Feeding oneself

Posted on Feb 14, 2015 in Blog
I’m going through the submissions to the Big Truths anthology and my heart is breaking, bit by bit. How lovely all of these stories are, and also how sad. How hungry they make me. They’re all about food and they’re also, every one of them, not about food at all so much as they are about love and sadness and sex and hurt and fear and longing and grief, so much grief, so much memory in the way that a wafer can taste when it dissolves on your tongue.

I feel humbled and so lucky to read them.

All of this reading about food has made me think about recipes–the food kind, yes, but also the mental kind, the things that you cobble together when you want to build a life. What do you carry with you? What do you hold close and then eventually let go? What mixes with this and that to make you who you are?

I joined a gym earlier in January. I’m not terribly out of shape but there is a certain pair of favourite pants that somehow, over the course of the past year, stopped fitting. I would like to wear them again. I would like to run regularly again and feel better, have more energy, be able to do more. Fit into my favourite summer dresses. Look into the mirror and think, maybe, maybe, maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe you can build a life for yourself, with your running and your writing and your trips and your music and your pictures and it will all be okay. Books or not. Writing or not. Maybe this is a recipe, too, for how to be.

I’m up north for three days as of tomorrow. Lots of snowshoeing over a frozen lake and drinking tea and watching the wind blow through the trees. There may or may not also be guacamole involved. And dogs. There will be dogs.

(To cuddle with, obviously. One can be fed in all manner of ways.)

Sometimes the urge to say something and the simultaneous inability to find anything to say is so strong I almost can’t stand it. I want…I don’t know.

I want, I guess. I want to be fed.

Maybe that’s all it is.