Breakfast

It’s a tired morning, where the fatigue has saturated deep into my bones. I chew slowly, feeling the texture of the chicken in my mouth, my throat slowly closing at the idea of having to swallow. This lump of unappetizing flesh filling my mouth, muscle strands clinging to my teeth as I….

But NO.

I cut the thought short, refusing to go farther down this path. Instead I close my eyes, reach down deep into my mind, and open myself to the vision of what I’m really doing here. I see the lining of my gut, a broken battlefield showing the many scars of years gone by. The villi and nerves reach out to me, their Being, their Goddess, yearning for relief from on high.

My throat opens again, allowing me to swallow the bite. I follow it with two large gulps of the rich, salty, buttery broth.

Returning to the vision of my gut I see them, the pieces of my body desperate for gentle nutrition washed in this bounty. They raise their hands and cry, dance and sing in relief; like the farmer and her land soaking in the cleansing rain after a drought. “She is feeding us!” they cry, “she sees us and she loves us!”

Another swallow of healing meat, gratefulness washing through my body. And watching from on high I rejoice with them, the smallest parts of myself. Loving on them, I am loving me. Nourishing and healing them, focusing on the small building blocks, I make the next step toward remission and building a new whole.