included the fable about the difference between heaven and hell, which reminded me of the first time I heard that story. It all combined to make me think about what it means to feed one another with love. I decided to blog a short series about it, approaching this idea from different angles over a few weeks.]

The first time I heard the story about the difference between heaven and hell was during the Love Feast at the 1992 Young Religious Unitarian Universalist conference called Con-Con (short for Continental Conference). It was held that summer in Poland, Maine, and my brother and I were able to attend for free since we agreed to babysit the kids of a couple we knew who were working at the conference. It lasted a week, and the Love Feast was my favorite event. At the time, I weighed around 200 pounds and had been heavy for a number of years. Below is what I wrote about it for my memoir.

The conference was on a lake (hard to avoid in Maine), and the Love Feast was held at dusk on the second day. I didn’t know many people, both from shyness about interacting with them and because some of my time was taken up at the infirmary and watching the kids. So I stood on the periphery at first and just observed: the candles winking like fireflies on the picnic tables; the crowds of people milling around in tie-dye and flannel and henna tattoos and long hair and dreadlocks; the trees turning slightly amorphous against the darkening sky; the soft ripple of the water under the chatter; the cool breeze; the first stars coming out; the bowls of finger food on the tables.

Then everyone quieted to hear our leader, who liked to go by the name Yoda. “The Love Feast is inspired by a story of a group of people who wanted to know what heaven and hell were like, so they went to visit them. In hell, they found everyone seated at a huge table filled with food, but everyone looked hungry. The group realized it was because the table only had very long forks, and people couldn’t feed themselves, so they were forced to sit in front of the food without eating.

“Then the group went to heaven. To their surprise, it was almost the same as hell, with the same long table piled with food, and the same long forks. But here, everyone was happy and laughing, because they were feeding each other. So tonight, for the Love Feast, you can only eat what other people feed you. And I ask that you feed one another in silence.”

Almost everyone started immediately, grabbing grapes, pretzels, pieces of candy, apple slices, popcorn, and whatever else they could find on the tables before feeding each other, some solemnly, some laughing. But by some unspoken rule, they all hugged after the food.

My heart hammered. Did I dare take part in this? Would anyone actually feed me? Would they recoil if I fed them and offered a hug? Could I even think about this food offering as something done only out of love, not judgment? Did I deserve to be included?

Then one of the girls in my Shamanic workshop came over with a smile and proffered grape. I felt slightly silly, like a baby, as I opened my mouth and she popped the grape in. It was sweet and faintly tart as I chewed. She gave me a quick hug then walked off. I looked after her a moment, heart suddenly expanding like the Grinch’s. With a smile, I grabbed some peanut M&M’s and made my way into the crowd.

I was looking specifically for Yoda, who bore a remarkable resemblance to Eddie Vedder (the lead singer of Pearl Jam), only shorter, and whom I therefore instantly adored. But I also found others who had been kind to me, and they didn’t turn away when I offered to feed them. Neither did Yoda, and he even returned my shy hug. What most astonished me was when the leader of my Shamanic workshop, a young man with coffee-colored skin, black hair, and smiling brown eyes, not only fed me but enveloped me in a warm, nurturing embrace. It felt like he actually cared about me in some way, that the hug wasn’t because of the Love Feast but rather the event was an excuse for the hug.

Overwhelmed, I wandered down to the shore, arms wrapped as far around me as they would go. I stared at the gentle water, sparkling with reflected moon- and starlight, trying to cry as quietly as possible. I could not remember feeling so accepted and welcomed. I looked down at the few remaining M&M’s in my hand and realized that for the first time in a long while I wasn’t tempted to eat them. Instead, I quieted my breathe, wiped my tears, and went back to the feast.

That memory has remained vivid for me for almost two decades. It was the first time I had ever considered what it would be like to be fed only with love. Even now, it brings tears to my eyes, and I can definitely say that it was a heavenly experience. This holiday season, may you and your loved ones share food with such love and grace and holiness.

Appreciating Thanksgiving

[Note: This is a piece I originally wrote for a church service on Appreciating Everyday Miracles.]

I haven’t always appreciated Thanksgiving. In fact, during the years when my body-mass index was far higher than recommended, I positively hated it. The societal encouragement to indulge in gluttony was like torture because I knew it was only for other people; anyone my size should deprive themselves as much as possible, as we were supposed to do every day. It emphasized all the issues I faced with food and made the holiday full of guilt and shame and very little in the way of enjoyment. 

Only in more recent years have I been able to truly understand and embrace Thanksgiving. Not so much the story of the Pilgrims, but the simpler and older tale of the wonder of food itself. Only now do I appreciate the fundamental and miraculous ability of a tiny seed to grow into something that will nourish other life. 

Letting myself truly imagine this, I can now approach the holiday with a deeply humble spirit. Surveying the feast spread out each year, I am no longer conflicted about whether or not I should partake of it. Instead, I simply appreciate the bounty and everything that went into creating it, and I eat as much as I need and want, savoring each bite. Creaminess of mashed potatoes, tartness underlying the cranberry sauce, bursting kernels of corn, juicy bites of turkey, warm golden-brown rolls spread with butter that melts into every nook and cranny, savory-turned-sweet pumpkin pie with freshly whipped cream. 

Even better, this has also freed me to delight in the companionship of my family and friends. Sharing that meal, and all the others I eat throughout the year, I am no longer separate and ashamed. Instead, I can embrace the holiday wholeheartedly. And that truly feels like a miracle.

Competitive Eating

Last week’s episode of Bones featured competitive eating (see http://www.fox.com/bones/videos/, the clip for The Gluttony Games), something I have to admit I’ve never understood. In the show, Booth commented that it “really is a sport”, since people train for it, compete, and win trophies as well as quite a bit of money if they’re good enough. But this is the part I don’t understand. Why do you want to do that? And why is it fun to watch?

Bones said that societies have had eating games for millennia to use as a show of abundance. But surely there can be other ways of displaying that than gorging to death, as some Romans did.

Perhaps my struggle is because this is the absolute antithesis of what the “Am I Hungry?” program teaches, as well as what I would counsel people from a health coach perspective. When eating competitively, the last thing you want to do is eat mindfully. The goal is actually to not chew your food, simply get it down your throat as quickly as possible. If you paused to savor and taste it, you’d be out in no time flat.

Then there’s the whole overeating aspect. In the episode, the agents went to a competition, and the winner had eaten fifty-six hot dogs in a matter of minutes (I think 12). I can’t imagine eating five or six hot dogs in that time. Even if I think of eating something I prefer of around the same size, say a banana, I would feel absolutely terrible afterward, bloated and uncomfortable and probably literally sick. It would take me days to recover. Why would I want to do this? (Admittedly, some of the people in the clip commented that they “purge” afterward, but that seems almost nastier to me.)

For the competitive eaters, as with any competition, I suppose I can understand that if they’re good at it and it makes good money, they would want to pursue that. But where is the joy in watching people eat that way? Bones and Booth were both getting into it, yet I found my stomach turning. Is it the morbid fascination of watching a car wreck? Is it sheer amazement of what the human body is capable of? It all eludes me.

Yet much as I don’t understand the idea, it’s something that most Americans indulge in at least once a year, if on a less intense scale - Thanksgiving. Maybe it’s not quite a competition, but many people certainly pile their plates high, seeing how much they can fit in. Even those who are generally instinctive eaters may get caught up in the indulgence, eating well past the point of satiation. I remember, for instance, when my niece was 10, she ate so much that she unbuttoned her jeans and just laid in a heap on the floor, moaning and holding her stomach. (I will say, though, that I’ve never seen her do that again - apparently she didn’t enjoy it.)

Whatever the reason this is a popular sport, it’s not one in which I plan to participate or watch. I’ll find my competition elsewhere if I want it, and stick to the simpler, easier enjoyment of savoring my food, one bite at a time, and appreciating feeling better after I eat than I did before I started.

"Think Direction, Not Perfection"

I admit it – I’m a perfectionist. If I’m going to do something, I’ll do it to the best of my abilities, with a (sometimes obsessive) attention to detail. I double-check and sometimes triple-check my work, wanting it to be as error-free as possible. When I make a mistake, I am often my harshest critic.

This is especially true in relation to food and eating. After all, I, better than most, know what I should be doing, and that I may feel physically bad if I misstep. Plus, as a facilitator for the “Am I Hungry?” program and a health counselor in training, I experience additional internal pressure. To be a good model for those I work with, shouldn’t I be perfect?

Except I’m human. By definition, I’m not perfect, hard as that is to accept. Which is why one of the phrases I love from “Am I Hungry?” is Dr. May’s advice to, “Think direction, not perfection.”

The goal is not to make no mistakes, but rather to learn from them. When they happen, we shouldn’t beat ourselves up but rather see what happened so that in the future we can apply that learning to achieve a different result. And in that sense, perhaps it would benefit my clients to know I still mess up now and again, and they can see how I recover.

In thinking of this, I am particularly inspired by the example of Julia Child. She started cooking on TV with a very limited budget, before they could afford multiple takes. Therefore anything that went wrong was captured forever on tape, for millions to see. Ironically, that’s one of the things viewers loved most – her humanness, her relaxed attitude toward mistakes, and how she found ways to correct them. It made her that much more accessible, and made the art of cooking less intimidating.

In that same spirit, I confess that I’ve lost and maintained weight not by having an unbreakable will but by forgiving myself for those mistakes I make and moving on. Some examples of things I still do at times include:

• Eating when I’m not hungry out of a sense of obligation or social pressure
• Choosing foods that might not be the healthiest option
• Eating more than I need (see my recent Harvest on the Harbor post)

I’m very happy to have gotten to the point of acceptance and forgiveness when these mistakes happen, so I can move back into my instinctive eating cycle without wasting time or energy on making myself feel bad. While it can be hard to get to that point, it’s so important. We are, after all, only human, and direction, not perfection, is the best route we can take. It allows us to live and eat in a sustainable way, but it is also very freeing and joyful. And I’ve decided that for me, that is perfection enough.