Like young onions pulled from the ground, in our emotional lives there is often more brewing under the surface than is always visible. Some of us are good at hiding this. Others (like me), aren't. I'm not sure why this is, or what about our individual makeup makes us more or less prone to wearing our hearts on our sleeve. Regardless of where you fall on the emotional spectrum, when it comes to the past, food has its way of weaving itself through both the good and bad memories.
You’ve heard the advice before: Write it down on a slip of paper and burn it, or wrap it with twine and thrust it into the ocean tied to a rock. Whatever it is, a vice, a relationship, a past, the physical act of releasing it to the universe is supposed to encourage an emotional release, too.
I’m here with Jane Hirshfield again, making lentils. This time, the speaker of this poem finds a subject who is broken and encourages her to “take the used-up heart like a pebble/ and throw it far out.” What comes next is a specific instruction to go home and make soup. The speaker provides details, tells us which order to prepare the ingredients. To do it, because, if one is in the position of just returning from throwing out their old heart, it might be impossible to put one foot in front of the other. So the list is one of grace, care and meant to aid the renewal process. Also, when you return from throwing out your heart, you may be hungry but not realize it, and need a little reminder to engage in the very basic act of feeding yourself.
Once in a while we have the opportunity to marvel at something. Maybe it's an 800 year-old building filled with ancient footsteps. Maybe it's something new: a baby, a song, a soulful view at the edge of a cliff, or the feeling of satisfaction after eating a sumptuous meal. Have you ever marveled at bread? Tapped its crust, held the length of it up to your nose to inhale the yeasty dough, savored the soft crunch when you took your first bite, smeared with a creamy cheese?