Cooking With Rita

Why is it that when I cut celery into tiny parts, my hands start to shake? Honestly more than a half hour in the kitchen breaks me into a smelly sweat. I want to lash out at the innocent zucchini. I want to burn the payaya. I want to never eat again.

I have avoided learning to cook for thirty years. I have been a happy take out queen. Having meals prepared for me where I don’t have to know what work went into them. But I wasn’t nourished by these meals. I was fed, but not nourished.

What is it about the kitchen that puts me into such a shaking rage? Will I be able to overcome it? Will I heal from the fear? What really went on in the kitchen anyway?

My mother painstakingly prepared steaks and broccoli and potatoes for four kids and a distant husband, everyday, three meals a day for at least 24 years. We never gave her an award. We never helped with dishes.

Why should I be surprised that my mother became depressed over the broccoli? She was quite alone. Nobody to help her. No one to cheer her on. I mean, I tried, but I guess my believability, as an authority figure was low at five years old.

I tried to convince my mom to be happy. It was a fairly simple argument. I didn’t really have a reason. It just seemed like a better idea than being depressed and wanting to die.

I guess I didn’t really understand her desire to die until I was much older. I didn’t feel that misery that invades every pore. I didn’t have those dark voices whispering horrible things to me. You’re worthless. End it all. There’s no reason for you to be alive.

Now, I would recognize this pain…it means you are off your path. That’s right. Spiritual or not, every person has a path that is for their highest good and usually feels incredible. The happiness path. Where you are fulfilling your life purpose, where you feel the joys of interconnection, where there is so much to look forward to and experience each day.

I would have told my mom she needed to make serious changes in her life. But at five, I simply said, “Be happy. You don’t want to die.” Now, I could recommend meditation, retreats, spa visits, poetry, and self-acknowledgement.

But then, all I could do was go to bed crying and hope that tomorrow wasn’t the day she ended the pain.

I feel the fear as I cut the zucchini and the rage, as I taste the vinaigrette dressing. I want to leave the room. I want to throw out the food or at least let it rot until it grows new limbs and colors. Until it stands up on it’s own and reenacts my fear of losing my mother.

Yet I stay and let Rita guide me through how much salt to add, how to cut the celery. I am so grateful to have a fearless, loving person mixing and boiling and broiling and sataying in my kitchen. I am afraid she will leave me. That I will mess up and she will refuse to teach me. I try to be good, stay positive. Be grateful. But I am quaking.

I know this is the last step. This is the letting go. I’ve worked on this issue a million times. Meditated and therapized. But here is the real work. I need to be in the place, feel the fear and let it pass through me. I need to let my hands shake while washing the zucchini. And I need to cry after Rita is gone. The final step to overcoming a life long fear. Going back to the place it started.

Please don’t leave me mommy. Please don’t die while the potatoes are cooking. Please don’t tell me again how horrible life is. I might start to believe you.

Once again I am crying, but this time I am not alone. I have my ancestors with me. I have my angels supporting me. I have my animal guide protecting me. I have God cheering me on, to release and let go. I am filled, surrounded and protected with the white light of spirit. I am safe. And I am loved.