The Sounds of Silence

If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning, I’d hammer in the evening, all over this land…

Remember that song? Well I think people around the world took it to heart. I can’t seem to escape the sound of hammering. Even my head is echoing the sound of the pound. I must have Excedrin headache number 10.

Most recently, the hammering scenarios have seemed to escalate at work. For seven months, it began early in the morning while a parking lot was being constructed behind our office building. Jack hammering. Pounding. The backup sounds on the trucks. I could feel the vibration of the jackhammers in my head as I tried to sleep at night.

But there was no peace at home either! The neighbor on the West side gutted his house and decided to rebuild it on the weekends and after work hours. Sigh… Hammer, hammer. Saw, Saw. The ever present sounds in my life.

That wasn’t enough. San Diego Gas and Electric decided to put the overhead electrical wires underground. Such a massive project. More jack hammering of all the streets surrounding me, including my own backyard. This has been going on for almost a year now.

Next, I was able to experience the joys of stereo jack hammering because my neighbor on the East side is also remodeling. A BIG remodel. One fine morning I woke with a serious headache to the tune of stereo jack hammering going on both sides of me right outside my bedroom window.

Once again construction “music” has returned to where I work. Our office is on the 4th floor. The 3rd floor is undergoing renovation. The merry sounds of hammering have been going on all day now for months.

Doesn’t this bother anyone else? Why doesn’t being robbed of our peace and quiet annoy everyone? Just listen for a minute. Are we numb to the pestilent sounds that go on around us? When I listen, I hear a cacophony of noxious noise: the Jack in the Box speaker going on and off all day, the car alarms going off in parking lot behind me, construction on the 3rd floor, and the street traffic, oh the street traffic! Cell phones going off. Phones ringing. Different stations mingling together from a multitude of radios in the office. The Xerox machine. Two fax machines. The printer. Sirens from the ambulances going from the hospital nearby.

So maybe I am ultra sensitive to noise because it just doesn’t seem to bother others in the same way it does me. Maybe I just can’t tune it out as well. Or maybe one man’s noise is another man’s music? Sounds that might be calming and pleasant to someone else might be highly irritating to me. For example, a dear friend of mine loves the sound of nature at night. She loves to open her windows and hear the insects. For me, the chirping of one lone cricket can annoy me so much that I want to go night stalking with a can of Raid.

An expert on noise, K.D. Kryter (1996) in his document, Handbook of Hearing and the Effects of Noise, (New York Academic Press) defined noise as “acoustic signals which can negatively affect the physiological or psychological well-being of an individual.” Well to me, I define “noise” as sounds I simply don’t want to hear! Even though some of my friends may not agree, in fact, noise has been described as the most pervasive pollutant in America.

Studies even show noise can impact our physical and psychological health and as well as our general quality of life. Well I know for sure unwanted noise makes me cranky!

William H. Stewart, former U.S. Surgeon General, stated, “Calling noise a nuisance is like calling smog an inconvenience. Noise must be considered a hazard to the health of people everywhere.” Studies have correlated noise with physiological changes in blood pressure, sleep, and even digestion. It’s interesting to me that my blood pressure is higher after listening to 30 minutes of jack hammering. What effect is this having on my cardiovascular system?

And mothers-to-be better wear their earplugs in addition to relinquishing caffeine and alcohol because studies have also linked noise with a negative impact on the developing fetus.

Many people suffer from sleep disturbances and one of the primary reasons is noise. Snoring anyone? As a matter of fact, a loud case of snoring can sound as bad as a jackhammer especially when it is coming from the pillow next to you! The loudest decibel recorded for snoring was 87 decibels!

Another study found an increase in the use of antacids and hypnotics, sedatives and antihypertensives in a noisy community, as compared to a quiet community (Knipschild, 1977).

We all recognize the stress created by unwanted noise. Even noise that may not be at hazardous levels to our hearing can make us tense and angry. The dripping of a faucet during the night can be very irritating. Studies have also linked noise with increased aggression (Donnerstein and Wilson, 1976). Major newspapers have reported noise disputes leading to violence and in England, (August, 1995) the Daily Mirror reported that in the previous six years, 16 people or more were murdered or committed suicide due to chronic noise. Imagine pleading to the jury—I HAD to kill him, I couldn’t stand the dogs next door barking for one more minute!

None of us can escape sound, unless we are deaf of course. Nor would we want to! But noise is a disturbance in our world that is escalating at such a high rate that it really is impacting our quality of life.

Insensibly, we seem to accept increasing noise as inevitable and tend to overlook the physiological and psychological damage that can go with it. We attempt to set standards for some of the sources of noise, we often are unable to monitor or control them. Barking dogs, sirens, blaring stereos, construction sounds, train whistles, jackhammers, motorcycles, airplanes, car alarms, skateboarding teenagers, and traffic generally have combined to such a degree that they are a public health issue.

Bernard D. Sherman says “the ear-damage epidemic is an example of what medical theorists call a disease of civilization: a medical problem created by a mismatch between the world our bodies are designed for and the world we have created. Modern technology has created a high-decibel soundscape, but nature designed our ears for detecting predators creeping toward us and prey creeping away from us.” Nature didn't equip us to withstand a Guns N' Roses concert.

Yes, there are earplugs and I have resorted to those often to reduce the “volume of life”. My earplugs can bring the sound level down about 20 decibels or so. Bose even makes $300 noise canceling headphones. (I need a pair of those). I have a white noise machine for my sleeping pleasure. Maybe all I need is to win the lottery so that I can buy a home in the country on several acres of land in the woods far from any racetrack, airport, UFO landing runway, or highway construction. Although I must sheepishly admit we did once rent a little cottage in the woods to escape the Big City noise. But you know what? I couldn’t sleep. It was too quiet!

Noise is one of the leading causes of hearing loss in the 28 million people with impaired hearing in the United States. I just know I want to protect my hearing so that I can hear well until the day I die. There are many more symphonies I want to hear, and what would life be like without the sound of crashing ocean waves and the cry of the sea gulls? There are so many sounds I love to listen to like the sound of wind rustling in the trees, a gurgling brook, and the merry sound of jingle bells. How about rain beating on the pavement? Or butterfly wings flapping. The sizzle of meat searing in a hot pan. A child’s melodious laugh, and a grandpa telling stories of his youth. I love voices singing harmony. The sound of thunder rumbling and wood crackling in the fireplace. The pop of a champagne cork. The sound of a single piano note as it fades into nothing. A whisper. The snap, crackle, pop of Rice Krispies in milk.

But most of all, I tend to agree with the quote that addressed the issue of losing one’s hearing that said,
The greatest loss in my estimation is not the ability to hear music. That is a given, but the loss of "intimacy" is a much greater loss. When someone whispers, "I love you", the last thing they want you to say is, "What did you say?"

I guess I am not totally alone in thinking silence is golden. After all, iTunes is selling sounds of silence. Yes, really. And it only costs 99 cents. Among the myriad of downloadable songs for sale at Apple Computer's online music store, there are at least nine tracks of silence.

And Apple sells these songs of silence just like the rest of the “music”. The silent tracks sell for the same 99 cents as other songs. They even feature free 30-second "previews" .

What’s even funnier is, three of the tracks are labeled as explicit, even though there is only silence.
I guess I need to get myself one of those iPods. . .

He's gone...

He's gone... my beloved father died today, July 5th. He had family around him, so he wasn't alone in his passing.
I am blessed that I was able to say my goodbyes in April at the reunion I wrote about, and that he was able to read the words I felt about him in my blog entry. These things meant a great deal to him and to me.
I already feel that the world is an emptier place without his physical being, but with as much as he loved his life, his family, his spirit will be around us all. He was a wonderful man.
I feel such tremendous sadness right now and such an overwhelming pain. I love you dad. I am grateful you knew that.

Leaving Behind Pieces of Ourselves

I’m holding in my hand a photograph from our April family reunion that was held in Wisconsin this year. The familiar faces bring a smile to my face as I recall spirited conversations spent catching up on our lives. Our reunion was short in time, but long in spirit. This event was planned rather spontaneously, but sometimes those turn out to be the best. My dad, Howard, has been ill, and we wanted to seize the opportunity to visit while he was feeling well and could participate in the festivities.

Once you are diagnosed with cancer it seems that your separation from that “normal” world you once knew is immense. Suddenly nothing is ever the same again. Any belief that life is controllable and foreseeable is slashed away in a few seconds, leaving in its place a daunting uncertainty. The dreaded cancer is attacking my dad’s body, but certainly not his soul or spirit. The first thing I noticed was that he looked great! Everything about him was warm and alive, right down to the twinkle in his eyes. I often cannot imagine how one deals with this fate. He does so with grace, but then, he is a man with incredible inner strength.

Maybe developing his inner strength was something he had to cultivate due to life circumstances. After all, he did morph from the status of bachelor smack -dab into dadhood with a ready-made family complete with two kids! My dad adopted both my brother and me at a very young age. My biological father died, and mom married Howard, enfolding him into our ready-made family. Surely the act of instant fatherhood forces one to develop inner strength. Two more sisters later, and the family was complete. During my reunion visit, dad and I talked about how we never used the word “adopted” while I was growing up. Not because it was something to be ashamed of, but it just wasn’t in our vocabulary. To me, he isn’t my adoptive dad; he’s just my dad.

Now there are times I wish he was my biological father in the hopes that I would have inherited some of his genes for talent– for no more creative man could be found! He is the kind of dad you look up to because he can do anything from repairing a car to wiring a room. His hobbies have been extensive and varied over the years–from leatherwork to stained glass, from photography and film to woodcarving and handcrafting furniture. The most impressive of his skills to me is his woodworking ability. Or maybe I pick that craft because I am just thankful that he kept me from failing my college woodworking class. I probably wouldn’t have passed that class if he hadn’t helped me make a wooden jewelry box and a candlestick holder on the lathe.

John Gray, in his book, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, says that a man needs time to retreat to his cave. That’s something I remember about my dad. After dinner he would disappear into his cave (which was the basement) to tinker and create. Detailed and methodical in his task, he would spend hours working on his hobbies. The results that emerged from the cave were spectacular creations. He is not a man who is quick to express his emotions outwardly, but I think he sublimated his emotions into the items he crafted.

On the first day of the Wisconsin reunion, dad took me for a tour through my sister Amy’s house. He was as “present” in this house as sunshine is on a hot summer day. Every turn I made, every place I looked, there was a piece of his work. A handcrafted wooden butler greets you at the front door. Corner shelves and a table adorn the kitchen. Wooden units enhance the fireplace. A grandfather clock chimes in the hallway, and stained glass lamps light the rooms. Whimsical wooden carved caricatures line cupboards and shelves. My nephew’s room is filled with my dad. Each night Danny climbs into his racecar bed to sleep, and by day he plays games at his handcrafted table and chairs.
Click here to see pictures of Howard's projects

What was overwhelming to me is that I could feel dad’s energy everywhere!

I couldn’t stop thinking about how I could feel dad’s essence in each room of the house. I felt it every time I entered whether he was present or not. With a bit of Internet research, I did some investigation on the possibilities. The first law of psychic energy states that all solid objects are vibrating energy. That’s what many of the invisible waves like sound waves, electricity, light, x-rays, or microwaves are. It seems that one’s energy can be stored in objects around us. This makes some sense to me, as all objects, no matter how solid they appear, are porous containing small or even minute holes. The minuscule crevices in the object's surface are said to collect microscopic fragments of the energy of the person possessing or creating the object.

Next I was intrigued reading about the concept of psychometrics, the ability to read experiences, facts, feelings, and thoughts about someone from an object. I wondered if this was what I was picking up on as I felt his energy in the room. It’s said that an object contains within it the information of all that the object has come into contact with–much like a diary or record of events. Those who are sensitive enough are able to tune into that field, and can then access and “see” or “feel” those memories that are stored. Emotions especially, it seems, are most strongly "recorded" in the object.

Joseph R. Buchanan, an American professor of physiology, was one of the first people to experiment with psychometry. He theorized that all objects retain a memory. An old stuffed animal or a favorite piece of jewelry, for example, may have been with someone through many different situations, many differing emotions. Perhaps the strong vibrations of the emotions are partially left in the objects—absorbed by them so to speak.

Whether the theory about objects and energy is true or not, crafts and other art that is made by the hands of those we love are treasures that have strong personal or emotional connections. They evoke powerful feelings. They are the origin of our recollection process. It doesn’t really matter what the item is, because its value is tied to the meaning we assign the object and the cherished memories we associate with it.

That started me thinking about the legacy dad would be leaving behind with all of the handcrafted objects he has created. Often we think of a legacy as something intangible, but crafts and artwork are very concrete in nature. The objects that people create leave us with memories of that person that provide us with a sense of connection, comfort, and ultimately joy.

All of the handmade gifts I have been given have a great impact on my thoughts and memories. I have my own stained glass lamp that dad made and every time I flip the switch and turn it on, I get a visual picture of dad working in the basement. My godson made me an incense burner out of clay when he was small, and when I hold it I am immediately transported to my birthday celebration the day he gave it to me. While it is the memories of that person that we are holding dear, it is the tangible mementoes that reinforce these comforting recollections. These items allow us to tap into our reminiscences of the past more vividly. Sometimes I think that is why it is nearly impossible for me to throw away handmade gifts that someone gave me. Is the energy of that person actually in the object they held, wore, or made? I don’t know for sure, but I know I feel better when I touch or hold the objects. I believe that the person who handcrafts things is leaving behind little pieces of himself for those he loves. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "The only true gift is a portion of thyself."

While the legacy of good morals and values and other intrinsic characteristics are important to pass on, I think things are important too. The items belonging to or created by another are like a documentary of that person’s life; they tell a story. A guest in my home may not know that the keepa on my desk is from my goddaughter’s Bat Mitzvah, or that the watercolor on the wall was lovingly painted by my best friend, but I know the stories that go with both. Holding or looking at these things or objects creates an immediate sense of connection to these people for me. As time goes on, these objects become a potent representation of that connection. They evoke memories and feelings which help to shape and motivate us, and leave us feeling joyful, comforted, and part of something bigger than us. The objects provide us with an emotional virtual hug or burst of warmth that surrounds and comforts our soul. You can hold grandma’s old rolling pin in your hand, and be taken back to her kitchen, warm with the wafting scent of cinnamon spice and cookie dough.

Things change over time; the concrete material objects in your life usually do not. We keep them for their personal significance. I have a few personal objects of my grandmother’s. I remember her through memories and photos, but when I hold the ring she wore, somehow I feel soothed. I feel her presence. The meaningfulness of the possessions we identify as “cherished” resides in their legacy. We save for ourselves those objects we choose to keep picked from a lifetime of objects, yet we also have the need to give some of our own mementoes to those we love so they have a way to remember us. They are gifts that truly keep on giving.

In twenty years when my nephew looks at the racecar bed he passes on to his own son, he will recall the love of his grandfather who made it. What we create with our hands is really a physical manifestation of love. We knit and purl love into the afghan we make. We brush the paper with colors of love when we paint a watercolor, we pound love into the leather belt we tool, we nail love into the table we build, we sift love into the piecrust we make, we smooth and mold love into the clay pot we throw. In a way,the things we create make us immortal. The pieces of ourselves we leave behind are really just fingerprints of our soul.

When my next visit to Wisconsin occurs, I am sure the houses will be even more filled with my dad’s manifestations of love. He has inspired me; I think I would like to leave behind pieces of myself to those I love as well. Next reunion I will come bearing gifts for everyone.

Mosaic ashtrays anyone? Glued and grouted with love, of course.

Click here to see pictures of Howard



Happy Father’s Day, dad.
I love you– thanks for choosing to be my father.

Salimos A Bailar

Salimos A Bailar
The Tango
Thinking of Daniel


I feel the blood rise to my face–it’s getting hotter.
My heart quickens with every single beat.
Seductive glances– your brown eyes hold such passion.
Hypnotic whispers come from somewhere that is deep.

A man, a woman– in search of one another,
Engage in two-way unspoken conversation.
Internal music—provocative, enticing,
Inspired anticipation lends to rhythmic syncopation.

“Dance with me, dance with me,” I whisper.
Hold me close and slowly linger in my hair.
Lubricated, passionate expression,
Surrender to me, darling if you dare.

The silent music both arouses and it torments,
“Salimos a bailar,” the words I hear you say.
Sultry feelings translate into oscillating motions,
Entangled limbs and torsos interlock and sway.

And we dance the dance both mystical and haunting,
Expressing emotions we’ve desired to explore,
Powerless to change what lies before us,
Resulting in the tango on the floor.

Salacious movements vow to tell our sublime secrets.
Our ravenous hunger is obviously clear.
For an overpowering mesmerizing moment,
The force of magnetism draws our bodies near.

An abrazo has turned poetry in motion,
Throbbing heartbeats pound– then intertwine.
Sense the scent of harmonious contraction,
Magic moments reaching out for the divine.

We dance through space into a starry constellation.
The night air wafts an intoxicating high.
Stolen moon from midnight darkness creeps upon us,
As fiery starlight stabs and penetrates the sky.

The thrusting beat stirs passionate emotion,
The primordial dance of titillating splendor.
A carnal choreography that’s furious yet pure,
The final dance step is the one of sweet surrender.

And we dance the dance both mystical and haunting,
Expressing emotions we’ve desired to explore,
Powerless to change what lies before us,
Resulting in the tango on the floor.

EBay-Limited Edition Heart

EBAY

Limited Edition Collector’s Heart
Item number: 4995156353

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US $99.99
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Start time:
May-13-05 20:08:29 PDT
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High bidder:
heartsaver (655)

Item location:
01810 United States

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Moongoddess
Feedback Score: 2798 Positive Feedback: 100% Member since Dec-09-98 in United States
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NO PAYPAL. Please read the fine print and follow my requests, this item can be shipped for shipping calculation(includes packing and handling) plus insurance and tracking - (required), the calculation is for destinations in the lower 48 US states, all other locations ask for your final S & H costs.

DESCRIPTION
This limited edition collector’s heart is soon to be retired.

This heart is excellent for the male heart collector. It is best suited to be placed on a shelf for display, as it is too fragile for ongoing use.

It has been broken a multitude of times, but it has healed without visible scars. Since it has been broken one time too many, it is likely to shatter if broken again.
Please note: one large piece is missing and the whereabouts of that piece are unknown.

Features:
Resting heart rate is 69 beats per minute
Weighs about 10 ounces
Beats approximately over 100,000 times a day
Pumps about 1.5 million gallons of blood a year


Disclaimer: this heart is sold "as is" because its underlying condition is unknown— it has been through a great deal over the years including, but not limited to the following:

It has been left in San Francisco
It has had its cockles warmed
It has been worn on a sleeve
Its been "learned by"
Its been in the right place
Its been poured out
Its been involved in a heart-to-heart
Its had affairs
Its been crossed
Its been followed
Its been coupled with soul
Absence has made it grow fonder
It has been unbroken
It has had a total eclipse
Its been home
Its been "played by"
Its been a lonely hunter
Its been sung out and played out
Its been achy breaky
Its been lost, its been changed
Its been in the right place
Its been "set on" something
Its been "of the matter"
Its gone on and on

Its strong point is it has never been attacked.

This limited edition heart comes in a special tin box. Hopefully the new owner will use it to spread love and joy to humanity as was originally intended.

Note: The bidder must know that the heart can no longer be used for male-female love because it is now empty— and that's why it is being sold.

No Friend of Bill W's

To my dear friend-
Stay OFF the merry go round!



He woke to a room stinking like elephant dung,
Opening one pasted-closed eye, he was again bewildered at his whereabouts.
His tongue, thicker than a leather shoe,
His head, like Muhammad Ali’s boxing bag.
Not again, he thought, not again.

A homely woman with the face of a goat
was curled up next to him with mouth agape,
Snoring like a beast with its throat cut.

Tossed into the corner of a low-rent room, the pile of empty pizza boxes wafted spicy fumes of self-loathing, depression and empty promises.
Cockroaches and flies used the boxes as insect hotels,
While feasting on semi-empty vodka bottles and stale stubs of cigarettes.
He grabbed his jeans, quickly dressed and hailed a cab,
Stopping briefly to puke up his dignity.

He wore rotten curdled dairy products for his cologne.
His eyes were gray —the color of the world he lived in.
His breath reeked like his enunciation,
And something hammered Morse code in his brain.
S-O-S
This was the last time he was ever going to do this .
Forever, he promised.
A clean slate.
No more .

He woke from his alcohol induced coma only to fall into another fast sleep
On a mattress infested with rat feces and urine.
Begging for the mercy that deep sleep provides,
Content in knowing this was the last time he would feel this way.

But too soon she came.
His silent mistress of bete noire
Knocked on his door of denial—
Obediently he let her in.

Smooth and cunning, she entered.
"Get on the carousel," she whispered seductively. "Let’s go for a ride."
Her voice woke the beast inside and he roared his ugly head.

His mistress called and he submitted—
His resolve once again by the wayside.
He wore his cravings like a tattoo—engraved into his flesh.



The binge —the mind- fucking drinking binge —called out to him.
God grant me the serenity . . .
I need a fix, he thought, but his bottle was empty.
to accept the things I cannot change . . .
He thought about calling a sponsor.
courage to change the things I can . . .
He had no money, so he slipped into the store and pocketed a fifth.
Just this once he thought

— to take the edge off—
He knew he wouldn't get caught .
and wisdom to know the difference. . .

His mistress with her verbal stripteases
played havoc seducing his mind—
Their love affair would never end.
His slavery to the bottle took his soul and carved it right out.

Little lost boy, where did you go
Somewhere down Alice’s rabbit hole .

The “oom pa pa" of the organ played a tune of surrender,
And the painted ponies of rationalization called out to him.

Climb aboard the carousel of acquiescence, apathy, and submission .

Taking to the seduction he did la danse macabre,
Twirling, dancing, hopelessly crashing.
Climbing inside his glass bottle tomb.
He downed the bottle of liquid bliss.
Novacain for a pained soul.

Lost to the music of the merry- go- round
As the horse of addiction went up and down
and round and round
and round and round.

Confessions of a Former Scale Addict

Hi. My name is Beverly, and I am a recovering scale addict. This is my testimony. Although I’ve been in recovery for several years now, it is still difficult to tell my tale. It seems like only yesterday that I was unable to go for three hours without my fix of stepping on a bathroom scale. Now in retrospect, I admit that I would have done almost anything to hop on a scale and weigh myself. Lie, cheat, even endure public humiliation. Oh yes, it had gotten bad. Very bad.

It all started with my first diet. As I started to control my food intake, seeing the numbers of the scale go down gave me a rush. The more they went down, the more I yearned to get on the scale. It was an intoxicating feeling—a high. I was one of those unfortunates who got immediately hooked. It must be a gene I inherited.

I initially kept the addiction under control. I’d weigh once in the morning and once in the evening, and seeing the numbers on the scale progressing steadily downward satisfied my craving sufficiently. But once the numbers stopped moving so quickly, the real addiction surfaced.

In the beginning it was easy to hide my problem. After all, behind bathroom doors, who would ever see. But the problem got worse, and I began to weigh myself any where, any time, any place. Even going to the butcher shop would make me salivate as I watched the slabs of well-marbled meat sitting on the scale. Only it wasn’t the meat causing the craving; it was the scale !

The addiction progressed in severity when my weight loss hit a plateau. My normal ritual was to weigh myself prior to 7:00 A.M. before I ate anything. Of course christening the commode was vital before stepping on the scale to remove as much water weight from my body as possible. I also felt it necessary to be stark naked with pierced earrings removed.

Gradually, my ritual became more exaggerated. Eventually I needed to shave my legs before weighing and forgo my glasses. I had become a contact lens wearer —not for better vision mind you— but because the glasses weighed an ounce, and the contacts didn’t register any weight at all.

How come when you weigh yourself on carpet, the measure you get is heavier than if you measure on solid ground? One Saturday, my boyfriend discovered me ripping out the carpet in the bathroom. I think he didn’t believe me when I lied about finding mold under the carpet. What I really wanted was to place the bathroom scale on a bare, non-carpeted floor so that it would register a lower weight.

I didn’t seem to notice that my regular friends were gradually abandoning me, and I began hanging out with other scale addicts. One shared her secret of success with me. “Try not to anger the scale,” she said. She paid homage to her scale. To her face, I told her she was nuts, but behind her back I knew it was the secret to making that darn scale move again. So I ordered an Our Lady of the Scales candle that she had told me about and counted the days until it arrived. Like a kid at Christmas, I tore open the package. There it was the in the box—the key to success in an eight-inch, seven-day dedication candle.


The candle directions were very explicit. Wash the top of the scale to completely clean it, and sprinkle it with salt to remove any hexes. Brush off all remains of the salt. Place candle on the bathroom scale and light it at midnight on the night of a full moon on a monthly basis. Leave candle burning on the scale for a minimum of eight hours. Chant the verse three times:

I light this candle in honor of Our Lady of the Scale. I dedicate this candle to you so that I may see a steady downward movement of the numbers on the scale. Enable me to stick to my low-carb way of life. Let all doughnut shops be declared illegal by the law. Let he who offers me high carb food products be cast aside. Protect me from the rantings of those who fear the low-carb way of life. Enable me to always see the numbers on the scale that I want to see. Amen.

It seemed to be working! The scale numbers were moving down again. Finally I thought I had found the secret to success but was quickly proven wrong. Soon, the numbers stalled again. My addiction was now a runaway truck.

By then, I was so deep into my addiction that I could no longer function properly. The more I weighed myself, the more I wanted it. I was trying to hang in there, desperately trying to hold it all together. But my strange antics were no longer tolerated. The addiction had taken over my life to such an extent that my boyfriend gave me the ultimatum — he told me it was the scale or him.

I chose him. We put away the scale, and I went cold turkey. But everywhere I went I saw scales, scales, and more scales.

On day 16 of clean living, I went to a party at a friend’s house. Since I had sworn off weighing and had already gone through the withdrawal process, I thought I had a handle on it. But then it happened— a relapse. It was a festive dinner party with food, drink, and laughter until, unfortunately, I had to make a visit to the bathroom. As I was washing my hands, I noticed a scale tucked next to the wash basin. There it was staring at me, and whammo— the craving hit. What could I do? There was no opportunity to call a sponsor.

Would anyone know? I knew I wouldn’t be able to perform my entire ritual, but one little step on the scale couldn’t hurt anything. Maybe just my foot. At least I could take my clothes off, and I did have my contacts in. Quickly I peeled off pieces of my clothing until I was naked, took a deep breath as I anticipated the rush, and stepped on the scale. In less than five seconds, intense public humiliation ensued. I will never forget it. A very loud female voice boomed out at me.

“Your weight today is *$* !!! ”
It even repeated itself — “Your weight today is *$*!!! ”

Oh my god, it was a talking scale!!

I jumped off that scale so quickly, but it was too late. The whole room full of dinner guests knew what I had done. Shame and remorse wracked my body. Quickly, I dressed and looked for a razor blade in the medicine cabinet to end it all. Death was the only solution. Not finding any, I knew I had to come out of the bathroom and face the group. Sheepishly, I re-entered the dining room. The quiet pierced my heart. No one said a word. My boyfriend got my coat and escorted me out the door. I felt humiliated and ashamed.

The next day I was surprised with an “intervention” by those same friends.

Attempting to overcome the emotionally crippling effects of shame, I heard them out. After hearing their issues and concerns, I saw myself through their eyes, and I began my recovery in earnest. I put away the scales for good. Now I check my weight with a pair of jeans. It is easy to tell if a pound is gained or lost by how they fit.

Each day of my recovery gets easier, and the cravings are just about a thing of the past. I can go into the butcher shop and the post office now without the urge to have meat or a letter weighed while I am busy coveting the scales.

I am told that 80 million women and girls get on the bathroom scale each morning only to see the number and feel negatively about their bodies and themselves.

But the scale is just an assemblage of springs and numbers, not an accurate gauge of either fitness or body composition—and certainly it is not a measure of one’s self-worth.

Scales belong to musicians, not me.


Note: Since writing this, I have once again relapsed. Sigh. . .