XI- Milk and Honey on a Good Friday

I wake too early, so I allow myself the indulgence of lying in bed a little longer. The sheets feel smooth against my body as I spread across the entire bed, happy the dog hasn’t settled in with me for the night. Space is a luxury these days. 

Breaking the cycle of early rising for work is, as anyone who is in a rigid nine to five job knows, not always possible. 

The sun slowly filters through the slightly opaque curtains and suddenly I find myself  standing in the middle of the living room wearing my blue housecoat wondering what I’m supposed to do on this day off. How did I get here? Did I really want to get out of bed? In this moment of confusion, with no direction, a mood creeps in like a silent stalker and tries to dominate. 

Luckily the dog slips out of my daughters room, heads for the back door and gives a tiny bark reminding me of the present moment. I let him out, return to the center of my living space and deliberate, coffee or tea, coffee or tea? Why question? I’ve changed my routine, why can’t I stick with it? 

The stalker seems to have snuck into my belly without me realizing.

“Tea, Sandra tea,” I remind myself out loud. “Self care, remember?” 

I go to the kitchen counter and start filling the mortar…black peppercorns, cardamom seeds, cloves, one cinnamon stick. I throw the spices into the pot and wait for the aroma to rise. The fragrant scents are foreign and instill adoration. I pour 1 cup of water over the roasting spices, the liquid sizzles. Two black tea bags, a small handful of thinly sliced ginger and bring to a boil, simmer for three minutes, add 1 cup of milk, a teaspoon of sugar, bring to a boil again and let it all simmer for another three minutes. The action of grinding, the fragrant scent, the flame from the gas stove, which could lick up and grab hold of the flopping sleeves of my synthetic housecoat - I bought it too big to remind me of an old boyfriends arms - all demand presence.

Last month I made the mistake of doing too much all at once, making tea, baking  cookies and texting my cousins. Their father was in palliative care in the same hospital my father had died in only four months earlier with congestive heart failure. They were best friends with the same disease.  I felt an urgent need to connect with my cousins. 

After texting, I put the phone down, reached in to grab the sheet of cookies with a tea towel, just like my mom used to do, and knocked the handle of the pot. Scalding milk spilled out onto my tight sweats. At first I tried to pull the synthetic material away from the skin but realized it would melt against my leg if I didn’t remove them immediately. I stripped the sweats down to my ankles, ran to the bathtub and gently showered my right inner thigh with cool water for 20 minutes so the burn wouldn’t go past the first couple layers of epidermis. 

Within 24 hours, 4 inch blisters bubbled up and sloshed under the thin layer of skin that would surely eventually peel off. How bad was it going to be? Only time would tell. 

***

So yes, the task of making the tea needs focus and presence. I still manage to do other things while the tea simmers. I let the dog back in, drink a glass of marine collagen, which incidentally tastes like powdered milk floating in semen, and ingest my adhd, anti anxiety meds and menopausal supplements. 

I’ve given up coffee, well sort of, I’ve given up coffee first thing in the morning on an empty stomach because of the tight grip I felt around my heart. I don't want to end up like my father and uncle.

Masala tea is a great substitute. The rich warm flavours, creamy milk and a moderate amount of caffeine soothe even more than a deep Merlot and harkens me back to my mother, who made warm milk with butter and honey when I had a sore throat. 

This morning I need soothing. Somewhere deep in my body I crave ritual and contemplation with others. It’s the day of Jesus' crucifixion afterall, when Jesus experienced total and complete abandonment. 

On a small scale, I can relate. It feels as if I too was abandoned by God. Or perhaps it was by the people who told me about God and his ultimate love, where he gave his only son to die on the cross for me, for my sins, his blood was shed for me. His suffering soothed with vinegar. “Why, oh why hast thou forsaken me, oh father?” He supposedly cried out. Then the temple curtains were torn in two, dark clouds formed and he died. 

My question is why. Why was I indoctrinated with this story and my own condemnation? Why was it that in my home, a place that gave me the comfort of warm milk also insisted I was born into sin and remained a sinner who constantly needed saving? The political ramifications are clear to me now but that doesn’t stop the body sensations from rising up on this beautiful sunny morning. It tingles with messages of unworthiness and sits in the belly and strangely enough in the stiffness of my jaw. 

***

“You’re supposed to suffer, it’s Good Friday,” I text a friend who asks me out for a hike. “sit and contemplate the sufferings of Christ.” Even though my sarcasm comes through and my disrespect is palpable I still have to acknowledge the stalker still holds some power. Some more conscious self care and action is necessary. Healing is possible. After all, the blisters on my leg from the second degree burn have disappeared and there’s a new layer of thin pink skin. The body wants to heal. 

“It’s a beautiful day, maybe after I finish snuggling with the dog we can meet up and walk. I saw some snowdrops blooming yesterday!” SEND

SnowDrops