Recently at the housing clinic, I met with a client who had brought her young daughter to help her understand all the papers. After carefully walking them through the eviction process, I began making calls to set-up appointments for them with emergency housing agencies when I saw the daughter looking at the small grouping of fruit I had brought with me. Still chatting with United Way, I reached across and nudged the fruit her way. She took an apple, brushed it a couple times between her hands, gave it to her mom then sat back in her chair smiling as her mom took a bite. I picked up the clementines, handed them to the daughter then refocused on the call. When I turned back the small orange peels were piled carefully together, holding the barely-there core of an apple.
I probably edged an ethic violation by giving a client some of my food. I don't want to know the answer to that unasked question.
I was that daughter.
Being a kid you learn to adapt to your world. Kids are amazing that way.
When faced with empty cupboards, refrigerators, and pocketbooks when we were hungry, I had one ally: Oatmeal. I would reach for that big box of oatmeal, plainly lettered, no Quaker man on the front, no sugared flavors in the mix. Cheap, filling. Even when out of powdered milk, sugar and karo syrup it seemed we always had cinnamon. A huge tin of cinnamon.
When I need a reminder of how far I have come in life...a gentle nudge back to the reality of how blessed I am to have a job, have the capacity to love other beings and the gift of living a whole 'nother day in front of me, I reach for those long-cooking steel cut oats. Enjoying the rhythm in the stirring, the spooning of creaminess into a bowl and the scent of cinnamon from a tin.
Plain. Simple.
Comforting.
Nothing better this morning to go with my cup of coffee.
At least, that's my 2 ¢.
1 comment:
Your oatmeal is my rice. We all have our staples.
Post a Comment