Archive for February, 2015

Living Bread

I never realized how green a pea was.  Or how good it tasted simply mixed with salt and oil. I always knew quinoa was quirky, but never so much now as I stared into a bowl of it, noting all of the little germ rings daintily sitting upon each grain like a tiny lasso.  Never has coconut oil been so buttery, or salt so clean.  Why?  Because some of these things are the only foods I’ve eaten for the last few weeks as I allowed my body – and my mind – to slowly heal.
For the last seven years or so I’ve been on a quest for happiness in limited variety.  I’ve been here to prove to myself that there is more out there than what my culture has to offer, what the freezer section beckons me to buy and what my body says I can’t have.  I’ve been convinced that there is hope out there, hope eternal and external that this foodie could be consoled by as she forever said goodbye to bread, and yeast, and sugar.  Now, I don’t know if forever existed at all.

Food allergies, intolerances, sensitivities, and fear went away yesterday as I took in every part of the tasting experience during my own sacred and spiritual moment yesterday.  It was the moment.  That moment.

I. Ate. Bread.

I slowly felt every part of the object in my hands.  The soft inside, the crusty outside.  I brought it to my nose and breathed in,  deeply and consciously.  I asked the bread – and myself – permission.  I asked if I could trust.  I asked if it was safe.

Safety.  What a word.  It didn’t save me from the pain and heartbreak.  It didn’t shield me from the lies.  What it did was put up a wall, a net.  One I would keep up for seven or so years.

I broke off a piece of the white flesh and took a bite.  No chewing.  No swallowing.  Just a bite.  In me welled every emotion possible.  And then peace.  Peace. Quite a concept.  I had been waiting for peace.

I swallowed peace. I accepted peace.  I allowed it to slowly travel to my stomach, and I allowed the love to travel to my heart.  From my heart, I opened up a door to my lips.  And smiled.  From my lips to my brain, and from my brain to my mind.

Sometimes the connection between pain and family is so strong that we separate the very elements of our personal joy to cope.  We take food – so strongly connected to love and sex and identity – escape into it literally for dear life, life we are desperately holding onto, and hoard it deeply within ourselves.  We cope through intense fear and shame and all of the Why’s in our world until coping becomes a mechanism of it’s own.  We are not afraid of being fat.  Or lazy.  Or addicted.  Or a glutton.  We are afraid to live a life beyond the scared words of another person.  We are afraid to prove it wrong, and to be proved wrong because it hurts. so. damn. bad.

Bread.  Bread is life. Bread is the heartbeat.  Bread is blood. Bread is living.  For seven (or so) year I haven’t been living.  I have been afraid of life.  Afraid of bread.

I feel the crumbs scatter around my feet, falling down my legs to the floor.  I hear the drip drip of my watering mouth with closed eyes as I use this piece of life to pacify such deep hurt.  Hurt that is coming out.  Hurt that can no longer hurt me.

I take in a breath. It is time to trust again.  Mine is the only voice that is truly left.


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