I am free, liberated from the grip of out-of-control social networking. I severed my ties with Facebook early this afternoon, turned off my computer, and headed out for a 2-mile hike along the trails on Goucher’s campus.

This is not the first time I have done this. On at least two other occasions, I have taken 40-day breaks from the social-networking scene. Each time, my life thrived. I used the unplugged time to walk, write, see old friends, and live more fully than I had done in months–if not years.

What makes this a little different is that I’m not too sure when I will return, if I ever do at all. I’m leaving that window wide open; I trust my judgment that I will know when the time is right to make that decision.

Just leaving that window open, though, is liberating in ways I could not have imagined, even as late as this morning just hours before I made the decision to cut the virtual cord. What I see before me are limitless opportunities without any desperation to get them accomplished within a 40-day deadline. I have no desire to “report back” at a later time and let the Facebook world know just how different my life might have become.

And NO disrespect to all my friends. I hope to see you more, not less. I hope, too, that those meetings will be done with intent and are genuine and meaningful. Oh–here’s the most important part: without any expectations. Let’s just talk over coffee or wine. Share words. Strengthen the bonds that are seemingly impossible as status updates and tweets.

Yes. No disrespect at all. I miss the genuine-ness, that’s all. I want this experience to be real, not virtual.

The walk I took around Goucher (just in my back yard) was, in every sense, perfect. The weather was a strong 75, and a gentle breeze finding its way through the budding branches kept me cool during most of the 2 miles (see second photo below). As you can see in the photo directly below (and above, too), the path is very clean. I experienced a few muddy patches here and there, but nothing I couldn’t side-step. I had plenty of warning every minute of the walk, and I had no surprises that hindered my speed or enjoyment.

More than halfway through my hike, I experienced three things that I found extraordinary. The first was simply out of a book or a movie; the second and third experiences were more typical of life in the forest, but extraordinary to me nonetheless.

As I rounded a soft turn on the path and headed along a straightaway (maybe for 50 yards), I spotted a chair in the middle of the woods.

Now, I have seen enough episodes of Lost and have read enough books (Ishmael by Daniel Quinn comes to mind) where such things can be both mysterious and life-changing. I knew it would have been a foolish thing to pass it without, at the very least, acknowledging its presence.

After checking the area for obvious traps and even cameras, I walked over to the chair, a beautiful place to sit and take a rest. A yellowjacket swarmed around the edge of the seat, and I tipped it up to see if there were any nests underneath. I found nothing, and the bee left without incident. I noticed, though, that the chair was resting on the leaves as if it had just been put there. The legs had not settled into the detritus floor, and the seat was clean of dust or stains from rain or pollen.

I was very suspicious now, and so I took another look around. I tested the ground around the chair. I even checked for wires, messages, or curious college students peaking at me from trees far in the distance.

Nothing.

I decided that I would accept its invitation for a rest, and so I sat. Here is the view that I saw from the chair (if you see college students or wires, please let me know!):

After making sure that I was alone, I closed my eyes and listened to the beautiful sounds of life coming and going as I breathed. I could feel my pulse through my hands as I gripped my walking stick in front of me. I knew that the chances of finding a mentor before me when I opened my eyes were slim, if not outright ridiculous, but I could not dismiss the thought.

This is how it works, I thought. You take a walk, you find a chair, and some guy or gorilla walks up to you and starts talking about how you are late, and he thought you would never get there.

When I opened my eyes about 2 minutes later, I was alone, but not really. Everything had magnified itself–the winnie of the Robin, my own pulse, and the brightness of each leaf, new and old, all around me.

I did not need a mentor to change my life. I just needed the invitation and the permission to sit, reflect, meditate, and cherish.

I took a picture of me just before I left. I don’t know why. Maybe I felt that I had to record this moment. Remember that I was here. Remember that it’s these eyes that take it in first, then these ears, then this mind and this heart….

The second experience was the sweet generation of life in a newfound ecosystem. The steady rains that we have endured these past few weeks have created small ponds in the woods. As I was walking, I saw several ponds that were developing their own ecosystems. This one, pictured below (and just a few hundred feet from the mysterious chair), was by far the most advanced.

As I stood in stillness, I observed the subtle signs of life: leaves ruffling along the ridges as the male spring peepers shifted their weight and wooed their female counterparts, tiny lines rippling in the water as backswimmers and water scorpions made their way from leaf to twig to stone, and other imperceptible sounds of life that brought random notes to this natural, choral performance.

Man is so consequential, I thought, when it comes to the resilient generation of life.

Along a short straightaway about 50 feet from the pond, I was struck by the small but brilliant contrast of a red-breasted American robin’s eggshell against the dull browns and beiges along this path (pictured below). This was the same deep powder blue color (with subtle turquoise undertones) that I had first seen as a child, when the nesting baby robins in the evergreen bush by my front porch kicked them to the ground so unceremoniously. There, they had maybe 5 or 6 feet to fall to the ground.

Here on the trail, I stood directly over the eggshell and looked skyward (pictured below).

To fall all that way, I thought, and stay intact. Even the fragile can survive if they get a little help from others– a lifting breeze, a soft landing place. How does one learn to fly when born so high?

I stretched my neck, covered the sun from my eyes, and winced to find the nest.

Nothing.

Had the wind carried the shell from another tree? Had it tumbled along the smooth earthen floor, only to land here in this temporary resting-place?

As I continued my way along the trail for another quarter-mile, where it meets the road, I thought more about the pond, the chair, and my first excursion after leaving behind the social-networking craze.

I turned around and retraced my steps. I carefully stepped over the robin’s beautiful eggshell, glanced at the freshly formed pond on my left, still in its infancy, and paused once more to take in the significance of a single chair in the middle of the woods. The beauty and simplicity of such things, but what could it mean?

I took a few more steps, watching for random roots along the way, and looked up just in time to find what may have been that great sign I was looking for all along. Someone, for some reason, and at some recent time, had painted a single, red heart on one of the trees (pictured below).

I smiled, knowing fully well that I had made the right decision to turn off my computer, put my walking boots on, and reconnect with all that is real, simple, and genuine.

Last month, I sketched out a monthly hiking plan that would send me all around the state, tackling some of the trails that I’ve never been on. This strategy was in line with my bigger project of dropping the weight and leading a more healthy, active lifestyle.

Well, the good news is that I am succeeding on the diet and the exercise. I’ve met with good success over these last four or five weeks, and I am right on schedule.

Scheduled for this Friday, in fact, is my first monthly hike. I decided to head to the Merkle Wildlife Sanctuary in Prince George’s County, MD. I thought this would be a good time to see the migration of birds and walk a path my feet have never touched.

It’s also about 150 miles round trip.

Unfortunately, with the way gas prices continue to rise, I’m beginning to rethink where I take these monthly hikes. I know it’s only once a month, but is this really worth 5 gallons of gas, or an additional $25, to head to this sanctuary? As we’re on a very tight budget right now, I’m thinking that there are some places closer to home that I could take that hike and save the $25.

We’re beginning to think this way about all of the trips we make. Yesterday’s jaunt to Ocean City, MD for Holland’s Gymnastics States Tournament cost me over $50 in gas. If I still had my Jeep, it would have been nearly $100 in fuel costs.

I think I’m going to pocket that $25 and keep it local. There’s plenty around here in a 10-mile radius that I can do that will help me accomplish the same goals. I’m a little bummed that I won’t be seeing as many of the parks throughout the state, at least right now. But keeping it close to my community is not a bad way to go at all.

I’m wondering–Has the rise in gas prices caused you to make similar decisions?

I feel like there’s been some kind of explosion in my life, a bursting of energy that is giving me strength like never before. I am finding the strength to write, to exercise, to journey, to live.

It could just be that I have the time to do these things. It is nearly 9:30 on a Sunday morning, and I have been up since 6, writing, practicing yoga, writing some more, reading, editing, and enjoying a light breakfast with my son–the first to awaken.

But it also could be that I am constantly focusing on renunciating old habits and replacing them with better behaviors; these are lifestyle changes that must stay at the center of my path, regardless of how much, or how little, time I may have, especially when school resumes in the fall. By replacing these bad habits with healthy choices, I feel a certain momentum, a current of strength and confidence to continue boldly along this path.

I think it’s the yoga, though, that is making the biggest difference. I’m a very big guy, with a lot of weight to lose. My weight issues prevent me from practicing the poses exactly as they are shown, and I have to accommodate with yogic modifications. I can feel the limitations and restrictions that my excess weight places on me. In my mind, I understand exactly what I am supposed to do for each pose, but I can’t make my body follow through.

I have patience, of course. I can visualize where I will be in a few months, a year from now, even 3 or 5 years. I just need to hold on to that focus, that vision.

And I will do that through writing, practice, and renunciation. It’s a wonderful explosion of energy, even with these weight limitations that I need to overcome! I do not let that discourage me; I am grateful for what I can do, for what I will be able to do, and for what I have not yet discovered or imagined.

Enjoy the day! May it be explosive for you as well….

Your provide a little space in your life, some breathing room, some opportunity for clarity, and the reason why we’re here presents itself….clearly.

I’ve spent most of the weekend NOT running here or there, grading this or that, but rather reading, writing, biking, spending time with old friends, family, and some new friends that I’m looking forward to seeing again soon. As James Taylor offers in his song, “That Lonesome Road,” I’ve taken the time to close my mouth and open my eyes, to cool my head and warm my heart.

The difference between the song and me is that I’m doing it now, before it’s too late.

I was lucky to get through these last few years relatively unscathed. I put my body through unrelenting challenges, and I know that I have suffered for it. I am grateful for the chance to do all that I’ve done, but really–there’s no need to put myself or my body through that kind of punishment ever again.

So I write to you tonight, on a late Sunday evening, with the air conditioner blowing coolly on me to wick away the beads of sweat that had formed on my face. I write to you with a prayer, a wish, a hope that you, too, will slow down. open your eyes, warm your heart, and live genuinely and peacefully. It’s not too late.

I have a lot of work to do in rebooting my health, but I know that it’s possible. Thank God for these moments of clarity.

Now…To stay close to the center and hold on to it–

I’m ready.

Absolutely love sunrises when hiking or biking….

My friend T and I went to Gunpowder State Park along Jerusalem Rd. in Kingsville, MD this morning to check out the trails that rise and fall along the Gunpowder River. We were wonderfully surprised by the well-maintained trails (the Gunpowder and Hobbes trails) that formed a nice circuit for us to master in the coming weeks.

On a scale of 1 to 5, with 5 being the most difficult, I would place this loop at a strong level 2. A few steep pitches and knobby roots make the trail challenging enough to encourage you to come back for more and attempt to do the entire loop without stopping.

According to the Maryland Department of Natural Resources, Gunpowder Falls State Park comprises nearly 18,000 acres in Harford and Baltimore counties, boasting more than 100 miles of trails. One of the great things about the Gunpowder is that it runs long, yet narrowly, throughout north/central MD, from tidal marshes and wetlands to steep, rugged slopes.

Once you discover the Gunpowder, there are literally years of outdoor experiences for the novice to the expert. Hiking, biking, fishing, canoeing, kayaking — the Gunpowder has it all.

For me, it’s perfect because I can go alone for the solitude, enjoy a trip with friends, or take my family for a day of fishing and picnicking.

The Jerusalem Mill, which is where we started our bike trip this morning, offers plenty of trails, a museum, educational events, and period re-creations that are fun for the entire family. For more information about upcoming events, go here.

(all photos taken with my Blackberry Curve this morning)

One of the things I’ve always enjoyed doing is confronting nature’s elements head-on. It’s one of the quickest ways to feel as alive as I possibly can.

Thoreau put it this way in “Where I Lived, and What I Lived For” in Walden:

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.

This morning, life indeed proved mean, and I got the whole and genuine meanness of it.

Trina, my ever-adventurer friend, and I decided a few days ago it would be a good idea to go for an early-morning bike ride on the NCR Trail. For those of you who don’t know, this is one of those Rails to Trails projects, where old railroad tracks are pulled up and the existing path is converted to a walking/biking trail. The NCR Trail currently runs from Cockeysville, MD to the Pennsylvania line (about 20 miles), where it then turns into the York County Heritage Trail. It then continues north for another 21 miles to York, PA. The incline gradation ranges from 1% to 3%, so it’s a very easy ride. Easy, that is, in normal weather conditions.

Trina wanted to head out at 5:30, as she needed to be off-trail by 8 a.m. I did the math at what time I’d have to get up to meet her there at that time (we were starting at Monkton Station, nearly 25 minutes away), and I pleaded for a 6 a.m. start. We agreed that if we prepped well enough and got right on the trail when we arrived, we could bump it up to 6.

That still meant at least an hour of darkness before sunrise, and taping flashlights to our handlebars last time didn’t exactly work out like we had planned. So, we found some good bike headlights at REI for just $20. With a little bit of tweaking and $6 in bills to hold it securely in place around the bar, I found the light to be just exactly perfect for the ride.

The temperature was 17 degrees when we hit the trail a little after 6:15, and within the first mile, we hit serious patches of ice. We were not yet in any kind of groove, so it was tough navigating through this first icy stretch. By the time we hit the next patch, we were “warmed” up (there was no warming to speak of, but we had acclimated ourselves to the conditions), and we had better control of our bikes. It suddenly felt like we were in some kind of video game, where we needed to stay in the narrow paths of dry soil to stay on our bikes. One sudden move to the left or the right, and we’d lose control immediately.

This was especially hard to do in the dark. There were additional obstacles and challenges we faced, including fallen branches on the trail that our headlights couldn’t pick up until they were just a few feet away. To complicate matters even more, there were low-lying branches that were out of the headlight’s reach. A quick call to duck was all we were able to give each other. Some we missed, and some we didn’t.

When we reached the 4-mile point, we felt numb but pretty good. We decided to push on for another two miles, but almost immediately we hit a serious stretch of ice that was impassable. We figured we had reached our mid-way point and decided to turn around. I stopped to take a drink from my water bottle, which I had filled with tap water before we left.

No such luck. It was now a bottle of ice.

By this time, the sun had started to rise, and we were able to turn out our headlights and enjoy some of the sights along the trail (not to mention the low-lying branches!). The greatest surprise, by far, were the icicles on the rocks by the trail.

I wish we had had more time to really explore, but we still had miles to go, and by this time, we had lost all feeling in our toes and fingers. Besides, every time we stopped for pictures, it made it that much harder to get back into that cycling groove.

We made it back to Monkton with a few minutes to spare (and — no surprise — our SUVs were still the only vehicles in the lot), and we both felt euphoric that we had tackled the trail despite the bitter temperatures.

I haven’t lost that euphoria, even in the warmth of my home hours later. There’s just something about facing nature in her finest hour and taking in all she has to offer. It provides a good-natured, healthy perspective to the rest of your life, for living is so dear, and, as Thoreau suggests, there is much to learn when we live it fully.

I know that, for each of us, the title of this post means something a little different.

And I am sure, as well, that nearly immediately after reading the title, you thought a little to yourself what that means: Returning home.

For me, I did that yesterday morning, just a little after sunrise, on the NCR Trail (now dubbed the TCB Trail officially, but that’s probably the last time you’ll ever see or hear me refer to it that way), in northern Baltimore County.

I have always felt a great affinity for the woods, the shore line, the mountains. And it doesn’t take much immersion for me to feel like I have returned home to a place that is both as natural and comforting to me as any childhood dwelling might be for others.

I am at greatest peace, and feel my strongest, when surrounded by nature.

To those of you who know me, it is my Querencia.

First, the history, then yesterday’s ride.

I spent more than half of my childhood days in the outdoors. At just six months, I was tenting all over the region with my parents and older sister (I’m not sure if any of my brothers were still camping with us when I started; they were all in their teens when I was born). My parents had a few favorite spots they would go to when I was older, like Morris Meadows, Gettysburg, Harper’s Ferry, Cape Henelopen, and various places along the Susquehanna in Pennsylvania. We also stayed close to parks along the Chesapeake as well as the Appalachian Trail.

Life didn’t change much when we got rid of the tent and started using a truck camper. These were the memories with my sister that I will treasure forever. It seemed like there was never enough to do once we arrived at the campground: fishing, swimming, community center, miniature golf, hiking, and meeting and reuniting with camping friends.

The pit fires in the evening were nearly spiritual, as we all stared into the flames, sharing stories and just absorbing the moments, both personally and together. There’s something about the campfire that transcends most other community experiences. The silence, broken at times by the crackle of the fire, is reverent. You just can’t get that in front of a television or computer, no matter what might be airing.

As I got older, I started camping on my own, taking hikes still along the Chesapeake and the Appalachian Trail, communing with nature with close friends as we day-tripped or sojourned for three days or more, immersed in all that was natural, peaceful.

Along the trail or on the shores, I always felt like I understood my place in this world, where I remembered that I was never greater than all that surrounded me. Having this respect, this reverence, was a wonderfully humbling experience that I was able to hold on to when I was back on concrete walks and in man-made buildings.

That’s how I knew–and still know–that my true home, my querencia, is in the woods, along the trail, and on the shores. For it is here that I am most spiritual and cognizant of my place in this world.

Yesterday morning, I went for a short, 8-mile ride, and I felt that spirituality again, that calling to return home. The call is so great in my heart today, and I am scrambling, looking for the time to get back there.

Immersing myself in nature is a constant for me. It’s something that is as natural as breathing, and when I make the effort to shift a few of my priorities and return to the woods, I find that the rest of my life falls into place simply and without effort.

I’ll do everything I can to keep centered in this, to thread the experiences close enough together so that my return home is not a a day-trip reunion but a longer walk, a thru-hike through life, that helps me handle the day-to-day stresses along those concrete walks and in man-made buildings. . . .

I do this in tandem with a revitalized yogic practice that explores my own spirituality as much as I might practice pranayama (breathing) and asanas (postures). I am shedding this tired, old, obese body for a lighter, spirited, peaceful soul, one that emanates kindness and love more clearly, more effectively, to all whom I might meet. Friend, stranger, self.

For weeks, I’ve thought deeply about my goals for 2008. I toyed around with the notion of having no goals, no expectations; I’ve also contemplated rehashing the same goals I set every year (lose 75 pounds, publish whatever book I’m working on, etc.). But during these past few weeks, I have realized that such goals never really work for me because they are so impossibly unfulfilling. If I set a goal to lose 75 pounds, I cannot be successful until I reach that magical number. And for what reason? What do I gain by reaching Destination B? I succeeded once in playing this type of game, setting this kind of goal. And the moment that I reached it–the very moment I claimed victory–I celebrated by eating many foods I had managed to stay away from for many months. Before I knew it, all of the weight I had lost (plus 20 pounds) had returned.

The same is true for my writing. My goals are too lofty, too dreamy. They are too far in the distance and falling short of publication makes all of my efforts a dismal failure.

This game that I have been playing, whether I like it or not, has been nothing more than a pretty good defense mechanism for just putting my head down and getting some work done, day in and day out. All of those things that I have wanted so desperately will come to me anyway if I just do the things I want to do anyway. Why make the whole journey about some terminal destination? The only thing that matters about my journey is that, today, I put one foot in front of the other and live the life I know best. To live the life that defines who I am, genuinely and sincerely.

That’s all I have to do. And that’s all that I am doing.

So my goals this year are quite different than the ones I’ve chosen in the past. I am immersing myself into three projects that will help improve my health and my writing, all at the same time.

The first project is to interact with a book I picked up called Meditations from the Mat, which is all about the practice of yoga, meditation, and spiritual health. I didn’t wait for the new year to begin to start this project. I began the day after Christmas, and I haven’t missed a day since then. Committing myself to these readings and writings has helped establish a sacred practice in my life, a foundation that is being solidified by my discipline and commitment to living a more intentional life.

The second project is do a virtual thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail. More on this soon, but in preparing for this hike, I am now walking daily and building up the number of steps I take (what a difference a pedometer is making in my life!). This hike will begin on my birthday, on March 3. I’ve section-hiked much of the AT, but I’ve always wanted to thru-hike it. When I decided to get married and have a family, though, I tabled my dreams of thru-hiking for at least 15 years. By then, I’ll be in my mid-to-late fifties, and I cannot wait that long to fulfill this goal (such a goal, anyway, is flawed like all of the other goals I have set in the past). However, I can do a virtual thru-hike by tracking my travels (governed by the number of miles i walk each day) on a separate blog. I will have all of the same intentions as a thru-hiker who is actually on the Appalachian Trail; the difference is that I will be transferring my miles walked daily to the hike I’ll be chronicling online. Not only will I be walking daily, I’ll be familiarizing myself with every step on the 2167-mile trail and losing weight in the process. Such a journey will work well with my Meditations project.

My third project is to develop and refine, through writing and workshops, a new approach to writing. This concept, which I am calling metalogical writing, focuses on the writer’s awareness and application of three things: who s/he is as a writer (awareness of voice) and how s/he thinks and learns, the form the piece needs to take to serve its ultimate purpose, and the needs and the attitude the audience brings to the piece. I launch my first workshop on this concept on January 26 at Towson University.

These three projects and active, dynamic, where success is not contingent upon a certain weight being achieved or a piece of writing being published. Every day I am immersed in the journey I am taking, and my success comes from the steps I take today and not the things that, for whatever reasons within and beyond my control, may never even have the chance to happen.

I went to see my doctor, and the news he had to deliver wasn’t given to me like it is always done in the movies. Usually, there’s a little piano music in the background as the lights dim, and the camera zooms in on the doctor’s stiff upper lip, maybe a tear swelling in (but never falling from) his left eye. He says your name. Touches your shoulder with a gentle squeeze, and breaks the news.

Not my doc. There was no music, no close up, no welling of tears (he did sneeze twice, though).

He didn’t even say my name or stiffen his upper lip. He just smiled, shook his head, and blurted it out.

“If you don’t change your life right now, you’re going to be dead in five years.”

I trembled. “What is it? Heart disease? Diabetes? Cancer?”

He smiled again as he scribbled something on my file. When he answered, he never stopped writing, and his eyes never met mine.

“None of the above. At least not now. It’s like those hurricanes that haven’t happened yet but we know they’re coming. Some guy on CNN said they’re all lined up like batters before a baseball game. We know they’re coming at us. It’s just a matter of time.”

He looked up. “You don’t smoke. That’s good.”

“What do hurricanes have to do with me?” I asked.

He did that whole shake-the-head thing again and resumed his Last Supper masterpiece on my records. “You know how they name hurricanes? Bob? Dean? Flossie? Yours are called Heart Attack, Diabetes, High Blood Pressure, Cancer. Conditions are perfect for any one of these–” he looks up. “–Or all of them–” he smiles and returns to the file. “to hit you like a category five in the next few years.”

“I’m doing everything you told me, though,” I argued. “I’ve cut back on my food intake, and I’ve worked out 20 of the last 25 days at the gym.”

“You should have worked out all 25.”

“But I’m a happy guy,” I retorted. “I like to have fun, and I have a great attitude.”

“That’s great,” he said. “I’ll be happy to tell everybody at your funeral, just in case they didn’t know that side of you.”

He scribbled more intently on his clipboard, and I looked around the room. Everything around me–the walls, the trays with shiny metal objects on them, even the counters lined with glass jars and various implements of destruction inside each–were just like the movies and the soaps and the sitcoms. Maybe that’s why I kept wanting to believe that none of this was real.

But it was.

I didn’t know whether to be depressed or angry, frustrated or inspired. I had really worked hard in the last month to make some changes and knock off a chunk of my weight with what I thought was a strategic mix of aerobic exercise and managed meals. But after 30 days, all I’ve noticed is that it takes less time to go 2 miles on the elliptical trainer.

“What else can I do?”

He looked up with a more serious expression, thought for a moment, then grabbed a stool and rolled over to me. He set the clipboard on the white counter and began.

“I see this all the time. So many of my patients walk out of my office thinking that they always have more time than they actually do, simply because they haven’t been given a documented condition that requires 12 prescriptions and lifelong instructions for “beating” death. Most of my cancer and heart patients have a better chance of living longer simply because they have something they can fight. They can battle. They can defeat–or at least they believe they can. But you? You don’t have any of those problems yet. You keep waiting for a do-or-die situation that is much more dramatic than making a lifestyle change with working out and eating better.”

“But I’m already doing those things. I told you I am.”

“That’s not enough anymore at your age. I wish you and so many others could understand that obesity is just as bad as cancer or diabetes. You need to shift your whole way of thinking. Just like chemotherapy or insulin shots are required for some patients who will most likely die without them, you need to see exercise as your chemo, your diet as your insulin shots. Every day. Every meal. Every workout. The time has run out for rationalizations and excuses. Cancer patients can’t say that they don’t feel like chemo this week, so they’re just going to skip it. And Diabetes patients who are insulin-dependent can’t turn off the pumps for the summer because they want a little more freedom.

“You can’t say that you deserve a Three Musketeers after a week of good eating. You can’t miss a workout or two because you walked through a park or rode your bike. You can’t do any of those things. Your body, your machine that keeps pumping life through you day after day, cannot stand another single drop of extra sugar or fat clogging it up. Because if you keep doing that, even in smaller doses, you’ll never see death’s train when it runs right over you.”

I sat there and thought about what he said. On paper, it seems so easy to say my prescription is exercise and healthy eating. And when my mind doesn’t play around with what I’m giving up, it seems even do-able.

But that’s not my reality. I’m a thinker, a ponderer who dips deeply into the past, and that’s my biggest downfall. I want it to be easy to lose weight like it was 20 years ago. I want to keep eating the things I’ve always enjoyed. Most of all, I want to feel the near-immediate success I had always felt when dieting and working out. Before I turned 35, it never seemed to take more than a week for me to see some results that would then encourage me to work even harder.

These days, I experience none of that. No success, no weight loss, no inspiration.

As if he were reading my mind, he smiled and patted my knee. “You have to stop thinking about this like you are still 20. Give yourself six months, with no expectations before then. But you need to be vigilant about eating and working out. No rationalizations. No excuses. No food rewards. Picture your system as the finest oiled machine ever built. Don’t clog it up with the things that put you in this position for so many years.”

He was right, of course. I stood up, shook his hand, and told him I’d see him in 6 months.

After all, I have everything to lose if I don’t go all out and do as he says. I didn’t walk out of there with any prescriptions or appointments to see other doctors or specialists. It is all on me to stick to my daily treatments, my daily regimen, religiously, for six months.

Like I said: What have I got to lose?

Everything.

I have wonderful memories of my mother reading this book to me before I had learned to read. I remember asking her to read it over and over again so I could memorize the text that went along with the pictures. I wish I still had my copy of this book. I am sure that it was nothing more than a book-of-the-month knock off (it was originally published in 1948), but that wouldn’t matter to me. Just having that copy that my mother and I shared every night would be one of those silly priceless things I’d keep on my bookshelf.

We decided to take a ride up to Shaw Orchard just over the Maryland/Pennsylvania border. It’s nearing the end of blueberry picking season, and we wanted to get in our annual harvest before it was too late.

The weather could not have been better. It had just rained, and the temperature was a cool 71 degrees. The wind waved across the endless fields of corn and soy beans as we picked nearly 9 pounds of blueberries.

As we were in the fields, though, there was plenty of time to reflect about the stories my mom used to read to me, the times we would spend picking all kinds of fruits and vegetables at similar farms throughout the state, and the quiet times we would share at our cabin in River Hills, PA.

Tonight, we ate fresh corn and string beans (marinated in olive oil, garlic, and a pinch of salt), jasmine rice with a fresh homemade roasted tomato spread, and of course, blueberries. We finished the meal with a homemade peach cobbler pie. Everything but the rice came from Shaw Orchard…we could not have had a better fresh meal on a cool summer’s night.

But still, the memories linger of time spent with Mom. I miss her greatly.