The table is set. You have made a big meal for your family, or your friends. The produce is in season. It smells good. You were calm as you cooked. Your kitchen is well lit. You had all the spices you needed. There is no big pile of dishes. The guests arrive. Bowls are filled. The table is set, and there is a seat for you. Bread, nuts, olives, fruits, wine. Whatever you like. You sit. Your company smiles. They tell you, this is amazing, thank you for having us. Your eyes are open, but what do you see. You reach for the bread, but your hand passes right through the loaf, as if it is an illusion. When you grab your fork, and press into something on your plate, all of your senses move away. Like sleep.
I described these feelings to a friend. I told her about the apron I have had since childhood, with Emily Dickinson’s words written across the belly: the soul should always stand ajar. I said to my friend, my soul is double bolted locked. She said, there’s a moat in front of mine. She asked, why can I not receive? I asked, how can I receive?
Unbolt the door. Build a bridge across the moat.
Moriah told me that to be able to receive love or nourishment, you must be relaxed. And that’s hard to do if you are practiced at being barely alive.
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I have one goal, and that’s to sit at the dinner table with my feet firmly planted on the floor.
To be honest, my feet are not on the ground now. And I am ashamed that this is my one goal, when there are so many other things to do. Somehow, this seems important.
I really know how to not be grounded. To not notice even one inhale or exhale throughout the day. I sit at dinner, with my body curled in a twist. Turned to face whoever I am with. Poised to comfort someone. It’s an old habit, I learned it somewhere. This position, this twist, I have practiced it so often that trying something new feels like untying the tightest knot. This is just something my body does. Lock up. Guard my soft belly with my thighs.
It is funny that I’ll spend hours sometimes making a meal, just to eat it in a headspace of pure vacancy. Eyes glazed. Where chewing is less about experiencing taste, and more about not choking.
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I’ve been imagining myself as a child. Her name was Izzy, and she had long blonde braids. She read Emily Dickinson and drew snow leopards and fairies with oil pastels. When she ate, there was always a lump in her throat. I keep imagining what it would feel like to put a hand on her back. I imagine the sensation again and again and again.
I imagine her at the table, too overwhelmed to accept the warm dinner her mother had made. Looking out the window, watching the gradient of time and light. Out to the line of pine triplets, three tall sisters. And more so, she looked out to the sky. Made dark white by winter, thick as smoke. The sky cracked in her dreams, and the sun fell through. Through dinner, as the evening turned to night, the window became a mirror. And she watched her and her family, and all their sad, tired eyes. The chandelier hung low above the circular wooden table. Electric candles that sometimes had to be twisted tighter to actually glow. She twisted her body to the left. She shared a pool of olive oil with her mom, to dip bread. Her mom would cry anytime, any time at all. It was just sadness, but to the girl it was what this life was. Soaking in memories that were not her own. Reflected against every surface. How the bread inherits the oil, how the texture of the dough is luxuriously changed by the fat.
--
I am currently full from a meal that I was not present for. My feet are off the floor. That’s fine, I don’t expect rapid changes. I’m trying to recount my experience of eating. I can’t, I wasn’t there.
On New Year’s Day, Mary told me that my amnesia is an Angel. She keeps me here from one day to the next.
But I want to get a loaf of good bread, and eat it with the people I love. I want to respect their experiences. Even if we are sitting side by side, I want there to be space for my loved ones to focus on the sensation of nourishing themselves. Knees under the table, or even legs folded outside, on the grass. I want to hear them say, this bread is so good! I want my friends to be safe as they eat. Safe and relaxed. I want to kiss my Angel Amnesia on the cheek, and watch her fly away. And then I want to taste the bread.