Dinner, Made with Self-Love.
The past few months have felt particularly trying. I’ve had low energy from a confluence of physical illness, continuing uncertainty, and the re-emergence of a personal battle that I thought was over. These weeks have felt both incredibly full and painfully empty because I reverted back to living largely in my head. Not present, not intentional.
My theme for the year has been to “be still” - to disconnect even further from the striving that once propelled my every move. But in this period, stillness felt too scary. I didn’t trust myself that I could sit with my thoughts and feelings, I didn’t trust myself to practice my healing. Instead, motivated by that fear, I filled each moment with noise - podcasts, books, TV, conversation, engaging with my critical and anxious thoughts. I quite literally tried to drown out my own voice in the ways that I learned to growing up. But it didn’t feel comfortable anymore. I didn’t find solace in the noise like I had before. I found my spirit pushing against it, sensed my body crying out for peace, and my voice begging for space. I didn’t really know how to give her that, because my fear was so front of mind.
So, I made a pie. It was all I could think to do. I knew that I needed to move, but my energy levels, early sunsets and illness have made exercise feel inaccessible. I wearily gathered some objects to set a mood in my kitchen - a new candlestick holder equipped with a beautiful sage green candle, a plant that some friends gave us, and put on a favourite worship album. I gathered my ingredients and equipment - intentionally selecting the bowl that a dear friend gave me for my birthday that, unbeknownst to her, I had wanted for the better part of a decade. I measured out the flour, suet and milk, and started mixing ingredients. As I began mixing, I discovered the opportunity to gather perhaps my most favourite item - the ring holder where my Mom would always place her rings when we set out to bake. I placed it next to me, carefully removed my wedding rings and X-Ring, placed them in the holder, and kept it on the counter next to me.
And as I mixed, I found my thoughts shifting. I began to make observations again. I noticed when I was striving for perfection and reminded myself that integrity is more important. I observed the critical thoughts that arose with each forgotten ingredient, the fear of failure that came when deciding whether to add more milk, and comforted myself through the process, always taking myself back to the importance of honouring my deeper values, not my imminent fears and concerns.
With each knead of the pastry, I sensed that I was returning to myself. I felt hope arise. I sensed the fog that had shrouded my mind fall away. I began to feel the freedom to create, to think, to unleash my voice, even just to myself. I was present and grounded and felt more powerful, focused and encouraged than I have in recent memory.
I came into my kitchen weary and left it with new ideas, a comforted inner-child, and the courage and clarity to concentrate on a project that intimidates me. I didn’t enter my kitchen looking for energy, clarity or focus. And making pastry didn’t heal me. It simply created the space for me to practice my healing in the place where I first learned to care for myself: in my kitchen. It invited me to move more slowly, to focus on only one thing, and to confront some of the thoughts and fears that I have been pushing away. The tactile experience drew me out of my head and into my body; out of my learned thought pattern and back to my grounded self.
This pie was made with self-love, and I can feel the difference.
