A quick missive from the girl who did NOT die…
I didn’t take the vitamins yesterday and stopped OD’ing on clementines. The feet again…feel better. Zero idea if that is at all related. Not perfect. But also not all Icy-Hot. There was a bit of extra walking around Union Station that was required today and the time spent searching the grocery store aisles and it never got to the point where I thought, oh, shit. It was just, it’s there, but it’s less.
I still feel weird like there must be something coming at me, cold-wise, but it can’t seem to find a purchase. I so rarely get sick which is why that Italy experience feels like such a good comparison.
I don’t know. Maybe it’s all psychosomatic and reflective of a desire to…I don’t know. Stay? Go? I will keep you and myself posted. I can’t help but do that much.
Since I don’t have to spend the evening thinking entirely about how near I am to the edge of everything (closer to and further away ye olde Ravine as always), I can say that I am going to figure out exercise. I have tracked pretty carefully. I have put some vegetables into my person. I am going to do more than nothing, both on the bike and in terms of the novel.
I have accidentally fallen into a brief moment of Chaucerian remembrance.
Do the work, do the work, don’t drift off or away. This year is a year about something more than lying in wait. Rather than stand still and waiting for the worry to blow over, I can do something more than nothing. It doesn’t have to be the way it always was.
I am really comfortable eating a lot less, calorie-wise, than I would have thought. I am comfortable tabulating out the fact that I can have 3/4 of a cup of ice cream and that’s it and eating it out of the measuring cup and feeling full and not pushing and scrunching to get a few more bites in. I am comfortable not aching to eat out every night. Mostly, for me, I think this is happening by making sure that I know that I can. Not every night, but it’s there, accessible. It’s not under lock and key and you naughty girl anymore. Bread and chocolate and pizza are not these exalted, magical goods that fix things. Well, they are, but only if you actually exalt them. If you actually ceremonialize them and revere them and make them special and allow them to fully invoke memory and nostalgia.
We don’t, or at least, I don’t do that. It’s just stuffing yourself. It’s just staving off loneliness with chemicals. It’s just eating to keep yourself quiet and slow. To stop wanting or wishing or feeling. There’s no limit to what you need for such a particular magic as that and there’s no final word to that spell.
But the magic it can do, if you let it, acknowledge these properties, is it can make you feel connected to a long line of bakers and makers. To kitchen witches and those who made a craft of meals. Sometimes, when I make something in the kitchen that has that certain je ne sais quoi, that I’ve hung over and experimented with and learned from, I feel the power of creativity and nourishment.
I gotta stop fearing food and this year, I think, is, in part, about that.
Tomorrow, I want to feel better than today.