Holding It All

A mother's morning in a time of mourning

The first words that spilled out of my five-year-old son’s mouth this morning, as his eyes greeted the new day, were that he was hungry. When this happens, I know I need to act fast—otherwise, we will reach a moment where his energy will shift, and he may become grouchy and, honestly, a bit annoying. I dash out of bed, still not with fully opened eyes, but I mobilize nonetheless. I pour him some orange juice while the eggs are sizzling on the stovetop. I pour myself a cup of warm water as I gently stir in the local honey I get from the farmers market every Sunday. A sweet ritual to begin a new day.

As the eggs are presenting as almost finished, my son begins to move away from the table, and I realize that I have to catch him quickly—otherwise, I might lose him to something else, and then he will not want to eat, but need to, and the rest of the morning may continue to unravel in a way that might make being in flow more difficult. I invite him over to help me decide if the eggs are finished. We stare at them. I ask him to notice the texture, the smell, the shape. “Do they look ready?” I say. His eyes are big and curious. In my own mind, I am saying to myself (thank goodness, this is working!). Proudly, after examining the eggs, he says yes, they look good, and we make his plate of breakfast. He wants warmed-up strawberries too, so we add them along with a piece of buttered toast. As I notice him eating, the sensation of such warmth and gratitude washes over me. It is a really poignant, special, universal feeling that washes over a mother whose child is being nourished and fed. The feeling itself, if I were to try to describe it, would be: all is right in the world. The sense would be completion and safety.

As my son ate his breakfast, I turned quickly to preparing his lunch. On Thursdays, he spends half of his day at school in the forest, so I bring that in as a factor when I am thinking of sustaining and energy-giving foods. I pack his little purple bento box, which is covered in stickers, with as much food as I can fit. I place his bento box in his lunch bag, add a few more snacks, and a note on a napkin that says, “I love you – mama.” The eye, however, is drawn out as an eye, the love made into a heart, the you written as a U, signed XOXO Mama—just as my mother did for me every time she packed my lunch as a kid. Another feeling of completion and ease washes over me. He is ready for his day. A lunch packed with nutrition, care, love, and lineage. A lunch he may eat. A lunch he may not. But a lunch, nonetheless.

Before we leave the house, I notice my own hunger cues and make myself some eggs and greens. I move really quickly, noticing that we are running late, but I find enough time to feed my hunger.

After dropping my happy, skipping son off at school, I head to my local café to tend to all of the emails that have been patiently waiting for me. I order my almond milk cinnamon honey latte. Sit down. Open up my computer. A smile forms on my face. It’s 8:30 in the morning, and already so much has been done, so many bellies have been fed, so many opportunities now possible. The pleasantly awakening aroma of all the baked goods begins drifting into my nose, opening me up to the smell and sensation of warmth, savory, sweet goodness. My eyes make contact with the freshly baked pastries aligned so perfectly in a row on the counter in front of me, calling all of me in. Goodness, they look so lovely. All the varieties. All the textures. Apricot pinwheels, blueberry scones, morning glory buns, marionberry biscuits—and those are just what the eyes see first. In the back are rows and rows of mochi donuts galore. Anything that the heart desires at my fingertips. I just glance at them, deciding that I will wait to eat my soup that is defrosting on my kitchen counter.

Everyone is well and fed before 8:30 a.m. Lunch is sitting on the counter and packed in a bag. Dinner is resting in its abundance in the refrigerator. All things that I—with all of my privilege—don’t have to worry about. At all. I open Substack and begin reading my daily reads, and I come across a statement that says, “It has been 80 days since aid has entered Gaza.”

Quickly, all the images that I have been bearing witness to—of starving children crying out, while parents sit helplessly in despair and pain—pour into my mind’s eye and heart, and I begin to feel sick to my stomach with grief and rage. A dear friend has been making it a point to also bring in images of the Palestinian people in their light, their aliveness, and their vibrancy, so I try to hold both images in my mind at once as an honoring, as a prayer. It’s not easy, but I will always keep trying.

I, like many of my loved ones and kin, have been in deep mourning and advocating for the survival of the Palestinian people and speaking out about the atrocities that are being committed in the name of safety—in my name, the name of the Jewish people. Numbers are becoming heartbeats that I cannot look away from, even for a few hours. They are haunting, and for good reason. 80 days. 14,000 children are on the brink of being forcibly starved to death. 48 hours.

I have tried everything in my power to figure out how to write the words “14,000 children are on the brink of being forcibly starved to death” in a way that would make them more digestible. I have tried everything in my power to figure out how to do the math when counting all of the fingers, and toes, arms, and legs, eyes, and lips that can barely move because of what lack of food and nutrients does to one’s body. I have tried everything in my power to figure out how to share with you that that is 1,400,000,000 heartbeats a day. 1,400,000,000 moments of fear, love, unnamable grief, and pulsating pain. I have tried everything in my power to share the number of breaths that are breathed in a day—308,000,000 parched breaths, held breaths, shallow breaths—and I wonder: when does it become too painful to even breathe? Are hunger cries silent? Is there a symphony of children’s rumbling, aching, painful tummies?

Helplessness and feelings that I don’t even have names for taste horrible on the tongue. Bitterness and horror do not bring ease to the belly. I think back to when I had even the smallest experience with anything close to witnessing and feeling such pain. Quickly, I am brought back to the first few days after giving birth, when my son was losing weight because my body was not producing enough food. My milk was delayed in a way that was “concerning,” and his weight was dropping dramatically in a way which called for more intervention. Although I can’t recall what was happening in my thinking mind, what I do recall is the deepest well of pain, sorrow, guilt, and agony—learning that his unsoothable cries were due to not getting enough to eat. When I write the word agony here, it is as if my whole being folds into itself. It is a primitive experience. It is soul-breaking. And to think that that is being used as a weapon is too much to even fathom.

I have tried everything in my power to figure out how to write the words “14,000 children are on the brink of being forcibly starved to death” in a way that would make them more digestible, and the truth is that there really is no way to—because it isn’t digestible. There is no way to let that number and reality into your body and then expect your body to know how to process it—there are no nutrients to take from, and no way to expel the rest.

And then I wonder, what happens when the truth isn’t digestible?

What does the body do?

How do we stomach all of this?

How do I hold and honor all of these feelings inside me as I prepare my lunch? As I pack my son’s bento box? As I move quickly in the mornings to try my hardest to feed his hunger before he gets upset?

How do all of these experiences live in one body?

May each bite be a prayer.

May each feeling of ease as you witness your child being fed be a prayer.

May each image of suffering and agony that pops into your head be also held with light and love, and may it be a prayer.

Keep praying.

Keep listening.

Keep connecting.

Keep loving.

Keep going.

Keep feeling.