Polite and Gentle Bodies

My body speaks gently to me. First I think I'm hungry. I do nothing about it. After a while I know I'm hungry. Still I do nothing about it. I'm in bed, reading Alison Pick's memoir Between Gods about her reach for Judaism. I've eaten lots of granola lately — it's quick and easy, but I had a bowlful before bed last night and don't want it again just yet.

My body is patient. And then it is not. I start to burp; that's a message I've come to recognize as "Eat." I keep reading.

Then I feel nauseated. Belly is empty. Put something in!

It reminds me of Emil, newborn. How first thing in the morning he would be in his basket by the bed and I'd hear his sweet, patient ch-ch-ch-ch for some time, but I wouldn't hear it as a call. Loving my sleep, I wouldn't get up and feed him till finally he'd let out a wail and I'd realize he'd been asking politely, all along, till my unresponsiveness demanded something more forceful.

I go to the kitchen, not wanting to spend any time making toast, eggs, or oatmeal, preferring to read some more. Scott brought bananas home from Kelvington yesterday. One of those will do.

Recycling would be a whole lot more convenient if the depot would take everything in one large bag, unsorted. When you have to keep it all separate, you have half a dozen separate bags and containers to fill with glass, plastic, tin, cardboard, newspaper and refundables before  you lug them out to your car. I still haven't figured out a system that doesn't look like a frigging pile of clutter all the time, or else requires numerous trips to the basement each day. Not that I've put my mind to a solution; meanwhile this mess in the porch makes me crazy.