Brick by brick, we lay the foundation and walls of a Food Lovolution Fortress, with every reach inside ourselves, and every reach out to one another.
The root of the word "food" is "foda"; to tend, keep, pasture, to protect, to guard, to feed.
For awhile, I will dedicate each new blog as a tribute to 1 "midwife" or "doula" in my life, who helps feed this newborn blog-vision: the dynamic relationship that lives among all things that nourish us: what we put in our mouth to eat, how we "relate" to the food we put in our mouth, how we relate the food in our mouth to everything else that nourishes us, and if we let the whole Magical Manna Mystery turn us on, and light us up.
So, to each of you, one at a time, here goes.
She's the daughter that would have lasted 1 day in my childhood home, before learning to "shut up"
I, however, am the modern self-helped mother, who will twist myself into a pretzel to avoid telling my sassy, saucy, brassy, bratty daughter to "shut up", even when it would be the absolute MOST authentic self-loving thing I could do.
These occasions arise when the ensnarement of her long morning bedhead dreads, beckoning to be groomed, mix with my general mom-fatigue.
She meets the "torturous" grooming with coyote howls - 7:30am - directed toward the ceiling/our neighbor's floor: housing a woman writing her dissertation, who goes to sleep at about, oh, 3am.
How child protective services have not come to our door, I do not know.
Out of sheer revenge for the sleep deprivation experiment we have implemented in our upstairs neighbor's life, I wouldn't fault her for making the phone call.
Most times my son stands dumbfounded at the force of the "girl voice", so virulent so early in the morning.
My husband hides.
I, being the modern self-helped mother, in my head run through the chapter headings of every "raising children with self-esteem" book I'd read, tear them out (in my head) peruse them quickly (in my head), try out the bullet points (with my mouth), and viscerally yearn to yank my daughters hairs from their follicles.
The result?
My daughter knows I'm faking the 'chilled out mom' act, gets even angrier, and her screams escalate, vibrating eardrums and traumatizing the whole family's nervous system.
Darnit.
How is this a tribute you ask? And to who?
No, it's not a tribute to my daughters' lungs, nor my neighbor's extreme benevolence.
It is not a tribute to the beautiful Torok male inertia.
It is a tribute to my dear friend Jenny Proctor: mother of 3 happy, creative, very cool adults who not only still like being around her, but consider being with their mom a really fun AND enriching experience.
I want that when my kids are grown.
Thank God I met Jenny P when my daughter was young.
She has most certainly saved my family hefty mental-health bills.
So, the nourishment came when I felt frazzled, fraudulent, frail and completely fed up as a mom.
With tears and snot I call Jenny P: "I'm such a nutcase. I can't even comb my daughters' hair. I'm fantasizing cutting it off in her sleep, right after I eat a pint of ice cream"
Jenny P: (laughing) "Oh sweetie, I remember when my daughters were little.....".(she proceeds to tell a story that makes my house look like the Waltons.) "....and you know what? You get through it, and all you need to focus on is TAKING CARE OF YOURSELF. I remember another time......" (another story that makes me realize I'm not a real danger to my children) "....and you just have to focus on TAKING CARE OF YOURSELF"
Within minutes, the tears of self-absorbed, super-mom isolation are streams of pure delight, laughing hysterically at our shared "hysteria": just women striving with heart and soul to live in fullness.
Finally, a pause: a catching of the breath....
and Jenny P says, "Are you perfect? Noooo. Do you want to be perfect? Nooo."
And I get this nourishment thing on deeper level.
There can be no Pleasure or Satisfaction from our nourishment without Hunger.
And, to live without Hunger is too fail to thrive.
And, to fail to thrive is to deceive ourselves of the need to hold our own hand.
If I couldn't go out on one limb after another, trying to "do it myself" and then realize I couldn't, and then reach out to a friend with tears and vulnerability to say "I can't do it myself"....
if I couldn't do this over and over....
...AND
I couldn't do this over and over without my loved ones...
Then I wouldn't have the strength to feed myself, to feed my children, to wraps my she-bear arms around them.
The nourishment is the Striving and it is the Hunger.
The Pleasure is the Passion for gaining Satisfaction.
That day, I did not need to chew my anger down with food, and sooth my heartbreak of "imperfection" with creamy sweetness in a pint.
I laughed and loved another exquisite wise woman I have been blessed to know,
and I was fed.
The next day was a different story.
But the next day is for another day.
One more brick had been laid.
