epicurean [ep-i-kyoo-ree-uhn] adjective: 1. fond of or adapted to luxury or indulgence in sensual pleasures; having luxurious tastes or habits, especially in eating and drinking.
Oops. I am already an Epicurean. Hee hee hee.
Pleasure is a wide and wonderful concept. Someone recently explained to me that those of us who live alone, i.e., who are currently without a mate, use food as a substitution for intimacy –- for touch. For sex. I laughed at her, but now I’m starting to reconsider the idea. She explained that anytime she was seeing someone, her appetite for food waned. Her appetite for food was replaced by a diet of companionship and, yes, sexuality (even in a wholesome way). The replacement had the positive side-effect of weight loss, thereby making her more appealing to her companion. Hmmmm. I’m really loving my food these days. A formidable church lady called me on this tonight. It was truly a telling moment! I'm still amused and bewildered by her insight (though she does read my blog).
But seriously – smell and taste are hugely linked to associations – to memories. I can still remember the smell of the cologne an old boyfriend wore. A waft of David’s fragrance can slam be back to 1986 and cause me to nearly swoon with new love and passion. Smell is not limited to romantic memories, of course. From time to time I dab-on some Chanel No. 5 and it gently spirals me back to 1969 – a kindergartner tentatively handling an eyelash curler and running my fingers over a jeweled brooch – then repositioning a small, stuffed leather elephant that stood guard on the corner of my mother’s dresser. Though I could not define it at the time, I knew that I was extending my hand into an area of intimacy -- and it was lovely -- like her knee as she drove the car, smooth and lovely in its nylon stocking. I understood the sensuality of my mother's leg from the viewpoint of a 4 year old girl. My own daughter has told me that she has experienced the same thing. That moved me -- to be thought of as beautiful by my daughter in the same obscure manner as I beheld my own mother.
My son simply says, "You're so pretty, Momma," out of the blue sometimes. That is equally as moving. To be considered beautiful is "soulfood" for anyone. Men and women alike. Beauty [byoo-tee] noun: 1. the quality present in a thing or person that gives intense pleasure or deep satisfaction to the mind, whether arising from sensory manifestations (as shape, color, sound, etc.), a meaningful design or pattern, or something else.
I would add to those sensory manifestations smell and taste! I think those senses are also hugely affecting in an individual's determination of beauty. Well, at least for me.
During one of my rehearsals this week, I smelled Estee Lauder. One of my grandmothers wore Estee's White Linen and sometimes Youth Dew. She had this lovely sterling -- or was it ivory? filigreed mini-flagon pendant that held her perfume. These are very distinctive memories and aromas and they are forever a part of me. I was swept away for even the briefest of moments into a comforting embrace of smell association. Taken to a place where I knew that I was loved -- cherished -- cared for. The smell of cigar smoke can do it to me, too. I don't LIKE the smell of cigar smoke, but it inevitably makes me remember my father and that is good. There is a smell in David's office when I enter through that closed door. It's not definable, really -- it's just the smell of his life. Our daughter claimed a bottle of his cologne so that she could dab it on her pillowcase. I know that smell all too well. It's beyond that. It's the combined smell of leather and paper ... and all the rest of his stuff! His clothes, his shoes ... and all sorts of other things. I become overcome with a myriad of sensations, of memories, and of emotions when I enter that room. I do what I need to accomplish and then I leave. Those are feelings that are difficult -- painful, but at the same time, I'm not ready to part with the feelings because they are of my marriage -- my husband. David was a beautiful man -- in so many ways. His face, his voice, his words, his heart, his smell -- And yet, somehow I need to deal with the stuff that's in that room.
But back to taste -- flavors -- pleasure. Is it true that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach? I know that my man loved my cooking! But, heck, I'm ready to say it's the way to anyone's heart. If you promise to feed me, I'll be there! I'm a good cook and I love to feed special people. Food isn't a substitute for intimacy, it's a vehicle for intimacy. My most beloved family events have been meals; the family dinner has always been sacred in my life -- with my parents and sisters and then with my own family -- my husband and children. So who's to say that we empty-nesters can't continue this sacrament? I now break bread with friends -- frequently! and am blessed greatly in doing so. I am definitely enjoying my food ... and drink :-) And I am exploring new avenues for relationship. I'm not afraid of it, though it's a little foreign. Moving from that exclusive marriage thing into a broader realm of friendship is fresh and gratifying, but it can sometimes make me sad. Of course it can. It's not what I planned. But it is my reality. And I do find beauty in my sisters and friends -- beauty in their souls, their hearts, their purring voices as they pray, their soft love-worn and pain-worn faces.
So for now I'm going to continue to enjoy my cuisine. I will breathe-in the new aromas of new people -- of new foods and new situations. I'm going to continue to feel my way through this maze of singlehood. Did I really type that word? Ouch. Okay, let's go back to the more standard "empty nester" definition of the new me. Dang. That doesn't really cover it. I'm single. I'm single. My husband died. I am a widow. Breathe that in!
For now, perhaps a little winter squash stew over a whole wheat couscous will assuage my hunger for something else -- intimacy that really doesn't seem to be forthcoming at this juncture. That's okay. I'll embrace my daughter in three days -- then have both of my children in my presence in a week -- in our home, around our table for an amazing Thanksgiving meal. Life goes on. Love is tangible. Family is everlasting. Friends are precious. I'm going to be okay. In spite of everything ... I'm going to be okay. There is beauty in my life. Perhaps I'm not so much the object, but more the beholder these days, but that's okay.
No comments:
Post a Comment