39. Coconut curry at the end of the world.

Nature reclaiming an abandoned Ikea office building, 12/9/23 Plymouth Meeting, PA

Greetings from the almost-new moon, greetings from the almost-solstice, greetings from the almost-new year, greetings from the in-between. And bless it. These weeks of days have been so incredibly full: our family’s one car gave up the ghost the day before Thanksgiving and we’ve been scrambling, renting cars to go to the suburbs to shop for a newer used car, meeting with the bank to try to get a loan to purchase the car, deliberating over sunroofs and down payments and gap coverage. We bought the car yesterday, and celebrated with sushi, and the new and final Miyazaki film on the big screen, after exploring a nearby abandoned office building being taken over by ivy and squirrels and brambles and tuxedo cats.

There is the movement of regular life: therapy and doctor’s appointments, dogs, cats, cookie swaps, haircuts, groceries, college applications. And then there is the movement: bodies moving together, feet in the street, voices in unison, almost every day.

There is work, and the work of working: the hustle, the commute. There is the absurd calculus of credibility in an incredulous situation: war and the silence about war; the way my “Palestinian Sesame Cookies” became simply “cookies” once they reached the finals of the office holiday cookie swap, but someone’s “Italian Ricotta Cheese Cookies” were allowed to remain proudly Italian, as if even uttering or repeating the name of this persecuted people would transmit a moral contagion.

There is the work of holding my breath while I try to hold my clients’ needs in one hand and my own voice in the other; so many hungry mouths to feed, so much to hold, even as I only grow in admiration, respect, and love for my clients, the women I have the honor of sitting with, a momentary seat in the middle of their own messy, gorgeous lives.

And then there is the work: writing letters to the governor, writing letters to the editor, writing letters to the senators, pouring over letters and poems and art, listening and reading as poems and songs and letters wrench my heart, wrench my gut, wrench my mind, like this one: artist Sam Rise singing a poem by the Palestinian poet Refaat Alareer, who was assassinated by Israel on December 6th along with his brother, sister, and four of her children:

samantharise

A post shared by @samantharise

This season of busy-ness is so persistent that I haven’t read a book, I haven’t journaled, I haven’t done yoga, or meditated in weeks; I’ve barely walked the dog. It’s hard to write, it’s hard to focus; the floors are dusty, and the little garden by the sidewalk is a mess of overwintering mugwort and marigold, all gone to seed, brown stalks asleep and dreaming of summer, sunshine, sweet tea, and a bower of roses.

I don’t mind being busy right now, and I don’t feel overwhelmed so much as full, but it’s also true that I have tried to swear myself off of this kind of busy-ness in the past, this kind of stridence and relentlessness that comes a little too naturally to me. It puts people off, I think; it reminds me of a past self that I am ashamed of; a me that hurt people, however unintentionally, by my own reckless need to perform, to produce, to please but also, not simply to be right but to do right, a desperate need for correctness. And that self is not so far away: she’s right here.

But instead of fixing her, right now I’m trying to roll with her, with me, giving her air and light and decent regard, allowing her to exist, allowing myself to feel chaotic and forgive myself for being chaotic, to tolerate my aggravated impulses and give myself a little grace, to wrap myself up like a warm child after a bath, to soothe myself rather than discipline myself. I’m trying to give myself room to be busy, to be messy, to say the thing, to be un-calm. Because what would it mean to be perfectly balanced at a time like this?

On Thursday night, after a week of eating fried eggs for dinner, I made a proper meal, one of my favorites: Thai coconut red curry with tofu. I searched for a podcast, maybe Democracy Now, to stay up to date on the details of today’s fresh hell, but I opted instead for music, playing all the songs that Spotify told me I played the most this year.

I settled in, and cleared and cleaned the dishes, wiped down the counter, to prepare to cook: I set the rice in the pressure cooker, chopped the garlic, peeled the ginger and the lemongrass, my body starting to move, to bounce and sway. As I began to zest the limes, I turned up the volume, overcome by the sensations of it—the sharp citrus scent, the sound of fruit rasping against the box grater, my hands dripping with juice—and I began to sing at the top of my lungs, harmonizing with John Lennon as he called out to Yoko, with The Postal Service as they waved from such great heights, with Solange, with Jeff Tweedy, with Lee “Scratch” Perry. Everything fell away, and I transcended. It’s my very favorite thing, when ordinary life becomes sacred, when mundane life catches fire, when breath vibrates in my ribcage and my mind buzzes, electric. Suddenly, I wasn’t just alone making dinner in the kitchen on a school night, I was ALIVE at the end of the world.

And being alive means feeling it all. It means crying when you’re filling out a simple survey from your son’s school, remembering that next year he will be away at college, and it has all been so sweet and so brief. Being alive means feeling the sting of rejection when people can’t meet you where you are at, for who you are, and the flush of humility when you realize you’re the one doing the rejecting. And being alive means not turning away from the suffering, your own or others’. Being alive means going towards the pain, getting proximate to the pain of those who suffer the most, as Bryan Stevenson said.

Because the fact is, I don’t want to feel ashamed any more, and I don’t want to keep apologizing, and I’m not afraid. Because, though I know this movement isn’t about me, it includes me, and I believe the version of me that is showing up to this moment is my favorite version of me. I love her. I love the me that takes up space in the streets and uses my rage as a crowbar to pry open space for others. I love the me that hands out Narcan at the protest and antagonizes cops and makes performance art out of a cookie swap, the me that tries to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. And I love the people I’m meeting in this movement, the loveliest, most generous people.

Last week during an action at the Comcast Center, a security guard, a young guy, standing between me and a row of police whispered, I’m sorry about all this. I looked up, into his eyes. I don’t like this war and I don’t like the cops either, but I’ve got someone I’m protecting and I need this job. I nodded in understanding, and I felt by his small gesture of connection that he was protecting me, too. The protesters began to march, to picket, and after about 15 minutes of circling the plaza, I felt a sense of calm, of walking meditation. My chants became prayers. My steps, a rhythmic mantra. Let the dust pile in the corners of the room I thought. Let the books idle and the weeds melt into soil. I am alive, and I’m right where I need to be.

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Home.

Winter:

Thank you to the people who make Everyday Oil for this extremely chill instrumental playlist:

Melissa Clark’s Coconut Red Curry with Tofu:

Sautee:

• 1tablespoon peanut or safflower oil

• 1-inch ginger root, peeled and minced

• 2 shallots or 1 small onion, minced

• 2 garlic cloves, minced

• (Celery/Carrots/Sweet potatoes whatever veg you want to add)

• 2 tablespoons chopped cilantro stems

• 8 ounces cremini mushrooms, quartered

Add in and simmer:

• ½ teaspoon sea salt, more to taste

• (a few inches of lemongrass stalk)

• 3 tablespoons prepared red curry paste

• 1 can unsweetened coconut milk

• 2 teaspoons fish sauce

• Zest and juice of 1 lime

Then add and simmer for about 10 minutes:

• 1 package extra firm tofu, drained and cubed

• 1 cup snow peas

Serve over rice, and garnish with chopped green onions, basil leaves, or cilantro. Ahh.

Breaking Houseplant News:

Cue the bells and Andy Williams singing It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year, because my Christmas Cactus is blooming! This is the mother plant of so many cactuses that I’ve propagated and given away over the years, which I rescued off of the porch of my next door neighbor on Short Street in Asheville after she moved away circa 2007. Wonders never cease.

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The Moon.

On Tuesday, the moon is new in Sagittarius. New moons mark new beginnings, time to shed the old skin and the old blood, and make space for something new (or just make space). Sagittarius embodies the higher mind, expansive travel, learning, doctrine/dogma/spiritual practice, and adventure. So this week is a beautiful time to reflect and rededicate to one’s purpose, sense of meaning, education and life path, whatever that means to you. 🌑

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The World.

This morning, I pulled a card from the Slow Holler Tarot, a project collectively envisioned and carried out by 32 artists and 4 writers, all of whom share a Southern and/or queer identity. Below, I am sharing their words for this card, because, of course, they are so beautifully congruous with the theme of today’s essay. Please check out Slow Holler and the many amazing artists and writers that form their collective.

Major Arcana 21: The World. From the Slow Holler Tarot, 2017.

THE WORLD • 21

Be receptive to harmony. Come home. Be welcomed back into the fold. Share your gifts with those who love you. Participate in creating the world you want.

Welcome home! Is there anything here that doesn't know you? Home may take many different forms, but you know when you have arrived there. You are able to reconnect with the familiar and become more familiar to yourself. All those missing pieces you had forgotten were lost are restored to you here. You are at the height of your powers and in the exact place you need to be. The World card indicates that you’ve completed a major accomplishment, concluded a phase of life, fulfilled a dream, or returned from a voyage. The World represents the infinity and eternity, beginning and end, the completion of a cycle. It offers you the promise of wholeness, flourishing, and pleasure in your life. When The World appears in your reading, you're given the chance for synthesis and integration. Wherever you're positioned, you have the opportunity to sense the underlying unity and harmony of the circle you inhabit. Your participation enhances and completes what already exists. As you give freely, you receive in abundance your heart's desire.

Home + The World is a weekly newsletter by Jodi Rhoden featuring personal essay, recipes, links and recommendations exploring the ways we become exiled: through trauma, addiction, oppression, grief, loss, and family estrangement; and the ways we create belonging: through food and cooking, through community care and recovery and harm reduction, through therapy and witchcraft and making art and telling stories and taking pictures and houseplants and unconditional love and nervous system co-regulation and cake. All content is free; the paid subscriber option is a tip jar. If you wish to support my writing with a one-time donation, you may do so on Venmo @Jodi-Rhoden. Thank you for being here and thank you for being you.

⚔️❤️ Jodi