Yesterday, I said I was going to jump in to this National Blog Posting Month at BlogHer. For the rest of the month, I’ll be incorporating their prompts into my daily blog.
Good morning, good morning. Here where I am, the music is so quiet that I can barely hear it, and the birds are still asleep. I actually managed to get out of bed around the time when my (second) alarm went off at 4.30 today — I think I’m getting back on schedule. The puppy has taken to getting up when I do and coming into the office to sleep next to me, which I adore. (It helps, I think, that I put an extremely comfy pillow down there to entice her.) How is it where you are?
For NaBloPoMo Day 2, the prompt they offer is this: If you knew that whatever you ate next would be your last meal, what would you want it to be?
Here’s what I thought when I read this prompt — If I knew whatever I was about to eat would be the last food I tasted, all I would want is to be present, to really be there. No tv, no book, no distraction. Maybe this would be the hardest part, just focusing on the food, on the tastes, on the small explosions in my mouth. Of course, this is where mindfulness practice comes in, something I don’t include nearly enough of in my day: Meditation, deep attention. I would want the whole moment to come in to my body and experience, not just the meal, but the reality of it being a last meal. No, then again, maybe not — if we’re just and only in the moment, then the lastness doesn’t come into play. It doesn’t matter what comes next. What matters is this moment, this breath, this inhale, this aroma, this taste, this motion of teeth against food, this swallow, this noticing what enters my body, this small smile.
In this scenario, do I get to eat with someone else, or am I alone? If I’m with someone else, do I get to feed them with my fingers? Can they feed me with theirs? I think one of the last things I’d like to experience is someone feeding me with tenderness and deep care.
I don’t think the actual meal itself would matter so much — who cares? After this, no more food. Is it because I’m about to die, or am I going to a place where there’s no eating? I got lost in this train of thought for a little bit.
Then I think, well, maybe I do know what I’d want to eat. I would like some fresh vegetables, green beans, a bright salad, red onion, pomegranate seeds, roasted almonds, mango. Fresh, handmade, thick corn tortillas, warmed to soft-crisp. Sharp cheese. Jasmine green tea, then mint tea. These are the last tastes I’d want in my mouth. A little dark chocolate.
(Maybe popcorn, but just a little.)
What about you? If you knew the last meal you were going to eat would be the last meal you ate, what would you want to eat?
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Today, in Oakland, #occupyoakland has called for a General Strike. The link there will take you to a page describing all the many ways to get involved — not everyone there today will have taken the whole day off work; the organizers are working hard to bring in and create space for as many folks as possible.
I’m hoping to get over there toward the end of the day, even though I don’t live or work in Oakland. The energy that I experienced last week over at Ogawa-Grant Plaza is just too amazing, and I want to put my body in the work.
There’s good and necessary stuff to our sharing information online–social networking, of course, has significantly aided the movements that have erupted across the world over this year–but, for those who can, we also have to put our bodies in the place, on the ground, together, linking arms, raising voices, physically manifesting our resistance. For those who can and wish to, this is deep self care. We give ourselves the bodily experience of resistance together, of revolution, we allow our bodies the memory of solidarity, we give our hearts that message: we are not alone in this struggle. Look, look: we are not alone.
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So, these are the prompts today: What would you eat for a last meal OR write to the word resist. Give yourself, your writing body, these 10 minutes for your creative voice, and follow your writing wherever it seems to want you to go.
Thank you for all the ways that your body has manifested resistance, and for the ways you are tender to it (to yourself) now, in the aftermath. Thank you for your creative resilience. Thank you for your words.