I was already dreadfully late this morning when I realized that my husband had finished off the coffee I had planned on pouring into my travel mug. I decided that people would rather see me fully caffeinated but a little later than half-caffeinated and just late, so I made another pot. As the coffee was brewing, I decided to make a sandwich because eating at my desk would make up for the being very, very late. I’m quite good at rationalizing.
I got out the turkey, and the spread and the bread and washed off a few limp pieces of iceberg lettuce. As I was making the sandwich, I was thinking how appropriate this sandwich is for this week: bland turkey on wheat-ish bread with soggy iceberg lettuce and a generous helping of Miracle Whip. Ah, my comfort sandwich. This week of Robin Williams and Ferguson and the always present other news of people hurting each other with policy and projectiles–this week required a full-on comfort sandwich.
I don’t know that anyone would be surprised to hear that I have experienced depression in my life. I know there are people that I love dearly who would prefer that I didn’t share that statement out loud or online, but, frankly, it’s not a very well hidden secret and the tougher I think I am being in my battle with it, the less control I have over my reaction to the rest of the world. So, I’m making a declaration here that is scary in its public nature, but I hope will allow you to see that when I say I needed that sandwich, I wasn’t being just a melodramatic middle-aged white woman. I was being a melodramatic middle-aged white woman who got a severe gut-punch on Monday.
You see, I knew that Robin Williams took his own life when I heard the news that he was dead. I didn’t need anybody to tell me that and I didn’t even really want to know it. Monday night I sat quietly, trying to watch and not watch the news about it at the same time. My instincts were to protect me, because, well, lets just say I wasn’t in the best head place to begin with.
And then I spent the week watching and not watching, reading and not reading, starting to write and never really writing. People told me how I should talk about suicide and depression, and how I shouldn’t. All of it was, I’m sure, well meaning, but frankly, I just didn’t need the word police knocking on my door this week.
And then Michael Brown and Ferguson and militarized police. And that’s all I’m going to say about that right now because … I am a middle-aged white woman with an understanding of institutionalized racism and the politics of privilege and I just think so many people have addressed this so much better than I ever will and yet … yet it is important to be public about being a middle-aged white woman who is angry as hell that black men and boys continue to be killed and jailed disproportionately in this country at this time.
And so, I needed that sandwich. That bland and dough-y concoction that represents home on the day after Thanksgiving (or Thanksgiving night, after all the guests are gone and we have all tucked into the couch and turned on “Love Actually”)–that was what I needed.
I finished making the sandwich and poured my cup of coffee into my travel mug and then I looked around for something to accompany that sandwich at lunch time. And there it was: the Nectarine.
I knew as soon as I picked up that nectarine that it was perfectly ripe. You know how you know these things, you intuit it from the slight give when you pick it up and the weight of it that indicates it is full of juice and sugar and happiness. And I knew that if I packed that nectarine into something to take with me to eat with lunch that it would be bruised or the skin would tear and leak all that loveliness all over my backpack.
So I stood there, in my kitchen, with that nectarine in my hand, looking out over what promised to be a stunningly beautiful day with the sun shining on my deck and on all the lovely flowers, and I knew what had to be done.
I dug my teeth into the flesh of that perfect nectarine while holding the paper towel under my chin and as my teeth tore through the flesh, they released the juices which would have dribbled all over my chin if I hadn’t had the forethought and good teaching to just slurp those juices up while I ripped at that flesh. And the taste? Divine.
I stood in my kitchen, leaning out over the island, ripping and slurping with an abandon that was downright pornographic, but I didn’t care. The nectarine was perfect and it needed to be appreciated in its fullness. But more than that, I realized after I’d wiped my chin and washed my hands and was heading in to work with the taste still lingering at the roof of my mouth–lingering in a way that made me put off taking a drink of coffee because I just didn’t want to lose that flavor–I needed to eat it.
I needed to taste that taste that is the perfection of life–the fruit at its height of ripeness. I needed to feel that burst of flavor and color that is the exact antithesis to the eating experience I envisioned as I made that sandwich.
I needed that nectarine AND I needed that sandwich at the end of this week. I needed to be comforted and I needed to be shocked back into living in this real and complex world, this world that has rules we understand and those we don’t. This world that has spoken and unspoken codes by which we are supposed to live. One of my struggles with depression is not that I’m sad, but that I am expected to not be, because that isn’t “normal.” But really, it is normal– for me.
As I drove home, I thought about that nectarine and how I wanted to sing it’s praises for just being perfect and about how great fruit season is and all that. I thought about Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, which really was the start of my spiritual journey. I had to go look up the quote I was thinking about, you probably know it, it’s the one everyone knows:
“I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don’t notice it. People think pleasing God is all God cares about. But any fool living in the world can see it always trying to please us back.”
― Alice Walker, The Color Purple
And I’m glad that I didn’t piss God off today by walking past that nectarine, but I’m even more glad that the search for that quote led me to this one:
“I am an expression of the divine, just like a peach is, just like a fish is. I have a right to be this way…I can’t apologize for that, nor can I change it, nor do I want to… We will never have to be other than who we are in order to be successful…We realize that we are as ourselves unlimited and our experiences valid. It is for the rest of the world to recognize this, if they choose.”
― Alice Walker, The Color Purple
both quotes found here: https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3300573-the-color-purple
This is my theology. This is what I (mostly) live by.
And this is my learning this week. Not that I should say this or I shouldn’t say that. Not that depression is what it is and it won’t ever not be that. But that there are ebbs and flows and that I needed to be jolted back into living, writing, and being and it took this little ball of fruit to re-anchor me.
We are all an expression of the divine. It is important to remember that of each other, but also of ourselves. It may not be enough to save ourselves from the diseases that pull at us, or from the learned behaviors that keep directing us to believe we are not a connected body. But then again, it may be enough, and for now, that’s where I’m putting my energy. Because “for now” is really all any of us has.
I blog routinely at: www.tinalbporter.com. Thank you for stopping by here.
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