onsra
“always asking questions but you slept. ”
Dear Anias,
You will not judge me. I know this much is true.
I have terrible habits concerning food. What are they- you ask?
Well, let me give you a tidy list.
Let me preface this with one point: I am only this careless with myself. I am more careful and considerate when dining amongst friends. With community, I lavish the time spent preparing, eating, and digesting a meal. Sundays with Pascal were my favorite day of the week. We'd sip our coffees slowly and read as the sky lightened. These days were mostly dull and rainy. Wet and cold. It was utterly perfect. We'd go to the farmers market midday to pick up fresh vegetables, bread, and something to snack on. I liked the flakey croissants from the bakery. He liked the Jamaican patties from the food truck. He'd put on music when we got home and we'd clear the kitchen and unpack our parcels.
Do you ever have the sensation of not understanding anything, Anias? I have moved through so many lives without comprehending my place within them. I did not know myself, so how could I come into a conscious connection with another?
I have to greet the source within me before I see it alive outside of me. What is the source of that light? Is this why I preferred the drey days in Vancouver because it nulled the senses and dimmed my outer world? I could recollect myself in the pages of books from where I lay on the floor with whatever poems and purchased musings I'd desired that day.
It's easier to focus on what other people have said than concoct my own definition. I know I should take a break from reading. It's not that it isn't a good use of my time; it's that I use it as a source to gain knowledge, which is not where I need to focus.
I read to avoid what I feel.
The swamp of sadness pulled the white horse down, and my soul is like that steed! Light, loving, trusting, willful, strong, and yet delicate. Treat me lightly, Stephanie.
I understand how my need to control has suppressed the creative element of my person, the desire to know instead of sitting in the discovery process.
I am in that dark, uncertain phase right now and I am ready to confront it!
If I were the stallion stuck in the muck, I would not move. I would let myself be swallowed, too. It is part of the learning. It needs to happen for the lotus to surface.
My flower has a tight little bud. It is silent and completative. It will not burst open quite yet. I can research, read, examine, analyze, compare, and critique the flora. However, until I become that bud, I will never truly know its essence!
What is it to understand versus accept?
Is understanding my method to define and control?
Acceptance is embodiment; if I accept the fact that I read to withdraw my own sensory experience, what comes next?
I write!
Pascal and I would spend all afternoon cooking Paella. We took turns selecting the flavor from a book he'd purchased. Seafood, chorizo, squid ink, saffron. I had no favorite; they were each so delicious.
My job as the sous chef was to peel the garlic. Mince it well. Chop the veggies. Debone the squid. Pascal sometimes did that. He took care of the barbeque outside. We would have shishitos with a cocktail at midday. The peppers were doused with a mixed seasoning, including a lot of paprika, the spice I love best. Pascal knew. Sometimes we'd have lime margaritas. Other times, wine. Usually a Portuguese or Argentinian red.
I am lazy with cooking. I would rather eat something cold than prepare something warm for myself, even though it feels better in my body. Even though I crave the warmth within. Even though I feel more grounded, especially after something as simple and light as a hot cup of tea!
I do not sit down and focus on the food before me.
Clara makes the best warm salads. She also makes a great brunch. When I lived in Vancouver, Fridays were always breakfast at Clara's with two cups of coffee in front of the window where we could watch the hummingbirds. The menu varied from frittata to poached eggs and veggie hash. Always served with warm sourdough bread. Always followed up with a light philosophical debate over whatever current ethical inquiry. We'd go to a Lagree class at eleven fifteen, usually taught by Mikaela, and have salted chocolate chip cookies for a snack on her red rug with herbal tea. Or we'd go to Coco and Olive for a slice of cake and a wee espresso.
I miss my Fridays at Clara's.
Before we became what we are today, I'd attend her Tuesday morning vinyasa class at One Yoga, and we'd go for coffee and a bite beforehand at Nemesis cafe down the block. Sometimes Clara would order the purple tea if she didn't want caffeine. She'd order a breakfast meal, and I'd get a pastry. I hate doing yoga on a full stomach.
Before we were what we are now, we would discuss the same things. Books, poets, philosophers, love, resistence, war, lust, rejection, heartache. The human stuff that gives life meaning.
What else is there to do, Anias, but to live and learn to write about it?
I will purchase a candle to light when I sit here, at this long wooden table, to eat my meals alone.
I must get acquainted with this solitude during mealtimes. I cannot lament the past, the poor performance of dining hours during my childhood. Or stargaze upon the bright moments with those I loved when nourishment was attended through food and fruitful conversation.
As a child, mealtimes were rushed or fraught with tension. The only time I remember sitting with my mother and father was Sundays. And there was always an argument. Not a debate; a full-on frenzy of indelicate words and gestures. Chairs scrape the floor and voices bellow from long hallways. My sister, Amanda, and I were left at the table.
Finish your food.
And if I couldn't, the plate was replaced in front of me for breakfast the next day. And lunch. And dinner again. Until it was gone.
Amanda usually helped me. I remember sliding plates of pasta across the table to her end, and when she missed, and the dish spilled onto the floor, my mother made us kneel like dogs and eat from the plate on the ground.
My mother does not remember these moments.
I do. I feel the cold on my hands and knees and my eyes are burning with tears as I look at the cold tortellini. I don't want it. I put the pieces in my mouth and chew and chew and chew. I swallow. I repeat the motion until the food is gone and then I go to the bathroom and kneel again and feel the burn in my eyes and at the back of my throat.
I puke every piece up and when I'm done, I wash my face and mouth and hands like my mother taught me.
I leave the washroom as if nothing happened. And no one asked the question. What were you doing in there?
No one ever asked.
I did this for years. Until I was a teenager and someone used the word bulimic.
I know now that this is not the definition of bulimia. I know now that this event lacks a proper description. It does not have an exact root cause, and the way to address it is not as easy as saying, 'she has an eating disorder.'
So, Anias, my relationship with food is a bit complex. As things are in life. And I know you will not judge me. So I will share this story with you. I ask that you do not give it a name; I don't want to be labeled or analyzed. Criticism does not interest me.
Please, just listen. And I will tell you this story.
Photo source.
