Before I go to bed at night, I read from a book called A Year With Rumi, by Coleman Barks. The introduction to this book is incredible. It’s called “The Love Religion, Wild Soulbooks, and What Is.” In it, there’s a beautiful little three-line poem by Galway Kinnell called Prayer. When I first read it, it just soaked into me. Here it is:

Whatever happens. Whatever
What is is is what
I want. Only that. But that.

There’s a falling in love with the present moment, with what actually is, with all the wild twists and turns that life takes sometimes. So many days plod along, same-old, same-old. And then something will happen and everything changes.

Then you assimilate, adapt, the days plod along, and then something else happens. There’s a synchrony between creating it, watching it, and experiencing it. And somehow along the way I have mostly avoided fighting it. 

The deeper I’ve thought about meaning, the more I’ve come to believe that at the very least, the value of a life—my life, your life—is in getting to live. The experience of life itself, for its own sake. 

It’s such a privilege to experience life! I remember learning in fifth grade health class that sperm are so numerous, that the odds the sperm that was going to be you would reach that egg, and the odds that that particular egg would drop and be there—that those two met and conceived—is so radically improbable. You have better odds with the powerball lottery.

Bright Line Eating allows people to do work that frees us up to get to a place where we can hear a poem like Galway’s and go, yes. Out of all the possibilities of what could be happening in my life, this is what I choose. Not because it’s the greatest I can imagine, but because it carries with it the brilliance of what is true. That richness is gobsmacking.

There are many moments on my Bright Line Eating journey that I cherish. One that I don’t talk about often is when I was working on the proposal for the first book, Bright Line Eating, and was uncertain about whether to share my history of prostitution. I knew I’d share my drug addiction because that had a clear link to food addiction—but not the prostitution.

I had a moment of clarity, though, when I realized if I didn’t share this part of my history, someone else would. What I saw as a flaw needed to be shared as a feature. It was an empowering choice. 

I’ve processed everything I’ve lived through. I have no traumatic samskara, which is a Sanskrit word that means residue. Sticky, gummy residue. I cleaned it up. Being Bright allows me to do that. I put it all in its place: food, drugs, cigarettes, alcohol. All of it.

What’s left when you work through all that samskara is freedom—freedom, and what is. 

I have no fear of death. I’m excited to die. It’s going to be so much better on the other side. But I love my life and want to live till I’m over 100. One day I was considering the perspective of a friend who doesn’t believe in an afterlife. What if this life is all there is? Suddenly, every breath was even more precious, because I do love this life. All of it. It’s so amazing. Whatever happens. Whatever what is, is—is what I want. Only that. But that.