Many of my years on this planet have been blessed with what I can only inadequately describe as Grace… Within that Grace there has also been tremendous struggles, taking place on many different stages. Of the countless Shakespearean dramas I have lived out, one that took center stage for many years was/is a struggle with compulsive overeating. There is so much I could say about this, and I suspect that at some point I will write more about it, but for now, here’s one story from that time.
(Sometime around 2005)
“Moon Pie!”
A huge woman, beet red and trembling with rage, smashes the glass wall of Aarons story-telling atmosphere by yelling these alarming words. Forty shocked heads snap to her position in the room, frozen in anticipation as to the meaning of this outburst.
I’m at an Overeaters Anonymous meeting. It’s a big meeting, a speaker meeting. The largest one I’ve ever been to. I’m a bit nervous because i’ve not been to a meeting in awhile, but i’m there because my friend, Aaron is speaking. He invited me to come support him, and I don’t want to miss this opportunity to see his brilliance in action.
Aaron is a gentle soul, soft-spoken and impeccably polite. When he speaks, he hesitates a lot and makes subtle gestures with his hands, as if conducting a tiny orchestra. Kindness plumes from his timidity, and an unrelenting gaze fixes his listeners in palpable acceptance. There is a reverence in the air when he talks. When I listen to him, it’s like watching clouds; it’s not always exciting, but there’s never a time when it’s not profoundly beautiful.
The woman is standing in the corner of the room like a caged animal. Her arms are crossed, face on fire, leaning against the door frame as if struggling whether to enter or exit the room. The general feeling about her is like a powder keg that's waiting for the smallest spark to achieve detonation.
She screams again, taking a step into the room. Holding out her palm and smashing it with her other fist, she emphasizes each word individually,
“Moon… Pie...!”
She is trembling and shaking all over, a giant geyser of emotion readying itself to explode at any moment. She’s glaring at us, her outstretched jaw demanding an explaination for not immediately understanding her.
Suddenly, something is happening in me... Something is climbing it’s way out of the pit of my belly, up a giant pancake pile of swallowed feelings, into the bulging grief now being clenched in my throat. A teeming tidal-wave of countless self-anhiliations is now surging uncontrollably against a lifetime of invulnerability; and i can’t stop it. A voice is screaming inside my mind the final denial of this reality, “Noooooooo!"
Just then, the woman in the doorway explodes into a firehose of screaming words and tears about how painful her life is and how she doesn’t want to be at this god-damed meeting; she just wants to go home, crawl back into her kitchen of pain, and eat fuck'n Moon Pies!
When the thunderclap of her words cracks through the room, a lightning bolt of Grace shatters my heart into a thousand pieces. I am immediately sobbing in my chair from the sheer honesty of her confession. Crying like a baby fresh out of the womb, I am somehow released into the embrace of my own self-remembering. A compassionate outpouring washing away all my fears and doubts, magically melting back together all the fragmented parts of my painful world.
In between hailing curses and swells of shame I am pierced by the most truthful words I think I have ever heard. My heart is burst open by a completely wild and untamed authenticity. It’s real, raw, and unapologetic. She’s not asking for any sympathy or sugar-coating her truth to protect sensitive ears. She’s screaming her pain to the only room of people that might possibly be able to understand her struggle.
And we do. I do. I understand, and I am falling down over and over again in the compassion of this profound understanding. Waves of my own grief are pouring non-stop into a portal of Hope now emerging in the center of the room, in the center of me. In that understanding of her pain, while my body undulates to the rhythm of unrestricted healing, I am reminded of a sad and mind-blowing truth; that our suffering is one of the ways that God reminds us we are all connected.
I don’t remember much of anything she said. It’s not
what she said that mattered. It’s that every word she spoke seemed to bind us together like soldiers that have been side-by-side in a battle. Every word she screamed knitting us into a single rope of understanding.
No one dared speak when she was yelling, and when she finishes we, again, do not tread on the sanctity of the silence that follows.
No one, except for Aaron…
Aaron’s head slowly lifts from it’s bowed position; God's breath gathering itself in his thoughts. Somehow the collective intelligence of the room is also gathering. Heads are now naturally turning to look toward Aaron. He seems to be levitating in the rising tide of anticipation, effortlessly buoyant in a sea of expectation. Our eyes are wide and childlike, hoping to find sanctuary in his docile wisdom.
In the quiet after the storm, it is Aaron that breaks the silence. The intensity of her pain is a built-in cue, a beckoning that draws from him the most supreme tenderness. He speaks gently to her, but with an in-gathered strength, “…Thank you…for your share…”
Aaron's sword of respect is now unsheathed and reaching across the room to touch her gently on both shoulders. He’s not trying to calm her down. He’s not pathologizing or patronizing her. He’s not analizing her or making any meaning. He’s extending across a lifetime of pain and suffering to do what he does best; acknowledge that which is most sacred and beautiful in her.
His words are simple, yet they swaddle her in a blanket of humility and tenderness. He takes this blanket off his own back to smother the fire that was just raging inside her. He’s selfless in his giving. It’s how he’s built, and it’s the way he sees the world. His words are the hands of a sculptor that soften her sharp edges. Even though her arms are crossed and she’s still not sitting in the room, I know his compassion has reached her. And for many of us who go to these meetings, sometimes compassion is the only thing that makes a difference.
My own tears have found their resolution. Soft receptivity has reestablished its rightful place in my bones. I am restored to a level of ease I wasn’t even aware i’d abandoned, and a steady stream of gratitude now emanates from my heart.
At the end of the meeting, as the crowd of people begin to thin around Aaron, i approach him to pay my respects. Seeing the look on my face, his humility beats me to the punch. Speaking in his classically melodramatic voice, and with mock importance, he jokes, “Have you heard the one about the Rabbi, the Priest, and the Yogi...?”
He cracks a wry smile as we beam appreciation to each other through years of friendship. He won’t let me thank him, I suspect, because he feels like he’s just doing what anyone would have done. He doesn't' feel that he deserves any praise. Of course, because of this, i respect him that much more.
I have found over the years that the true saints are the people who don’t take any credit for their magnificence. They shine as brightly as the sun and do not ask for anything in return. Aaron is like this; a man for whom kindness is an automatic orientation, and Grace a regular visitor.
I never saw that woman again but I have thanked her many times in my heart for her courage and authenticity. I have also never been back to an Overeaters Anonymous meeting since that day. There’s no logical reason for this and I can't explain it, but i suppose it also has something to do with Grace...
Sometime after that Aaron and I are walking down the street talking about how cool and intense the meeting was. He’s talking for a bit when he suddenly notices that I don’t seem as present as i’ve previoulsly been in our conversation. Being incredibly attuned as he is, he breaks from what he’s saying to ask me (in, of course, the most sincere way), “What are you thinking about?"
Smiling, and a bit embarrassed because i’m not sure yet what category of naive I'm in, I covertly whisper to him, “Dude, what’s a Moon Pie?"
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