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Food is confusing.

It shouldn’t be, but like most things we make it that way. The books I read and documentaries I watched in hopes of understanding what and how I should eat only sent me on a spiral deeper into the confusion and illusion of what food actually is and what constitutes a “healthy” human diet. To be honest, I’m still trying to figure that out.

BUT there is one book that sets itself apart from diet plans, protein shakes, juice fasts, portion-control containers, and every eat-this-and-do-these-exercises-for-a-bikini-body-by-summer promise.  Michael Pollan’s In Defense of Food (which is also available as a documentary on Netflix; I’ve watched it and still highly recommend the book) takes readers on a history of food: what it used to be and what it is (and isn’t) now, as well as practical, nearly fool-proof advice for eating real food in a world—and particularly in a country—where “food” is a term loosely applied to all manner of crap we grab from a drive-thru window or cut a slit in the plastic and toss in the microwave.

Its no-nonsense approach avoids bologna (literally) and suggests a change in our entire dining culture to solve the problem of food, and all that stuff that masquerades as such.

If you’re at all confused about what and how to eat (as I clearly was; see below entry from 2014 if you don’t believe me), it’s worth the watch and the read.

“Even after adjusting for age, many of the so-called diseases of civilization were far less common a century ago—and they remain rare in places where people don’t eat the way we do,” Michael Pollan, In Defense of Food.

8/4/14

Honest change, or total acceptance.

Watching someone eat a bagel breakfast sandwich—smelling that greasy delight—after my juiced drink of rubbery carrots and cucumber, makes me want to give in to total acceptance.

Feeling the bulge of fat hanging over my capris and the tightness of my engagement ring after a weekend of binge eating and drinking tips the scales toward honest change.

And teetering in the middle of these two extremes is where I’ve lived for ten years.

Ten. Years. Since I turned 21. Since flat tummy turned into a cute little ponch that grew into a tractor tire. I was afraid to weigh myself this morning because I didn’t want to know. But dishonesty will get me nowhere. It keeps me in the dark and gives me permission to keep doing exactly what I’m doing: drinking every night, binging far too often, and living with abandon every weekend. Now I’m bigger than ever (am I trying to see how fat I can get before I do something about it?) and I’m getting married in less than two months. WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO ME????

Thinking about what health approach to take, my mind is jumping from one to the next with no clear way to go. I’m reading The Body Book by Cameron Diaz, I’ve read French Women Don’t Get Fat but still eat far too American for it to be of any use, I’ve juiced to my heart’s content (spent my money on booze and burgers last weekend; won’t be able to buy fresh veggies this week), my brother Mikey, the Marine, says that eating a massive breakfast gets the day started right (but if I’m not training to serve my country, do I need a mammoth breakfast??), I’ve watched a plethora of documentaries—all which seem to suggest that cutting meat is a sure  bet for health—I’ve tried shakes, I’ve bought supplements (and forgotten to take them), and made plans only to promptly break them…I am a mess.

Why does it have to be so hard?

I read about cellular meditation first in Bronnie Ware’s “The Top Five Regrets of the Dying,” an author and a book that also deserve a place among the Pioneers.

It was Bronnie’s bewildering account of bringing the focus of her meditation to her cells that lead me to the book “Cell Level Meditation,” by Patricia Kay, MA and Barry Grundland, MD, which I read last summer between trips to Brazil and Canada. Cell level meditation is a simple process, really, that involves only space, breath, and body, yet I usually avoid settling in for this type of meditation because of the intensity of the experience (Bronnie, for instance, vomited violently afterwards, slept, then awoke hours later as if anew—something I wanted to experience myself but not on your average Monday evening when trying to sneak in a 20 minute meditation before The Bachelor).

The few times I’ve practiced it have taken me on extended journeys into the darker parts of myself that haven’t seen the light of day in a long time. At its most gentle, I cried while extending love to the parts of my body that needed it, at its most severe I became a sobbing wreck on the floor surrounded by old love letters from a fallen soldier (more on that later). When I start I never know where I’ll end up, or how long I’ll be there because there is no time limit on healing. You just dive in and keep going as long as you can.

Profound physical healing has accompanied these sessions, without fail. They’re exhausting, and totally exhilarating, but not for the faint of heart. Going in I’ve always found something I didn’t know I was looking for—that is to say, they never went as I thought they would. Which is why we should all be doing it. You may think you know what you need to heal—or, like most of us, have no clue—but your cells hold the key. The answers are there.

Just be aware of your body, be aware of the space around it, and carry your breath to the cells. Wake them up. Talk to them. You’ll be amazed at what they have to say.