Forgetting why, remembering how (—E.E. Cummings)
I am doing what this author, Leah Donnella and her husband quote by EE Cummings in this piece did—I am
“Forgetting why, remembering how”.
It’s a piece about how when she had her son, her urge to cook and do things that once brought her joy were ripped away by the survivalness of new motherhood. How familiar. I used to love to cook. I am still groping through the dark to find my way back to that and to even unearth the novelty of cooking for myself—just because…how can I expect someone to care for me if I can’t?
Like Donnella, I lost my spark as I bore children. I went from one who’d make her own pizza dough and pasta dough faithfully with 00 Napoli flour and her own tomato sauce to a faithful supporter of Raos sauces (still am.
In the span of about seven years, I would become a mother four times and a widow once. By 36, it felt like my life and desire to pick up another pan again had been drained. I was more likely to slap myself with the spatula than to use it to flip an egg. (That’s a joke—I just meant I was exhausted and in so many ways—broken). And then there was the abusive relationship and, once that ended, devolved into the subsequent stalking that has consumed the time since May 2024 wherein I have henceforth unearthed the sick reality that there is a massive contingent of people in and around my community—and nationally if not globally, I expect, who stalk and terrorize single women to coerce them into relationships that end with the woman ultimately calling it quits without realizing the man has been spending ages spreading a smear campaign against her long before the relationship ended. The plot is painfully obvious now, but for a sensitive artist who wanted the pure simplicity of love, respect, and genuinely attention and affection, its exposure has come as a shock.
In reflection, I can categorically recall the women I’ve met along the way whose stories have elements of people who tried to terrorize them, so they’d choose a man, and failing that, so they’d leave their homes, and just…leave in general. Or go insane. Or both. After all—they call you crazy, try to make you crazy, and when you crack, reacting to the abuse they look around at the others and say, “See, I told you.”
Except then they came after me. And I could tell I was being passed around, when one man said, “You should talk to this guy,” except I didn’t want to. My heart had already put a flag in a new higher standard, one I was willing to work to meet. Whether it was him or someone like him, after the abuser, I wasn’t going back. I wasn’t settling for less ever again. My own company is fabulous, and respectfully, so is my peace.
For the past two years, I’ve been remembering what I forgot—my value. Then it was—womanhood as a whole’s value, a missive brought to me by someone unexpected last year, but none-the-less—I finally got the message. True love has no room for entitlement—only vulnerability and humility. I am done searching. It will find me if it’s meant to.
And in the meantime I will be remembering the dear parts of me that I had to lose to survive, to be a mother, to fight for my husband’s life, and then to endure and overcome an ungodly expanse of emotional, psychological, verbal, and physical abuse—and let’s be honest…financial because I did the heavy-lifting, and sexual because I never consented to photos taken of my body when they were. I’m well aware of what happens to that.
So, while my cooking today consisted of toasted garlic naan and pimento cheese (hey, at least it wasn’t DoorDash) it was something, and if I make one more before an early shower and an early retirement to bed, I’ll add the pickled jalapeños. And maybe tomorrow—something else novel. I already read about a recipe involving English muffins, tuna fish, and kimchee. And one for deviled eggs, and respectfully, after two boiled hospital eggs (I assume these were laid under duress in the ER based on flavor and texture), within the last three days, heirloom deviled eggs would be clucking divine.
So maybe I forgot why, but I know I can remember how. How to sit down and paint with patience. How to write with words of a mellifluous quality. How to slow down and read from a book. How to weed the garden on hands and knees. How to cook with curious intent. And how to keep going even when I make a mess of all of it. Perfection resides in the inquisition and the courage to take action and to know that effort that doesn’t meet expectations is still something beautiful and worth doing. And I know that when I create out of love, people see it, hear it, read it, feel it, and taste it, and that makes all of the difference to me. The art of finding joy giving creativity is something I am returning to remembering.
(Pictured—article from Food & Wine magazine and hand-crafted birthday gifts by Stephanie Reeves & Kirby Erin)
