Loved it--down to earth, easy to read, and really resonated with me.
Some quotes from the book:
There is a whole universe to discover between “I’m feeling empty” and turning to food to make it go away. The problem of weight is predictable. We know what to do when we have that problem. Beat ourselves up. Make ourselves wrong. Eat fewer donuts. But staying with the emptiness—entering it, welcoming it, using it to get to know ourselves better, being able to distinguish the stories we tell ourselves about it from the actual feeling itself—that’s radical.
Imagine not being frightened by any feeling. Imagine knowing that nothing will destroy you. That you are beyond any feeling, any state. Bigger than. Vaster than. That there is no reason to use drugs because anything a drug could do would pale in comparison to knowing who you are. To what you can understand, live, be, just by being with what presents itself to you in the form of the feelings you have when you get home from work at night.
(page 57)
Our work is not to change what you do, but to witness what you do with enough awareness, enough curiosity, enough tenderness that the lies and old decisions upon which the compulsion is based become apparent and fall away. When you no longer believe that eating will save your life when you feel exhausted or overwhelmed or lonely, you will stop. When you believe in yourself more than you believe in food, you will stop using food as if it were your only chance at not falling apart. When the shaped of your body no longer matches the shape of your beliefs, the weight disappears. And yes, it really is that simple.
You will stop turning to food when you start understanding in your body, not just your mind, that there is something better than turning to food. And this time, when you lose weight, you will keep it off.
Truth, not force, does the work of ending compulsive eating.
Awareness, not deprivation, informs what you eat.
Presence, not shame, changes how you see yourself and what you rely on.
When you stop struggling, stop suffering, stop pushing and pulling yourself around food and your body, when you stop manipulating and controlling, when you actually relax and listen to the truth of what is there, something bigger than your fear will catch you. With repeated experiences of opening and ease, you learn to trust something infinitely more powerful than a set of rules that someone else made up: your own being.
The poet Galway Kinnell wrote that “sometimes it is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness.”
Everything we do, I tell my students, is to reteach ourselves our loveliness.
(pages 80-81)
But it turns out that being with feelings is not the same as drowning in them. With awareness (the ability to know what you are feeling) and presence (the ability to inhabit a feeling while sensing that which is bigger than the feeling), it is possible to be with what you believe will destroy you without being destroyed. It is possible to be with big heaves of feelings like grief or terror. Little waves of feelings like crankiness or sadness.
(page 92)
Catherine Ingram tells a story in her book Passionate Presence about a young friend of hers who said, “Pretend you are surrounded by a thousand hungry tigers. What would you do?” Catherine said, “Wow, I don’t know what I would do. What would you do?” Her young friend said, “I’d stop pretending!”
Most of us are so enthralled with the scary tigers in our minds—our stories of loneliness, rejection, grief—that we don’t realize they are in the past. They can’t hurt us anymore. When we realize that the stories we are haunted by are simply that—stories—we can be with what we actually feel directly, now, in our bodies. Tingling, pulsing, pressure, weightiness, heaviness, big black ball or concrete in the chest. And by being in immediate contact with what we feel, we see the link between feelings and what is beyond them. We see that we are so much more than any particular feeling, that, for example, when sadness is explored it may turn into a lush meadow of peace. Or that when we allow ourselves to feel the full heat of anger without expressing it, a mountain of strength and courage is revealed.
(pages 92-93)
About reactions: feelings are in the body, reactions are in the head; a reaction is the mental deduction of a feeling. (And beliefs are reactions that we’ve had so many times that we believe they are true.) In an attempt not to feel what is uncomfortable, the mind will often rant and ramble and tell us how awful it all is.
Here is some of what you may hear: This pain will never end. The sadness will overwhelm me. If I let myself feel it, I will not be able to function. Once you know that these kinds of reactions will come up, you can notice them and keep inquiring.
Be precise. “I feel a gray heap of ashes in my chest” rather than “I feel something odd and heavy.” Don’t try to direct the process by having preferences or agendas. Let the inquiry move in its own direction. Notice whatever arises, even if it surprises you. “Oh, I thought I was sad, but now I see that this is loneliness. It feels like a ball of rubber bands in my stomach.” Welcome the rubber bands. Give them room. Watch what happens.
Keep coming back to the direct sensations in your body. Pay attention to things you’ve never told anyone, secrets you’ve kept to yourself. Do not censor anything. Do not get discouraged. It takes awhile to trust the immediacy of inquiry since we are so used to directing everything with our minds. It is helpful, though not necessary, to do inquiry with a guide or a partner so that you can have a witness and a living reminder to come back to the sensation and the location.
Most of all, remember that inquiry is not about discovering answers to puzzling problems but a direct and experiential revelation process. It’s fueled by love. And wanting to know who you are when you are not being run by your past. It’s like taking a dive into the secret of existence itself; it is full of surprises, twists, side trips. You engage in it because you want to penetrate the unknown, comprehend the incomprehensible. Because when you evoke curiosity and openness with a lack of judgment, you align yourself with beauty and delight and love—for their own sake. You become the benevolence of God in action.
(pages 105-106)
…The mind, as Catherine Ingram says, is mad. And this is very good news. Because once you accept the madness, once you stop trying to reform what cannot be reformed, you can pay attention to what isn’t mad. Which, in my opinion, is one of the main purposes of meditation.
(page 110)
…Minds are useful when we need to conceptualize, plan, theorize. But when we depend on them to guide our inner lives, we’re lost. Minds are excellent at presenting a thousand different variations of the past and conjuring them into a future. And then scaring us with most of them.
Most of the time we don’t question our minds. We believe in their lunacy.
(page 111)
Simple belly meditation
Become aware of sensations in the belly. Every time the mind wanders, begin counting breaths to anchor concentration. Start with the number one on the out breath and count to seven, then begin again.
(page 115)
Meditation is a tool to shake yourself awake. A way to discover what you love. A practice to return yourself to your body when the mind medleys threaten to usurp your sanity.
(page 116)
Because the intention of The Voice is to stun you, not activate your intelligence or equanimity. In its early development, it was biologically adaptive: it kept you from being rejected by those you depend on. Now it is archaic, a vestigial remnant from childhood that, despite its ersatz usefulness, is now running your life and rendering you incapable of acting with true discernment and intelligence. Its main warning is: Don’t cross the line. Maintain the status quo.
The Voice usurps your strength, passion and energy—and turns them against you. Its unique way or melding objective truth-that you’ve gained weight—with moral judgment—that therefore you are a complete loser—leaves you feeling defeated and weak, which then leaves your susceptible to latching on to the next quick fix or miracle cure. Anything to stop feeling so desperate.
The Voice is merciless, ravaging, life destroying. The Voice makes you feel so weak, so paralyzed, so incompetent that you wouldn’t dare question (its) authority. Its intent is to keep you from being thrown out of whatever it perceives as the circle of love.
Some of my students are convinced that The Voice is an exact replica of their mothers or their fathers and that nothing short of an exorcism will rid themselves of its harangues. And while The Voice may sound suspiciously like either one or both of our parental units, it’s good to remember that it usually is a composite of authority figures with particular emphasis on the primary caregivers.
(pages 132-133)
Children are tropistic; they grow in the direction of light and attention. That which is ignored in childhood does not develop. If a child is valued for her accomplishments, she will learn to value what she does more than who she is—and The Voice will step in when she is not fulfilling its accomplishment quota. If your parents were unaware of that which couldn’t be accomplished or seen or proved, you grew up ignoring those dimensions of yourself. And The Voice will step in as cynicism and doubt when you veer into the world beyond appearances.
The Voice saps you of strength, cuts you off at the knees, and positions you in a world modeled on past authority figures who bark directions that are often cruel and almost always irrelevant to who you are and what you love. By co-opting your clarity and objective knowing, The Voice renders you incapable of contacting your own authority. It treats you as a child in need of a moral compass, but its due north does not include any terrain that is fresh or new. Think of The Voice as a Global Positioning System from the twilight zone. When you follow its directions, you spend your life trying to find streets that no longer exist in a city that vanished decades ago. Then you wonder why you feel so unbearably lost.
(pages 134-135)
Byron Katie says, “I love my thoughts. I’m just not tempted to believe them.” The moment you stop believing The Voice, the moment you hear the You are the worst person in the world. You are selfish and shallow with a dry withered heart and elephant skin neck, and you say, “Uh-huh, right, so what else is new” or “Really? I am the worst person in the world? Is that true?” or “Honey, sounds like you need a couple dozen margaritas. Talk to me after you’ve had them,” you are free. Freedom is hearing The Voice ramble and posture and lecture and not believing a word of it.
When you disengage from The Voice, you have access to yourself and everything The Voice supposedly offers: clarity and intelligence and true discernment. Strength and value and joy. Compassion. Curiosity. Love. Nothing is wrong because there is no right with which to compare it. When you stop responding to the continual comments on your thighs, your value, your very existence, when you no longer believe that anyone, especially The Voice, knows what’s supposed to be happening, simple facts remain. Breath. Air. Skin touching chair. Hand on glass. Waistband digging into flesh,. When you release yourself—even one time—from The Voice, you suddenly realize how long you’ve been mistaking its death grip for your life. …
Then.
You can ask yourself if you are comfortable at this weight. If you feel healthy, energetic, awake. And if the answer is no, you can ask yourself what you could do about it that would fit your day-to-day life. What you can live with, what you can maintain. What stirs your heart. I often tell people in my retreats that unless there is a resounding Yes when they hear me speak, unless they long for the kind of engagement in their own process that I describe, they need to find another way of cracking the code of their relationship with food so that they are no longer standing outside themselves trying desperately to get in. Listening to and engaging in the antics of The Voice keeps you outside yourself. If keeps you bound. Keeps you ashamed, anxious, panicked. No real or long-lasting change will occurs as long as you are kneeling at the altar of The Voice.
(pages 135-137)
It’s an axiom in both love and food that getting what you want is worlds apart from wanting what you can’t get.
(page 162)
Those of us who are utterly focused on food and weight never consider that we are ignoring the most obvious solution. We tell ourselves that the answer is out there and our job is to keep looking, to never give up until we find the right solution. One month it’s about white foods. Then it’s about brain chemistry. Finding the right drug. The fat gene. Being addicted to sugar. Eating for our blood type. Alkaline- and acid-forming foods. Although attending to one or some of these issues might indeed ease our struggle, we use the hunt for answers to abdicate personal responsibility—and with it, any semblance of power—for our relationship with food. Underlying each frenzied bout of passionate involvement in the newest solution is the same lack of interest in looking down at our own feet. The same conviction that “I don’t have the power to do anything about this problem.” We want to be done, we want to be fixed. But since the answer is not where we are looking, our efforts are doomed to fail.
Freedom from obsession is not about something you do; it’s about knowing who you are. It’s about recognizing what sustains you and what exhausts you. What you love and what you think you love because you believe you can’t have it.
(page 163)
The most challenging part of any system that addresses weight-related issues is that unless it also addresses the part of you that wants something you can’t name—the heart of your heart, not the size of your thighs—it won’t work. We don’t want to be thin because thinness is inherently life-affirming or lovable or healthy. If this were true, there would be no tribes in Africa in which women are fat and real and long-lived. There would be no history of matriarchies in which women’s fecundity and sheer physical abundance were worshipped. We want to be thin because thinness is the purported currency of happiness and peace and contentment in our time. And although that currency is a lie—the tabloids are filled with miserable skinny celebrities—most systems of weight loss fail because they don’t live up to their promise: weight loss does not make people happy. Or peaceful. Or content. Being thin does not address the emptiness that has no shape or weight or name. Even a wildly successful diet is a colossal failure because inside the new body is the same sinking heart. Spiritual hunger can never be solved on the physical level.
(pages 176-177)
You have to be willing to go all the way. To understand that food is a stand-in for love and possibility and whatever you call true nature or God. Otherwise you will keep gaining and losing weight for the rest of your life. You will keep wringing your hands and lamenting and feeling like a victim. And although, as I say to my students, you wouldn’t be along if you chose to spend your life that way—most people who struggle with food and weight do exactly that—it is at least helpful to understand that the choice is yours to make. You get to decide what you are going to do with, as Mary Oliver writes, “your one wild and precious life.”
(page 178)
Inquiry
• Give yourself 20 minutes in which you won’t be disturbed.
• Sense your body. Feel the surface you are sitting on. Notice the point of contact your skin is making with your clothes. Be aware of your feet as they touch the floor. Feel yourself inhabiting your arms, your legs, your chest, your hands.
• Ask yourself what you are sensing right now—and where you are sensing it. Be precise. Do you feel tingling? Pulsing? Tightening? Do you feel warmth or coolness? Are the sensations in your chest? Your back? Your throat? Your arms?
• Start with the most compelling sensations and ask these questions: Does the sensation have shape, volume, texture, color? How does it affect me to feel this? Is there anything difficult about feeling this? Is it familiar? How old do I feel when I feel this? What happens as I feel it directly?
• At this point, you might begin associating a sensation with a memory or a particular feeling like sadness or loneliness. And you might have a reaction, might wasn’t to close down, go away, stop writing. Remember that a sensation is an immediate, primary experience located in the body, whereas a reaction is a secondary experience located in the mind. Some examples of reactions are: the desire to eat compulsively, telling yourself that your pain will never end, comparing how or what you feel to how you want to feel, comparing the present experience to your past experience, comparing yourself to someone else, making up a story about what is going on.
When you notice that you are reacting to what you are experiencing, come back to your body. Sense what is going on in your chest, your legs, your back, your belly. Inquiry is about allowing your direct and immediate experience to unfold; it is not about a story you are constructing in your mind.
• Recognize, name, and disengage from The Voice. If you feel small, collapsed or powerless, it is usually a sign that The Voice is present. The Voice says things like “You will never be good enough”; “You will never change”; “You deserve to suffer”; “You are a failure/a bad person/unlovable/stupid/worthless/fat/ugly.” Any feelings of shame are a response to The Voice.
To continue with the inquiry, you must disengage from The Voice, since its intent is
to keep you circumscribed by its definition of safe and to maintain the status quo.
If recognizing its presence does not dispel it, you can say “Back off!” or “Go away”
or “Go pick on someone your own size.” Keep it short. Keep it simple. A successful disengagement defuses The Voice and releases the sensations.
• Whenever you notice that you are engaged in a reaction or are distracted, confused, numb or out of touch, go back to sensing your body.
• Pay attention to secrets, thought or feelings you’ve censored. When those arise, be curious about them. Be curious about what’s hidden in them.
• Don’t try to direct the inquiry with your mind. If you have an agenda or preferences (i.e. you don’t want to feel needy or angry or hateful), the inquiry won’t unfold. As the Tibetan Buddhists say, “Be like a child, astonished at everything.”
(pages 207-210)
The Eating Guidelines
1. Eat when you are hungry.
2. Eat sitting down in a calm environment
This does not include the car.
3. Eat without distraction. Distractions include radio, television, newspapers, books, intense or anxiety-producing conversations or music.
4. Eat what your body wants.
5. Eat until you are satisfied.
6. Eat (with the intention of being) in full view of others.
7. Eat with enjoyment, gusto and pleasure.
(page 211)