DAILY A Doctor has described our bulbous, calorie-laden consumption of lemon creams, toffee butternuts, and chocolaty devil mousse’s as ‘gut bombs.’ Those nirvana, heat seeking missives of cholesterol and wide waists that call to us like the Sirens do more than make us hefty, they render us unconscious. When I have polished off a pot pie, or deep fried bits, along with the ice cream that goes with, I can lay insensate for hours, oblivious to the day’s requirements. Not only sugar but white, crusty bread, begging its butter slathering, or pastry logs of sugary fruit commence days of high despair, disappointment, and oblivion.
Surrendering long ago to the cheap, low-life grabby fingers of sugar addiction, I have been yanking myself around it ever since, and therefore am very taken with the term ‘gut bomb’ for a number of reasons.
1. It’s silly sounding, and very onomatopoetic, that is, a word that sounds like its referent, as in buzz, cookoo, or crack. Gut Bomb is creatively visual, therefore hard to ignore, whereas saturated fats, caloric intake, BMI index, blah blah blah do nothing but drive me toward the ‘fridge and guilt.
2. Gut Bomb implies the destruction is more than just from food. The expected explosion feels visceral, connected to heart and mind, the gut being only the first tank to blow in the assault.
3. The vividness demands I ask, “Why am I craving a gut bomb? What is the unmet need that is assuaged by this mound, this bomb of sugar, Crisco, butter, and salt? Or perhaps it is drugs, sex, rock ‘n roll, gambling, drink…even perfectionism. Why am I asking to go ‘out’ at this time? What is the alarm bell that needs bombing in order for me to feel safe and placated? If the dark henchman of unconscious fear/ need/ chaos is knocking on my door, why can’t I simply ask, “Who’s here/Why now? Who begs my undivided, healing attention? How can I nurture you if I cannot understand, or see you with compassion and clarity?”
Oh, hell. Big OINK. Tiny-teensy steps forward, with much mucking around the siren’s song concealing old rocky shoals, and tidal waves of illegitimate emotion. Illegitimate only because they will not be recognized and owned by me, their parent, the very one who needs to love and accept that which is so un-acceptable. I know as I extend the olive branch of pax, claiming them my own true, honorable children that my gut bombs will become more like fireworks, making room to celebrate a coming home of true self.
Asana: In times of great need, fight fire with fire. If you are disappointed and depressed then choose the pose(s) that bring you the greatest joy. It matters not how difficult or easy they are. Let the mat assuage your stuckness. It can be your flying carpet offering the olive branch, the way home, and in.
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