Zombie Motivations

For my Y post, I wrote about ways I get into the groove of becoming healthy. Today, I'd like to share my motivation for becoming fit: I am afraid of zombies. A while ago, I reflected on this phenomenon but I've recently discovered (after watching a few episodes of The Walking Dead) that a fear of a zombie epidemic can be a true motivator for becoming fit.

You see, I think about this kind of epidemic quite often. How would I cope with Armageddon? Would I be strong enough to survive? I'm not sure if I am physically fit enough to run from or fight off a pack of zombies. I really need to get into shape. It isn't just about losing weight but it is more about becoming strong. I want to be strong in every sense of the word: mentally, emotionally, spiritually and physically.

Do I really believe in zombies? No; however, if a zombie epidemic helps motivate me to become physically fit then, of course, I am going to utilize it to inspire me. What this really comes down to is being motivated to embrace my strengths and to be as healthy as possible. It is taking control of my life and being good to myself. It is appreciating the body God has given me and maintaining it in a spirit of love, not vanity.

When I exercise I try to be present in the here and now. I also like using the time I exercise to escape reality, to get into my head, to fantasize and to create stories. When I start losing steam, I just imagine four or five zombies chasing me (the kind who can actually run) and my adrenaline increases, I become more energized and I am inspired to become the strongest person I can possibly be.

The Art of Simplifying: Practice Yoga & Eat Yogurt

I've been trying to live a healthier lifestyle. I eat healthy, I am trying to get on a consistent exercise routine and I am in process of embracing holistic wellness (mind, body and soul). This is important to me because I want God to know that I appreciate the life He has given me and I would like to live a long and happy life with my husband.

Things get in the way for me much too often. I'm working on this. Sometimes, I feel that there is just so much to do. There are all these things swirling around in my head and ideas that I want to put into place. They become self-imposed pressures and they take over my life. When I really meditate on this, I always answer myself with the same question: how much do we really have to do? My husband always reminds me that life is about living life.

Why is it that women strive so hard to show everyone that we have super powers? We are raised to be responsible, reliable, hard-working. Now, many of us take care of our families and also provide for them. I've recently had an epiphany: as awesome as women are, we are not superhuman. Lynda Carter was my childhood hero. I was named after the Bionic Woman for God's sake. There was no way I was going to escape a Superwoman complex. As much as I hate to admit it, we're just plain old human. We can only do so much. When I start feeling overwhelmed, I focus on two very simple things that help foster my healthy lifestyle: I practice yoga & I eat Greek yogurt.

Yoga helps me in so many ways. I love stretching, the intentional breathing and meditating on the sounds around me. Yoga helps me connect with my body, mind and soul - I become in sync with myself. After practicing yoga, I always feel more energized and motivated to exercise. Yoga sparks my desire to be physically fit.

I began eating Greek yogurt a few months ago. I love it. My husband and I eat a lot of it. It has taken the place of all sugary foods and there's something about it that is comforting. This yogurt helps me keep eating in perspective - it is a simple way of eating. Eating yogurt in the mornings makes it much easier to stay on track the rest of the day. I always feel so much better when I eat healthy and Greek yogurt is a perfect way to begin my day.

For my very last post, I will delve into my motivation for leading a healthy lifestyle. Of course the health benefits are a given but, for me, it really comes down to a fear of zombies.

I'm the World's Worst Xylophone Player

I've enjoyed participating in the A to Z Challenge like so many others but am I the only one who is tired? This X post is a stretch but it is all I have in me right now.

In high school, I was in the marching band. I know what you are thinking. Dork. Yes, I was but I was also happy in high school and actually had a really great experience. I'd choose being a band geek and happy over being popular and miserable. Anyway, I played the flute and I was okay at it. We marched during the fall and participated in symphonic band in the spring. During my junior year, it was time to transition to the next level of symphonic band. This band was special. It was strictly for juniors and seniors only.

I thought I was pretty cool. Hey, I was a junior. Then, I got the terrible news from my band director. He called me and one other fellow flute player into his office and explained that we weren't good enough playing the flute to transition to the junior/senior symphonic band. He did have two openings in other sections: one of us could play the french horn and the other could be in the drumline.

Hello, drumline. Meet Mr. Xylophone. I had never played drums, piano, xylophone, tamberine or symbols in my life. We taped the notes to the keys with masking tape because I couldn't remember which ones were which. This is how I played at school. I did the best I could but my wrists just don't move like one needs them to when participating in a drumline.

I practiced for months and finally it was time for our county symphonic band competition. One component of these competitions is going into a room, being presented with a piece of music that no one has seen, having five minutes to practice and then playing for judges. Guess what? My xylophone was not equipped with masking tape notes. I was completely lost. I told our drumline leader that I couldn't play. He was a senior and in charge so he made me play the symbols instead. I had never played symbols before. Never even held them in my hands let alone play them.

The band is playing along and here comes Jaime's part - I think there were four or five symbols hits (I don't even know what they are called). When my turn came, I slammed those symbols together so hard that I almost dropped them. I put all of my energy and strength into my part. I was nervous but proud that I actually played them in count with the music.

When it was over, we walked out of the competition in a proud straight line. As soon as we got outside, I heard a classmate say, "Who the fudge (he didn't say "fudge") was playing the symbols?" I just pretended I didn't hear him. Did I mention it was a really soft song that we were playing?

The point of this reflection: there really isn't one. I just wanted to point out that I'm the world's worst xylophone player and also the world's loudest symbol player.

Y and Z, here I come.

Building Walls

I have built many walls in my life and they have all been out of necessity. I believe that when you work in social services, you have to build walls in order to do your job effectively. If not, we'd be consumed by the emotional work that we do on a daily basis. My walls allow me to be empathetic versus sympathetic. They help me control my compassion so that it doesn't cloud my judgement. Without the walls that I've built, I wouldn't be able to make decisions based on my clients' best interests.

When I first became a social worker, I used to take my work home with me. I'd dream about the children and families I worked with, I'd worry about them and I would give too much of myself. I didn't even know what this meant but later I learned that if you give too much of yourself, you lose yourself.

I worked as a case manager for kids with mental health disorders for a while. One of my clients was a 15 year old girl. She was removed from her home and living in a foster home. When I first met her, she was smoking on the patio. I remember wondering why in the world a foster parent would allow a teenager to smoke. This was a completely new experience to me. After I asked her to put out her cigarette, we began building a pretty strong relationship.

I followed her to two more foster homes and a group home. She ran away from one of the homes and was hit by a car so I followed her to the hospital. She had no clothes with her at the hospital so I raided my sister's closet. I drove this girl to a therapeutic foster home where I was promised she'd be given the support that she needed. She arrived in bandages and holding the few bags of clothes I had just taken from my sister.

On her 16th birthday, I picked her up from a group home and took her out to dinner. Where the hell was her family? They didn't care. This beautiful girl's father had raped her for years. She finally spoke up in order to protect her younger sister, he went to prison and she became the family scapegoat. My first time in court was standing next to her. I was there to advocate for her. When her father began talking on speaker phone from prison, neither one of us expected it and we were both shocked. She started crying and so did I. I couldn't even talk to the judge or the attorneys. I couldn't speak for her that day because I let my walls down. I fell in love with this girl and I became too emotionally attached.

I don't regret any of it. She needed whatever I gave her during those few months. She began finding herself and became stronger. Right before I left that job, she told me that she was going to request emancipation from her family. She realized that they are not good for her and she needed to move on with her life. How amazing that a 16 year old learned this lesson on her own. She was so full of potential - I admired her independence.

This experience taught me to know when to put my walls up and when to let them down. These walls have affected me personally. I'm not sure if this is good or bad. I guess, it is just the way it is.

Note: This post did not transpire the way I originally planned but I really felt the need to remember this girl and commemorate her for being so strong and beautiful. She will always be a part of me. Thank God for resilient children.

Finding My Voice

I began thinking of how one finds his or her voice with experience. This was a common theme during my human relations work in graduate school. I had struggled with finding my voice as an adolescent and even into my 20's. Now, I do feel like I have found it but that doesn't mean I don't question myself or always know how to use it. In the last group relations conference I attended, one of the large groups focused on social sensing. It was the first time I truly connected with my voice in a large group. This is my reflection about the experience that I wrote in my final paper:

During the social sensing group I feel like I woke up from a dream.  I was aware of so much going on around me, I felt overwhelmed and invigorated at the same time.  I was amazed by what people were sharing and how interconnected everything is.  This experience was an example of awakening the soul.  It seemed that way for me on an individual level but also on a larger systemic level.  It was an experience that I’ll never forget.  It was wonderful. 

For fifteen minutes, I struggled to find words for what I was holding.  I was thinking of my cousin.  I had been thinking of him a lot.  I found it so painful and confusing to balance supporting his decision to become a Marine with the possibility of him being killed.  Dualities were swarming around in my head:  life and death, good and evil, innocence and war.  I cried silently and I experienced some very physical reactions to what was going on inside of me.  My heart was pounding, I felt dizzy, and I could not stop crying.  I really felt like I needed to share what I was feeling with the group but I didn’t know how it connected to anything.  I tried waiting until I gained control of myself.  I didn’t want to cry when I spoke.  I also didn’t want to regret not talking because I was afraid.  I’m tired of holding back.  When I did speak, I spoke from a deep place and I cried with all those strangers around me.  I couldn’t help it but also, in that moment, I didn’t care.  I was being sincere and I shared something that was really resonating with me even though I didn’t know why. 

After I shared what I was feeling, someone talked about finding the warrior within himself and what it means to have courage and take risks.  When we grow and become new, sometimes pieces of ourselves must die.  Someone in the group made a connection and I was appreciative of him for doing that.  The evening before, in my review and application group, each member shared a one-word intention for the next day and I chose the word “strength.”  My consultant had said that in his faith, when we ask for something, it is already given.  I didn’t know why I had asked for this but in the moment that I spoke up in the large group, I realized that I felt courageous and vulnerable at the same time.  I had been given the strength that I needed to be authentic and to share a piece of myself with the group.        

For more information about a group relations conference, click here or check out the Tavistock Institute at www.tavinstitute.org.    

“You never know whose future life you are shaping simply by pursuing

your own aspirations and living up to your own core values.”

- Bruce Avolio, 2005