There is an Indian saying in reference to good and evil, ‘The one we feed is the one that lives.’  The capacity for both incredible kindness and unmentionable cruelty is in our nature as human beings.  Draining one or the other of energy, feeding one or the other with fuel will determine which side will prevail.   

When I came out to my BookClub that my husband had moved out, our marriage was over, it was no Minnesota surprise that they wanted to feed me.  Within hours of my sniveling, sobbing disclosure a mass email went out to all the ladies with a dinner sign up sheet.  When I got the inquiry about likes, dislikes and food allergies I was so touched that they wanted to nurture me and fill me, but I can not tell you how much I didn’t want any of it. 

Yes, I was hungry.  Yes, I was empty. And many of them are fabulous cooks.  But there’s more to it.  We hadn’t sat down as a family for dinner in months.  Rationally I knew the kids and I still comprised a family unit, but I didn’t see us as “a family”.  We had no father at the head of the table.  Who would sit there?  Me?  My six year old?   How do we do this thing called life?  Having to sit down and “be”, as though this were our new normal, was just something I wasn’t buying into yet.  Mealtime became just another example of how when you get divorced everything in your world, and at your table, changes.

I also couldn’t fathom unwrapping the protective foil from these dishes made in the warm security of kitchens in happy homes.  Where perhaps the Husband chopped the vegetables, while the Wife stirred the sauce, all the while sipping goblets of red wine mulling over “The poor _____.”  Only to crawl into bed later that night and make love, explosive with gratitude, honoring their timeless commitment.

Snuffy’s, Wendy’s and Papa Johns, with a few nightly beers would do just fine.  Pretending that everything was normal would have been too weird. Mom was a mess.  Dad was gone.  Take-out that came with toys was just what we needed.  And I knew that though I didn’t need food from my book buddies, I did need something.  And they needed to not be paralyzed unable to help.  So I asked for one thing.  Flowers.

I craved simple.  Beautiful.  Hopeful.  These beautiful clusters demanded nothing of me.  Their sole purpose in their little life was to bring me joy. Faithfully, each week there was the big purple Bachmans truck in my driveway, or a knock at the door and a personal visit.  And oddly enough each arrival came at the very perfect time.  A time when I was really losing it whether full blown panic attack or eyeing the vodka bottle.  I would burry my nose in these gorgeous blooms and tell myself life was beautiful and we would be okay.  I was also nurtured by the personalities in each of the bouquets.  From traditional, formal blooms, bizarre rare breeds, a cluster of simple tulips, the personal presence of my friends was evident, and beautiful.

I may no longer be his wife but I will always be my children’s mother, my friend’s friend and the woman of my house.  I will eat, and drink, to that.

I was a wife, I am a mom and I am now Suddenly Single in Suburbia trying to make sense of it all.  What nourishes you?