Dangerous Compassions

happy birthday to Mama


This morning I cooked of some veg sausage for Ming that had been sitting in the freezer for a while.  I was the main eater of soy sausage at our house, but I stopped eating soy in late summer.  So it was nice to cook the last three little patties, for him.

I made Ming a sarnie on a wheat roll from the Ethiopian place. They serve wheat rolls with the ful.  I put pesto on it too–I made pesto this morning with some fresh basil from J’s garden.

I put pesto on some noodles that are purple-black because they’re made with purple rice flour.  The resulting food doesn’t look delicious but tasted great.



I live in chronic pain now.  I’m willing to admit that.  My muscles are weird.

Standing at the sink, picking basil leaves off basil stems, gets painful pretty quick.  I want to take breaks, take it slow, and be kind to myself.  But it’s easy to get impatient.

I know kitchen chairs exist, and there are many ways to manage pain.  It can take a while for me to admit what’s happening, admit it’s chronic, seek ways to mitigate it.  For a person with no job and no kids and no other dependents, I can go around really maxed out.  I try to keep my stress low, but I really believe certain ideals, so I get swept up in meaningful projects.


Yesterday some amaranth came in the mail.  I cooked some up this morning for myself and broke some pecans for a topping and poured some milk.

It was tasty.  The first bite seemed bland and not sweet enough.  Subsequent bites were way better.  I remembered the amaranth experience.  It has a lot of protein.  It feels like a sacred food.


Today my mama would have been 64.  I feel sick to celebrate her birthday without her as a living person, for the first time.  How could I do that?  I guess the show must go on.

Last night I txted a friend that I didn’t think I could make it through to the other side of my feelings.  I didn’t feel strong enough to feel.  Honestly I wished to be knocked out till December 2nd.  But this morning I feel a little stronger.  Bedtime can be the hardest time.

Another friend asked me yesterday if I ever write to my mom.  I said no, I don’t really.  My blog used to be mostly for my mom.  Sometimes I lapse into addressing her, for a sentence or two only.  I pray to her every once in a while.  When I can’t help it.

Mama was always telling me to breathe, so I will spend today breathing.  Happy birthday to Mama.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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