Surviving the Future

Last weekend ten people (grown ups and  small people) sat around the large table in the kitchen at Peka Peka Hill and shared three whole organic chickens.  Andre the black cat, who is neither restrained nor svelte, was intensely interested. He seemed to be trying his very best to communicate that surviving his future entirely depended on getting his paws on some of that chicken.

Speaking of surviving the future you may have noticed on the home page that our dream is to create a small regenerative farm up here on Peka Peka Hill and to that end we continue to accumulate quite the reading pile. Actually, it’s more like a reading table these days and the below is a photo of just one of the piles on said table.

It begins with listening.

IMG_6612
My father Clive teaching my cousin how to putt.

I became aware of many of the lessons I learned from my father Clive after he died. In many ways, he provided an example of what not to do. As a workaholic surgeon, single figure handicap golfer and for most of my childhood also a more-than-part-time farmer, he’d nailed how to not sleep and how not to rest. How not to have a supportive, loving partnership. How not to eat well.

As I went to sleep one night in July 2014 (six months or so after three miscarriages), I noticed a tremor in my left thumb. I didn’t pay too much attention until I woke around 2am and noticed it was still twitching. Dad died of a particularly grim dementia called Lewy Body Dementia (patients experience the symptoms of both Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s) and it occurred to me in those wee small hours, that a muscle twitch in the thumb or a finger is one of the early signs of Parkinson’s.

I’d previously been conscious (at least to some extent) that I wasn’t particularly well – I was really tired, had little energy and was often irritable. My twitching thumb and memories of Dad made me sit bolt upright in the middle of the night and realise ‘oh shit, I’m actually really unwell’. Of course I didn’t know I had any kind of neurological degenerative disease but from somewhere deep in my body a visceral awareness of a lack of well-being emerged.

Coincidentally, Adam had been researching nutrition and psoriasis for several months and he’d been sharing with me compelling evidence showing that nutrition can play a significant role in healing autoimmune conditions. As I lay there listening to my body, it occurred to me, that maybe Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s are autoimmune diseases? My smartphone and Google confirmed that inflammation plays a causative role in both those diseases and there is increasing evidence for the hypotheses that both these conditions are autoimmune. Another Google search confirmed that people appear to be successfully using nutrition and other lifestyle factors to reverse the symptoms of Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s.

As I lay there wide awake, I became aware of what felt like a message from Dad forming in the shimmering dark space of the room. “Do not follow in my footsteps” it said’ “you can heal yourself with food. Decide now, in this moment, to look after yourself.”

My road to recovery began with paying attention to my body and the wisdom of my elder. I listened when my body said “Oi, listen up kid, everything is not hunky dory in here, we need you to make some changes.” Our bodies are smart. They tell us when things are out of alignment. Recurrent colds, low energy, ongoing digestive troubles, achy joints, erratic menstrual cycles, mood swings. These are signals to ease off the accelerator a bit, even perhaps pull up, turn the engine off for a while and peer under the bonnet.

My healing began with listening and I heard my body telling me that my resources were severely depleted. Figuring out how to remedy that was the next step but there was no doubt in my mind that nourishing my body and mind was critical. However healing also began with learning from Dad and listening to the advice he gave (intuited or imagined) from beyond his grave. His DNA may live in me, but this does not condemn me to his disease. Epigenetics has much to say on this subject, but that’s a story for a future post.

In the meantime, I wholeheartedly encourage you to close your computer or put down your phone. Close your eyes, connect with your breathing and slowly sense into what your body is saying.

 

 

 

Originally posted at tink.nz.

On being a precious snowflake.

Precious Snowflake: a term used sarcastically by my husband’s family to describe a person who takes himself, or herself, too seriously.

This evening, four sets of neighbours are gathering at one house for dinner. We take it in turns to host and tonight the most senior of our hyper-local citizens are wining and dining us. And wine and dine us they will, as they used to own a very successful restaurant. There will be beautiful wine and mouth-wateringly good food. However I need to take my own simple food and sparkling water because I simply can’t ask them to cater for my dietary restrictions. Which to be honest, makes me feel like precious snowflake and part of me wants to make up an excuse and not go.

Years ago I worked at Te Papa (Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa) when it was a project in development on the Wellington waterfront. As a member of the corporate sponsorship team, I was involved in organising a fancy pants dinner for sponsors on the eve of opening. I can still remember how grumpy the chef was and how judgy I was of someone’s wife who sent through a list of things she couldn’t eat. I would have called her a precious snowflake. If only I’d known then what was in store for me.

Two months ago, I ate bread with gluten for the first time in two years, by mistake. The following day, intentionally I tried goat’s milk – cow’s milk is clearly a no – go but I thought I’d try another kind of milk. Within a few hours I began to feel distinctly out of sorts, the following day I had a panic attack, muscular aches & pains and digestive upset followed. I was anxious, not sleeping well, it knocked my menstrual cycle off it’s regular course and two weeks later, when I thought I was safely out the other side, my lower back seized up from all the muscular tension.

I have no doubt that the cause of this autoimmune flare up was gluten and dairy (although it took me a week to figure out there was gluten in the bread) and as wickedly uncomfortable as the experience was, it was useful confirmation. I’d been feeling really good beforehand and the flare up happened at what was usually a hormonally very stable time of the month, so the culprits were obvious. I may well sound like someone who takes themselves too seriously to the eye-rolling waiter at a cafe, but I’m not kidding when I say I can’t have dairy and gluten. My body has been a strict, but very responsive and consistent teacher.

Making paneer, feeling like rubbish (three months after my third miscarriage in six months) March 2014.

Two years ago, on a good day, I could just manage a gentle one kilometre walk. I was sleeping badly, waking up panicky in the early hours of the morning and not going back to sleep. My digestion was dodgy. I remember gingerly walking down the single flight of stairs at home, with one hand braced against the wall, wondering if I’d ever be able to bounce down them again without effort. My thinking was foggy and I couldn’t concentrate.

Today, I regularly sleep through the night. Often I wake around 3am but not with anxiety, and a short practice of breathing sends me back to sleep. I’m pooping everyday. Walking several kilometres a day and practicing yoga. My mind is increasingly clear, my body increasingly energised. My mojo is returning!

In anticipation of writing about my process of healing, last week I asked Adam (my husband) to write a few paragraphs on ‘then and now’. As he handed over his laptop he said “I’m a bit nervous about you reading this as it’s not very flattering … but you did ask?” Yes, I did ask. And no, it’s not very flattering. I read his words and feel very vulnerable. My inner critic cackles with glee and tells me I am indeed the most precious of precious snowflakes.

Two and a half years ago you were exhausted and everything was hard. Any unexpected thing was too much, dropping something, a wrong look or word were enough to tip you into meltdown. You had a hard time concentrating and focusing. You slept badly most nights, you were grumpy, stubborn and unpredictable. Your brain was foggy so processing information and making decisions was hard. Making choices to care for yourself, or allowing others to care for you, were challenging. You didn’t want to admit that you were sick, you desperately just wanted to get on with your life. You stayed awake at night researching what was wrong with you, worried that you were dying. You were seeing doctors every week, sometimes twice a week. You had panic attacks every time something unexpected happened. Days where you felt like ‘Tink’ were rare and it was crushing as they faded. 

There hasn’t been any magical fix, but slowly over the last year you’ve become healthier. You sleep better, are more comfortable in your body and your emotions are more stable. You have taken ownership of your health. You pay attention to the effects rest, food, stress and practice have on your wellbeing. You do more of the things which make you feel good and less of the things which make you feel bad. You have energy reserves and are more resilient when things go wrong. You are able to focus, make decisions and get things done. Maybe best of all you laugh more.

I do indeed laugh more. I attribute so much of my healing to nutrition and to eating food I know is giving my body what it needs, not the food which I know sends it into an inflamed tail spin. Yet learning how to rest, for someone who has been responsible for taking care of others as long as she can remember, has almost been the hardest lesson of all.

Tink
Photoshoot for ElementAll (my clothing label), May 2016, feeling much more bright eyed and bushy tailed and still a work in progress.

Over the last few months, as I’ve shared my story of learning and healing with friends, they have encouraged me to write about it. About my experience of using food, rest, gentle exercise, contemplative practice and the support from family & friends, as medicine. Between the lines of this story is my growing understanding that Western medicine doesn’t have the answers I need.

And so I will continue, although not in this post, to share more of my recipe for healing and the new science which is emerging to validate (for those of us who require validation from the scientific community) the role of lifestyle factors in healing. In the meantime, I will go to dinner with neighbours and try to be a less apologetic precious snowflake. While continuing to be mindful of others and I am also learning to say “this is me, these are my choices and they keep me well.”

 

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Originally posted at tink.nz.

Just a little smackerel…

At the moment, by way of addressing an autoimmune condition, I’m on a very strict diet. Basically meat, vegetables and some fruit. No eggs, no dairy, no gluten, no grains, no alcohol, no spices, no sugar. However I am by nature a foodie and am constantly exploring ways of making a relatively small number of ingredients into something new and delicious.

I posted photos of this pie on my Facebook page recently and had a number of people ask me for the recipe. Smackerel in the title? Well apparently Winnie the Pooh was known to say “You’re just in time for a little smackerel of something.” This pie does very nicely as a little smackerel.


Purple Kumara & Pumpkin Pie (or just pumpkin pie)

Ingredients

Base

2/3 cup of coconut flour

2 tbsp of tapioca flour

1/4 cup of desiccated coconut

1 tbsp of stevia (You can replace this with 6 dates if you prefer or a whole banana – the latter will make the base a little more cake like)

1/4 tsp of salt

1/4 tsp of baking soda

1 tsp of lemon zest (More if you like it really citrus-y)

1/2 cup of softened coconut oil

1 tbsp gelatin (I prefer Great Lakes as it is made from grass fed cattle. You can order through iherb.com)

Filling

400 grams of roasted purple kumara & pumpkin (Any kumara and pumpkin will do, I’ve used purple because it is available at the moment and gives the pie such a wonderful colour, however others will taste just as good.)

1 banana

1/3 cup of softened coconut oil

1/4 teaspoon of sea salt

1 dessertspoon of freshly grated ginger (More or less to taste.)

1 dessertspoon of freshly grated turmeric root (Not essential but lovely if you have it! For both its colour and anti-inflammatory health benefits.)

1 gelatin egg (Add only when all other ingredients are blended.)

Method

Base

Place all the ingredients for the base in a food processor and blend until it forms a dough. This will be more or less wet depending on whether you’ve added a banana. If for some reason it is too dry add another tablespoon or two of melted coconut oil.

Press into a25cm pie dish greased with coconut oil and bake at 170 degrees celsius for 13 minutes, then leave it to cool while you make the filling.

Filling

Put all the ingredients except the gelatin egg in the food processor and blend. If the mixture is too thick, add another squeeze of lemon juice &/or another couple of tablespoons of melted coconut oil. At this point, you make the gelatin egg* and add that as the last ingredient to the filling. Blend again then scoop out and spread evening on top of the cooled pie crust. Place in the freezer for 30 minutes and serve.

Adam (husband) keeps saying it would be delicious with icecream. He’s right. So for those of you eating dairy, go for it – something with cinnamon would be fabulous. For those not eating dairy but some sugar, coconut icecream would be delicious too.

*gelatin egg – 1 tbsp of gelatin whisked in a small bowl with 1tbsp of warm water first then add 2 tbsp of hot water, whisk again and add immediately to the filling)

 

*Thanks to Mickie and Angie at autoimmune-paleo.com for the basis of this recipe which I’ve amended as needed to suit my diet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Originally posted at tink.nz.

Breakfast of Growers

Fresh fig and lemon verbena tea.

A breakfast not so much of champions, but growers. At least we’re learning to grow.

The fig possibly could have been even MORE delicious if I’d left it on the tree for a few more days… But I just. Couldn’t. Wait. I rationalised my decision to pick it on the basis that the birds might get it (although fortunately, touch wood, they’ve shown no sign of getting at this particular tree) or that it might fall of the tree and get smushed. So, in all it’s luscious sweetness, we ate it.

Postscript. Lunch. A single ugly strawberry, foraged by Adam. First one we’ve managed to get before the birds (who are most definitely enjoying the strawberries), he says it tastes like his grandfathers strawberries in California.

Presence, Part 1. Finding presence in Mum’s dementia.

Four months ago, I moved my seventy two year old Mother into dementia care. Moving Diana out of her beloved home and into institutionalised care was challenging to say the least. In spite of liking the place – especially the nurse in charge of the dementia unit and Shadow the chocolate labrador who spends much of each day at reception – there was no way I could be certain I was doing the right thing. And in the weeks and days leading up to the move, I found myself increasingly anxious. This wasn’t helped by well intentioned family members venting at other family members about how I was doing the wrong thing, and saying that I was acting entirely in my self interest.

For the last several years, Mum has had 24/7 day care at home. When I brought her home from Ashburn Clinic, with a diagnosis of short term memory loss caused by alcohol dependance, she couldn’t drive and wasn’t safe to live by herself. Initially, I found her a full-time live in companion who had regular breaks. However as the memory loss edged its way into alcohol induced dementia, the role became too much for one person and two women shared the role, then three, then four, then five. Each of them looking after Mum for a week at a time, on a roster of care I managed.

I’ve been blessed by the women who have taken such good care of Mum, whenever there has been a gap, somehow through word of mouth, I’ve found women who I have liked and women who have grown to love Mum. Which is why I decided to have one of them with us during that first week Mum was in her ‘new home’  – not just to help Mum integrate but for me too. I needed someone I trusted to help make the transition easier.

After considerable thought, I’d decided against explaining to Mum exactly what was happening as it would only have made her highly anxious. And so the carer and I took Mum up on the last day of March, simply telling her that there were a few things we needed to fix around the house and that we were checking her into somewhere like a hotel for a little while. She has always loved staying in hotels. Lovely people, good food, music, a dog and a cat. As we walked through reception and walked down to the dementia unit, she graciously enjoyed a round of introductions. We settled into her room and I made my way back to the office, to tackle the predictable pile of paper work.

In all honesty, getting her there was all I could manage that day. As confident as I felt about the place – I’d spoken with people who had family in residence and heard them speak highly of the facility and its staff – it was still heartbreaking. So I retreated back to the family home for cups of tea and dark chocolate and hugs from Adam.

As the day went by, there was no word from the carer and I became increasingly apprehensive, although I didn’t want to presume the worst.  However she eventually reappeared after dinner and I went out to greet her in the driveway – only to  be met with tears and ‘I can’t talk to you right now’. She calmed down a little after eating (apparently the food there was so bad she couldn’t eat) but then went on to tell me what a dreadful place the dementia unit was and how I’d made the wrong decision. No-one had checked in on them during the day. Everyone was more demented. Mum was not safe.

I curled up in bed that night wondering what on earth I’d done. Wracking my brain, I tried to figure out how I could have got it so wrong and seriously contemplated the very real possibility that I would need to bring her home and start from scratch.

Wide awake in the dark quiet of the very early morning, more than anything I wanted not to be the only one who could make this decision. The feeling was so utterly visceral I wanted to leave my body and run away from the lone responsibility. At the same time, in equal measure, I wanted to have someone, a parent I guess, tuck me in under the blankets and say ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do this. I’ll make this decision.’ But I couldn’t. And there wasn’t. There was only me.

There was only me.

And in that moment of realising the only person who could do this was me, the only person who could keep me safe in the middle of this feeling of all consuming lack of safety was me, the only way through this was to be right in the middle of it, in the here and now without reflecting on the past or frantically thinking through a hundred different future scenarios, I found presence.

Or maybe it found me. It was still and silent, expansive and timeless.

I wish I could say this sensation of being utterly in the present stayed with me, but its nature seems inherently elusive.  I definitely a have better idea of how to find it and somedays, I find myself passing through it unexpectedly or it gently creeps up on me. And while my intention is to deepen those practices that cultivate presence, at the moment, I find both peace and comfort in simply knowing it exists.

Next up…Presence, Part 2. How Mum found presence in her own dementia.

Originally posted at tink.nz.

I need good stories.

Recently, I’ve had a number of thought provoking conversations about news,  the state of the world, you know, THAT stuff. At the same time as becoming more aware of the effect food has on my being, I’ve been increasingly aware of the way in which I’m affected by other things I ‘feed’ myself. Food is energy, information is energy.

I feel the tension of wanting to be informed but not, for want of a better word, depressed – in a shoulders drooping a little kind of way. I’m selective in my news sources (The Guardian, Al Jazeera, Slate, Scoop etc), no longer tuning in to websites like Stuff. As in the same way I can feel caffeine stimulate a very subtle sense of agitation, skim reading a page full of words like ‘road toll rises-assault-arson-ISIS-Ebola’ (as today’s Stuff homepage reads) also stimulates a response which doesn’t feel healthy.

Be joyful knowing the facts. One of my favourite pieces of advice from Paul Hawken (environmentalist, entrepreneur and author), quoting Wendell Berry. Someone asked him, at the end of a talk, about his response to seeing so much destruction in the world (I’m paraphrasing) and he responded by explaining that his approach is to let go of hope – because hope is the flip side of fear. We hope that something will happen, we fear that it won’t, both of these are based in the future, not grounded in the present. Instead, he says, be joyful knowing the facts. We need to know what the problems are in order to address them, but let’s try and remain full of joy.

My question for myself is how do I be joyful knowing the facts? How do I stay informed but not feel, on some level, ill at ease? Good stories. I think I need more good stories. Stories of joy and beauty to balance the dark ones. What helps me do my work, and be of service, is knowing that I connect into a global luminous spiderweb of people working joyfully to make the world a kinder, healthier, more harmonious place. And so, because I’m guessing I’m not the only one  in need of these stories, I’ve decided to give myself a little project. For one week, I’ll post one (or maybe two or three) good stories here every day, I’ll keep them as short as I can. At the end of the week, I’ll check in to see how I feel and how you feel and maybe we’ll keep going.

So, without further ado. Good Stories. Both are less than five minutes. EnJoy.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mo-kvh1w60w&w=560&h=315]

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ysa5OBhXz-Q&w=560&h=315]

Originally posted at tink.nz.

A tale of Sugar Monster and its companion Anxiety.

doughnuts

Once upon a time there was a Sugar Monster that lived inside of a human called Tink. They co-existed quite happily, with Tink feeding her monster mostly with organic dark chocolate and gluten free bread but occasionally on deliciousness such as jam doughnuts. And then one day, something happened and the sky darkened ominously in the world of the Sugar Monster…

And so it would seem that having three miscarriages in six months was a little more than my body could tolerate and I’ve spent the last several months recovering from an uncomfortable but enlightening flare up of an autoimmune condition.

In all honesty, I wasn’t aware that I was that unwell to begin with.  My energy levels were very low but I’d got use to that in the course of experiencing three early pregnancies and miscarrying. I’ve never been a good sleeper, so waking during the night and feeling groggy in the morning was nothing new.  An awareness that my health has been much less than optimal really began with a commitment to heal parts of my story and with a new diet.

Anxiety is part of my story. It runs in the family – I can see its jagged grey edge weaving fearfully through generations. But it’s one of those things that’s so normal in the family, most of the time we just don’t see it. Always anticipating the worst and living in a a very subtle world of WhatIfs, is just part of our family culture.

To be honest, I thought I’d avoided drawing the anxiety short straw. I’d grown up with a mother who self medicated anxiety with wine and tranquilisers and I certainly wasn’t THAT anxious, in fact I’ve often had people remark on how serene and grounded I am in times of crisis. But in advance of possibly trying again to have a baby, I became very clear that anxiety is a family tendency and I was prepared to do whatever I could to not carry that through to another generation. And so in August I set a very clear intention to take forty two days – a day for every year of my life – to heal.

I have a deep interest in good, in all senses of the word, food. I’ve worked for Urban Harvest, an excellent little online farmers’ market, I’m immersing myself in permaculture and we’re growing as much food as we can here at Peka Peka. Lately I’ve been reading a little about epigenetics (basically how our “ancestors’ lousy childhoods or excellent adventures might change our personality, bequeathing anxiety or resilience by altering the epigenetic expressions of genes in the brain) and nutrition (nutrients can reverse or change epigenetic phenomena) which I find fascinating. And for the past year my partner Adam and I had been talking about doing the Autoimmune Paleo diet as a way of healing his psoriasis.

For those of you who haven’t encountered the Paleo diet, the basis of  it is that for most of our evolution as a species we’ve made energy from fat, not sugar. With the advent of agriculture we began to get our energy from grains which convert into sugar and in general, sugar causes inflammation and consequently, very often, disease. At their core, autoimmune diseases are caused by systemic inflammation that leads your body to attack itself.

The Autoimmune Paleo diet (AIP)  is an elimination diet. Initially you cut out all grains, dairy, sugar, nuts & seeds and eggs (and nightshades, as they can be a trigger for some people) until your symptoms disappear, then you gradually reintroduce particular foods and see how your body responds. Adam’s psoriasis all but disappeared in a week. A week. Having had doctors tell him for twelve years that there was very little, apart from steroid cream, he could do about the condition, changing his diet had it nearly gone in just a few days. He has learned that chilli seems to be the main trigger. He also suffers from some arthritis in his hands and feet, and he’s learned that red wine and mandarins trigger that.

My healing has not been quite so straight forward. About a week into the diet, I felt amazing. AMAZING. I went for the best run I’ve ever had. Then the Sugar Monster began to starve and scream and I unwittingly replaced my usual daily dose of sugar (a few squares of dark chocolate, a teaspoon of honey in tea, occasional baking) with delectable AIP treats made with dried fruit and coconut butter. But it turns out that all kinds of sugar – even the good ones, at the moment, even high fructose fruit – make for an unwell Tink. Indigestion, congestion, fogginess, agitation, inflammation galore. And anxiety.

For two weeks or so, almost every night, I’d wake in the early hours of the morning bordering on panic. I’d focus on a particular symptom – indigestion, congestion, headache and convince myself that I was going to die. I kid you not. Either of some terminal disease or, when the congestion was bad and I couldn’t breathe easily or my heart was beating loud and fast, I would tell myself I had to stay awake because if I went to sleep I would stop breathing.

It was exhausting, at times almost paralysing, but it passed. I began to sleep better, my digestion improved and I’ve been struck by how much clearer my thinking is and better my ability to focus is. I’ve grown increasingly aware of how much sugar (in any form) I can have. And as my wellbeing improves, day by day, I’m aware of how lacking in true wellness I was before I embarked on this journey. I may not have been dysfunctionally anxious, but it was there – it had been there all my life, fear hidden amongst a family culture of anxiety and coped in part because as a child of an addict I have very well developed coping mechanisms and a high level of resilience. It is only now, in the absence of anxiety, underlying stress and with increasing levels of energy that I’m beginning to experience what feels like to be well, not just free of disease.

leafy greensAt the moment, I’m still on a strict diet, dense in nutrients. Loads of greens and bone broth. Which is not to say I’m not still sorely tempted to have a jam doughnut and a good flat white. Although a lot less than I was a few weeks ago after I woke from a very vivid dream about inhaling a block of Whittaker’s chocolate and then in real life cheated on my diet with a disappointing average flat white and half a cupcake. But boy oh boy did my body let me know it was unhappy. I had an agitated inflamed sleep (or lack thereof) and woke feeling an unpleasant mix of jetleg, hangover and head cold. So, for the meantime, it’s greens instead of doughnuts, I’ve sent my sugar monster packing and it would seem that it has taken anxiety with it.

This is not, of course, the whole story. This healing has not just been about removing foods that cause inflammation and trigger symptoms but adding nutrient dense food, in order to give my body what it needs to heal. That in itself is a whole other blogpost, and I’ve gone on quite long enough except to say that community is the other element in this story of healing. I’ve been incredibly fortunate in that Adam has temporarily pivoted from developing his coaching work and gone back to the film industry for a few months, in large part to give me time and space to heal. Our housemate Lissa has been come along on this ride of broth & greens with us and has been a constant presence of support. And finally, I’ve had the privilege of working with, at different times, a team of practitioners who I’ve not only been supported by but have learned a great deal from. They say it takes a village to raise a child, I’m beginning to understand that it takes a community to heal.

As this story comes to an end, I imagine my Sugar Monster sitting on a hill  looking defeated and feeling weak. Anxiety sits alongside, alert & aware, sniffing the air for any hint of a doughnut. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Originally posted at tink.nz.