Alas, I once thought I was in charge of caring. About everything.
Right before I found the amazing attached t-shirt online earlier, I read an email asking if I was ready to "Suspend Limiting Beliefs."
Each time I stumble across the cliche's outlining what we're supposed to do in moments of existential crisis or just daily woe, I roll my eyes. Yup.
Because here's what I do know from experience, it's fucking difficult to remember how awesome we are, or as my sidekick and BFF Mary Elizabeth Beary (yes, that Mary Beary) promotes, "You have to remember you're fabulous" when you're at the place where suspending limiting beliefs or breathing is essential.
Here's what else I know, if you're not surrounding yourself with amazing and fabulous people who love your inner muppet (mine is the Swedish Chef, in case you are wondering) you are fucked. I'm 55 and just had that goddamn epiphany a few weeks ago when my mother died, and I lost my shit. I honestly don't remember much of the week before mammy flew off into the great wide open from the center of my labyrinth, but I do remember the people that rallied. They rallied because I asked them to. That's right. I reached out. I was teetering on the edge of some precipice that didn't have to do with two suns colliding and 4th-dimensional traps (I'm very good at those, by the way).
For all of my emotional genius, there was no possible way I was going to manage the conflicting, cacophonic orchestral clanging of pots and pans in all my chakras. This wasn't a kundalini blowout, this was a mortal implosion.
I had finally reached full saturation in the reality spectrum and even though the whole affair for me should have been as simple as making fluffy Basmati Rice? It was coming out of the proverbial pot in a pile of mush.
It was a humbling experience. Can you imagine a Master Chef asking for help in scrambling an egg? It's not funny. It's scary as hell when Gordon Ramsey calls you and asks very seriously how to make toast. At least that's how I imagined it must have felt for the people I reached out to. Yet, without blinking an eye these amazing folks scrambled my eggs and plugged in the toaster. I allowed myself to be taught how to "moderate my emotions" or in the spirit of the cooking vibe I have invoked, "how to walk into the kitchen". None of these critical cooks questioned why the fuck I was asking for help either. They knew. They knew because they were all Master Chefs, and as I like to refer to myself, "Kitchen Witches".
In the last few weeks, I have come to realize more about myself and why I roll the way I do. I have also learned that some people will fuck up your vibe when you least expect it and these people can be causing your fruit to spoil. These people will want you to help them make their own toast when you are incapable of remembering what bread is, and these are the people I had to have my angels escort from my kitchen recently. It's painful but necessary. If you want to live and remember how to "cook good food."
Recalling my thoughts and my actions over the last few weeks has been heavy. Recalling the actions of a few once trusted friends is heavier. I literally told someone that I held in very high esteem to "fuck off" when they shoved my situation aside with a few glib comments and then proceeded to lament their own ongoing drama. It was shocking watching myself rise up as though I had grown a scorpion tail and strike. In truth, it was the beginning of my trek into Hell's Kitchen and I couldn't believe I felt so alone with my pain.
My mother died.
A lot of our mothers are dead. Or dying. Or will die. It's inevitable. And for each of us, that passing is profoundly personal. The ineffable moment of accepting her death is also inevitable. I hated and loved my mother who wasn't really MY mother. If anything, I was her mother. I mothered her far more than she ever cared for me. The journey I took in reclaiming my lost memories and dissecting why I felt the way I did is far too complex for a simple blah-g post, but it will make for good reading should you choose to pick up my book once I write it. And I will write it, now that I have my outline completed.
She is gone.
And I am still here.
You can find me in my kitchen these days. Or my garden, where I have begun to examine why I care so much for people who truly care so little. Reciprocity is a key element in remembering how to cook your life. Too much of some things doesn't make up for not enough of the important ingredients. Figuring out what you need for the basics of a good kitchen is crucial.
Thank you to my Kitchen Bitches, your recipes for how to cook life are extraordinary.