November Meal

When my first born daughter was younger, and her blood sugar was low, she would have a hard time functioning. That is to say, she could walk and talk and generally get by - but things would be difficult. I mean, everything would be difficult. Far more difficult than was reasonable. We learned in short order to read the signs. "You need a snack," we'd tell her. "You haven't eaten for hours, that's all. You just need something to nibble and you'll feel better." We said this at the risk of fostering eating disorders and the kind of "I feel bad, ergo I should eat," pattern that we might have to pay a therapist to undo later.

But it didn't matter, anyway. She would always vehemently deny it with the kind of incoherent passionate protests and overreaction that are the hallmark of a person with low-blood-sugar who is having a hard time functioning. She'd blame other things: I'm not hungry. I just hate math. (Actually, this is a poor example, as the aversion thrives even after she's had a healthy high-protein meal.) The other kids were mean to me. I can't find my favorite jeans. I'm tired. I can't do anything right. My life is horrible and nothing will ever, ever make it better. Ever.

The change after she'd eaten an almond or two was always like watching a miracle unfold. Everything was suddenly better; all was right with the world, and hope was back in town like the prodigal sun after a very long, frigid, moonless night. "I guess I was just hungry!" she'd admit, and within minutes Little Miss Vivacious was talking our ears off again.

I remembered this story today after I'd spent a good chunk of time reading the latest issue of Rattle - after I'd read enough poetry to bring what was effectively my spirit's abysmally low blood sugar level up to something approaching normal. Suddenly, all the insurmountable problems in my life that have been threatening to break me have been thrown back into their proper perspective, and I feel myself coming back to life.

I guess I was just hungry.

This is what poetry does. Even when stripping naked the bruised and battered parts of us, collectively and individually, it affirms our humanity. It feeds us. It satisfies the yearning and deficiencies we didn't even know we had. It makes all right with the world.

Bon Appétit.