Mama, Heal Thyself!

Despite the sometimes misconceived idea that as women and mothers we can or should be able to "do it all" there remains the very real fact that we can not and should not even try.

The attempt to do it all has often found us overextended, feeling unappreciated and literally depleted. The truth is, we regularly need a break, and without one we quickly understand the oft spoken adage that women do indeed get weary.

The body is the same way. When we overextend it's energy capcity, insisting that it take on the task of digesting and metabolizing the "food" we eat and eliminating the waste and toxins, in its best effort to keep us alive and vibrant, we are creating great harm to the only vehicle we have in this life to experience natural and spiritual bliss.

I have spent the past year researching, sharing with others and experiencing first hand the great power of the ancient art of fasting for physical and spiritual wellness. It has certainly rendered my body healthier and my mind clearer, but it has also had the unexpected benefit of making me a better, more mindful mother.

While it encourages a magical cleaning of the body, it performs a miracle cleansing of the spirit. I am kinder, less tempermental, more disciplined and less prone to fly off the handle or insist on my way, as a result of this practice. There are countless benefits to the practice of fasting and I invite every BMD mama to join me on what has been an extraordinary journey to true, Whole Life Health.

Visit our sister site at http://www.thenewfastgirls.blogspot.com/ and join our group through yahoogroups, Keyword: FastGirls

If you want to re-experience the miracle of fasting or if you are new to the practice and want to do something for your life and health that provides a genuine cure and not a temporary fix, give this timeless art a try. Your body, soul and family will thank you.

Cheers!

Jasai
BMD Curator Mama

searching for our soul

Mrs. J
Hudson Valley, NY
3 children - girl (4), boy/girl twins (16 mo)


I'm a Northern black woman who grew up in a family whose idea of a traditional meal was spaghetti with meat sauce. No soul food savvy matriarchs have graced either side of my family tree since the great migration. So when my own kids were born, I was determined to raise them as part of a clan that ate traditional African American food throughout the year, not just on holidays. 



The exploration of my culinary heritage began with a simple weeknight dinner of collard greens, yams and black-eyed peas. I was feeling rather pleased with myself when my four year old appeared at the kitchen door.

"Mommy? What is that...smell?" she stood in the doorway frozen, face shielded by her sleeves.

"Black eyed peas, honey. Mommy's making black eyed peas tonight."

She clamped her angelic face tighter. "They smell horrible."

My husband glanced up from his computer. "It's black people food, honey."

Did we really want her to associate our culture with what she described as "a horrible smell?" I tried not to roll my eyes and began setting the table. "It's what we're having for dinner tonight." 



The meal got off to a good start until we asked her to actually start eating. There were tears, followed by threats of timeout. There was squealing, followed by threats of slightly more severe forms of punishment. In between plea bargains, my husband helped himself to seconds and I fought back tears of frustration. My fifteen month old twins sat contentedly in their highchairs, licking fingers and smacking lips at the first taste of their culinary birthright. How could my eldest child possibly grow into a strong African American woman without ever having tasted black eyed peas?

I was nauseated the mere thought of my firstborn daughter making a quicker mental association with 
BEP's Fergie than the cuisine of her very own culture.

Maybe I just needed to accept the fact that my child had a somewhat eclectic, international palate. After all, she tried risotto at nine months and enjoyed it. Other international foods like hummus and (cooked) sushi are regular requests. At least she was an equal-opportunity eater. I picked up the dish she'd just poked at, the black eyed peas stared back at me forlornly. It burned me up that if those poor legumes had been edamame, she probably would have cleaned her plate.



It wasn't until my beloved was in bed for the night that I stepped down off my pedestal and realized where I might be falling short. Even broken down to a preschooler's level, there was really no clear reason why an African American four year old should be obligated to eat black eyed peas (aside from nutritional value). If slaves were forced to eat what we now know as soul food because they just didn't have another choice, does that mean their free descendants should have to? Grown-ups do it all the time. Nobody (at least nobody I know) starts salivating at the thought of boiled pigs' feet. But sweet potato pie is a whole different story altogether. And I'm the first one to turn my nose up at chitterlings before taking a second helping of baked macaroni. 

Maybe it's time I let her celebrate the right to pick and choose from the rich diversity within our cultural palate. Maybe it's less about the food, than our freedom.

*Mrs. J writes about Pop-culture, politics and playdates at Our Kind of Parenting

a kind of love letter

Amber - 38
Washington, DC
2 children - boys (9) and (6)





April 9, 1995

My dearest sister,

Pregnancy is a power not easily understood, gained or contained. My heart goes out to you for your loss. If you need me I am here, always.

Love,

Leah