I keep thinking about Anne Lamott learning to feed herself as she describes it in Traveling Mercies, my favorite of all her autobiographical work, definitely worth reading. Anyway, I watched A. again a couple of weeks ago and something she did completely blew me away.
We are eating dinner, something she seems to never enjoy and I immediately begin the dinner-ritual I often force on the kids I babysit which is: politeness, nice conversation, and the eating of as many vegetables as possible. Now, A.'s parents seem to be health nuts of the best variety and both our plates are packed with whole wheat pasta and carrot sticks (this is typical: also broccoli, yams, cucumber slices and hard boiled eggs) so I don't worry about the nutrition, but I do worry about her eating habits. She rocks back and forth in her chair and is unresponsive to my conversation-making (usually successful among the 7-and-under female variety), she tells me she hates the food I've made even though I make her thank me for making it and even though I'm almost certain its what she eats every night. This is a mystery to me; she just won't eat with me, and she flat out won't enjoy it.
Then, out of no where, something clicks in her mind and she grabs a wooden block that is in front of her on the table. There is a large letter 'A' on one side of the block, a 'B' directly opposite and four pictures of Santa on the remaining faces. It seems to be the sort of decorative block used to spell sweet, festive words like, "peace", "hope", or "joy" during the holidays.
"Okay, here's a game," she tells me. I'm just slightly intrigued. I was about to chuck my hopes of Dinner Time out the window. "Okay..." I hesitantly agree to hear her out. "I'll roll this, and whenever I get the 'A' I take a bit of pasta. A 'B' means two bites of carrot and a Santa means I lose my turn." She says this all with the confidence and logic of a school-teacher explaining an extremely simple game to a five-year-old, though she is, in fact, five herself. "Sure," I say, unsure of how this would turn out. She rolls the block. It's an 'A.' She grimaces, but dutifully eats a bite of the 'disgusting' pasta. Then she rolls a picture of Santa (was it on purpose?) and hands the block to me. Slightly amused that I am also a part of the game, I roll the block and a 'B' comes up. I've been eating already and my carrot is already halfway gone, but okay, for the sake of the game, I crunch two bites. She seems satisfied at my assent. Then I roll another 'B', and we laugh, but I do my business. Then an 'A', then another 'B'. Okay, I think to myself, this is not the point of the game. So I roll again, but carefully this time. Santa. I pass the block. She is catching my drift; she rolls a Santa also, but I am sure that it was on purpose.
I figure all pretenses are gone. I don't bother attempting to appear as if I am fairly rolling the block like a dice. I simply turn it over so that the jolly St. Nick smiles up at us, but she doesn't challenge me. She picks up the block. It is her turn. She turns- without pretending to roll- the block to the toothy saint. I take it back and do the same.
At this point I assume the game is over. Just as I am about to change the subject and request that we eat normally, something very interesting occurs. It is her turn, but instead of turning the block to Santa, she turns it to an 'A.' I look up at her and furrow my brow, skeptically. She shrugs and takes a bite. It is still her turn, so she takes the block in her hands again and turns it 360 degrees. 'A'. She chews and I grin at her. Do you want to eat? And she must, because before her turn is over she's eating six bites of carrots and four pieces of pasta. I take it back and 'roll' a 'B' because I want another bite of carrot. She rolls another four letters before passing the block back to me, and together we learn to feed ourselves.
I thought about this tonight when I was running. Sometimes the main reason I like being alone is because I'm so affected by the people around me that I actually think there might be something wrong with me. But, in turn, I'm almost always depressed when I'm alone simply because there is nothing outside my own crazy mind to affect me. Why can't I learn to fill my time contentedly without achieving the affirmation of the community surrounding me? It is obvious to me now why I choosing and keeping my friends is such a sensitive task. They are the ones who make meaning from the empty mental drawers of 'good', 'bad', 'useless' and 'holy'. Watching A. the other night I realized why things like running, liturgy, lists and schedules are so important to me. They are simply frameworks: thinks that help me construct meaning out of my own mental chaos. They are mood stabilizers; they are like A.'s little wooden block. They tell me how to feed myself; or rather, they help me to choose the things I know I need to feed myself.
Feelings like the one I have tonight help me to understand the pull of a monastic community, or the secret desperation one has for The Other, even the small community of marriage and/or a roommate, be it lover or friend. But for now, it is late and the most important thing is that I finish the dishes before Christy comes home. Tomorrow I'll wake up early to run and head to the Food Bank and hopefully these Good Things will carry me one more day.
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