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I’m supposed to know what it is to eat right. Instead, I binge. Overloading my body with too much of what it doesn’t need. It feels heavy. My belly bloated. Too full. Overripe. But I don’t know what else to do and I feel like I’m not doing it right. How is that even possible? How could I not get eating right? I feel like: when will it stop?

My body at war with my body.

Don’t eat that tater tot. Don’t eat that sauce. Don’t touch the cream or the cheese or any of the dairy, really. Even though I love Cheddar, Gouda and Brie. No gluten, no carbs, no meat. No pancakes, no pizza, no coffee. So much built around what I cannot eat. Nothing is good for me. GMOs and processed everything. Terrified I will hurt my body. That donut is my enemy. It’s taunting me. The chocolate, the caramel, the sweet.

Food is not fuel.

Your body is not a machine. It’s not made of gears and metal. It doesn’t have a stop or go pedal. It doesn’t puff steam or run on pre-paved tracks. It’s not switches. It’s not factory or assembly line or engine. It’s not a turbine or a vacuum or a vending machine.

The way we eat has meaning.

The chopping of fruit, the cooking of soup. The smell of onion. Cauliflower, carrot and brussel sprouts beneath the fingers. Stirring the pot, adding salt and pepper. The healing properties of garlic, lemon and honey. Meal preparation is medicine.

There is space for you at my table.

The knives and forks and plates. The glasses, the napkins. Come in. Sit down. Relax your legs. Let your back rest. Fold your hands together. Bow your head. Breathe. Feel your heart beat. Feel every cell asking for nourishment.

To let live.

Blood flow, heartbeat, neural synapse. It’s sacred to break bread. The way we nurture and nourish and hold. The way we feed the vessel that holds our soul.

Let what you eat be holy.

Eating is a spiritual experience. Every single time. It is. Every time you take a swig. Every time something touches your lips and is inside your mouth. It becomes you.

It is you.

February 27, 2017
March 7, 2017