Reason Breeds Insanity

Last week’s poem is called “Eat” by Joy Harjo, who was our US Poet Laureate, and who is also one of my favorite poets. The last line of the poem says, “We sit down to eat.” The poem is about all the ways in which wildlife, as well as humans, and really all of nature, rely on each other as food. For example, there is a really beautiful image near the end of the poem: “The night is swallowing/ Daylight.” In this poem, each bit of nature relies on the consumption of the other parts of nature.

Eating is something I think a lot about, because consuming food is a necessity in this life, if we want to stay alive. But, eating, breaking bread, sharing a meal is also a way for us to build community, grow in love with each other, and learn how to give grace in new ways.

To start with, and this piece is important to me because of my faith, Jesus chose to commemorate himself through food: “While they were eating, Jesus took a loaf of bread, and after blessing it he broke it, gave it to the disciples, and said, ‘Take, eat; this is my body.’ Then he took a cup, and after giving thanks he gave it to them, saying, ‘Drink from it, all of you; for this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.'” (Matthew 26:26-27, NRSV). Jesus could have chosen any other thing to represent himself, but he knew, I think, that food binds people together in a way that really nothing else can. I mean he was building his legacy on top of his own faith’s legacy of the Passover, which is deeply and intricately intertwined with foodways. Jesus reinvented his own culture, and left a legacy of food as a means to wellness, a meal as a healing balm.

I like to think about the ways in which something simple like making my great-grandma’s bakalava recipe binds me back to her and to our shared history. I am not only tied to my great-grandma, but also to my grandma, my mom, my aunts, my cousins. We all share this lineage through a simple dessert. I remember when I was younger, and my Greek family would all gather together for holidays, weddings, funerals, and whatever other occasions, the most important part was the food we shared. My Aunt Aglaia was known for making amazing dolmades, my grandma was known for her spanakopita, my mom for her baklava, and countless other women in my family had their own specialties that they’d bring together to celebrate. As time went on, the gatherings diminished, until recently, we’ve only really met for funerals, which is quite sad.

I also think about the hundreds—or probably thousands—of hours I’ve spent with friends, family, acquaintances, strangers made friends, and others sitting in an uncomfortable booth at Pizza King, a soft comfy chair at a coffeehouse, or at a dining room table in someone’s house sharing a meal, coffee, or dessert, talking, and learning about each other. Food brings out a curiosity and a comfortability that may not have been there previously. We share a meal, we share life, and we come together in a unique way that doesn’t happen outside of consuming food together.

Food creates a social intimacy that cannot be duplicated by anything else. I don’t have words to explain why this happens. I just know it does, because I can feel it when I break bread with others. I know a miracle happens when we sit down to eat.

The poem I read for this past week is called “When the Fact of Your Gaze Means Nothing, Then You Are Truly Alongside,” and it was written by Donika Kelly. I read the poem every day of the week and the thing I noticed about it, is that the more familiar I got with the poem, the more beautiful it became. I missed the point of it the first couple of days, and then I realized that this poem is all about becoming a part of something so much so, that you don’t notice that you’re a part of it. You are with it, in it, around it, no longer an observer, but a participant. I love the refrain “this is a process.” Everything is a process.

I bumped into a friend of mine at Target this morning. I’ve been sick for a few days, so I had run out of food and had to go buy groceries, which is a much more pleasant thing ona Tuesday morning than it is on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon when I usually shop. But, my friend was telling me about some difficult things in her life, and then she said, but we’ll make it through because we have to. We don’t have a choice. And, of course, this reminded me of the poem I’d been reading for seven days, and that “this is a process.” A process through which we will survive, and, if we’re lucky, grow.

Being sick is a process, too. I have been sick since the Sunday before we went back to school this semester, but I pushed through the first week back, because a teacher never wants to miss during that first week, because that first week is when all of your norms for the classroom get set and routines get established, and it’s rough to ever come back from missing. By Friday afternoon, I left early and went home at 1PM and slept through the night. I felt so much better that I tried to complete the Night Trail 1/4 Marathon, which invovles a headlamp, lots of snow, 6.55 miles of uphill and downhill trekking, and cold temperatures. And, then, by Sunday afternoon, I was sick. As of Tuesday, I am still sick and trying to decide if I will, in fact, be at school tomorrow.

What I am learning from this world right now is that I need to look at life as a process. I can’t help getting sick. I get sick a lot. And it’s usually pretty bad. I’ve had a generally healthy year for me, so I can’t really complain about this round of whatever it is. I didn’t take a COVID test, because I’ve had COVID four times and this doesn’t feel like that. I just feel achy with lots of mucus and a very sore throat. So, I am hoping that I wake up tomorrow right as rain, and that I can be at school, then be at therapy, and then go on our field trip on Thursday and this will be behind me.

This is a process.