Perhaps the World Ends Here

Recently I came across this poem by Joy Harjo, who gave me permission to use it here.  When asked her, I told that her beautiful poem says what I try to say in my book, Food Fix: Ancient Nourishment for Modern Hungers.  She is a poet, her language stunning; the essence of what she says exactly what I try to say.  Food matters.  Eating matters.  Communing with ourselves and others matters.  Eating to live.  Eating to thrive.  Gratitude for the gifts of the Earth. Eating to connect. Giving thanks for the sweetness of life, in all its disguises.

Those of us with food, body, body image and weight issues, do indeed learn —-through real eating and feeding ourselves lovingly— what it means to be fully, wholly human.  We fall down again and again and again in our practice to learn how to nourish ourselves in the biggest sense, laughing and crying.  All of it.  Thank you, Joy.

Perhaps the World Ends Here

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what,
we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the
table so it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe
at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what
it means to be human. We make men at it,
we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts
of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms
around our children. They laugh with us at our poor
falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back
together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella
in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place
to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate
the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared
our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow.
We pray of suffering and remorse.
We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table,
while we are laughing and crying,
eating of the last sweet bite.

~ Joy Harjo ~ (www.joyharjo.com)

(Reinventing the Enemy’s Language)