I was slathered with sea salt and wrapped in a foil burrito, and I was left in a dark room to marinate in the warm goodness. I listened to the New Age-y music and felt so warm and heavy, just enveloped in deliciousness.
As I was driving the boys home, more than anything, I wanted to feel that way again. It's been snowy and cold here, and it is supposed to stay cold and snow some more.
It's times like this that I long for a place of warmth, a place where I can close my eyes, rest, and just hibernate for awhile.
In the meantime, I make myself busy with projects. I made bread:
There's satisfaction in tasks like this, although if I'm going to take this Pollan-inspired hysteria along for the long haul, I may choose to invest in a bread machine.
While kneading, I thought of Sylvia Plath. I adore Sylvia. I feel bad that she married such a crumb of a man, and I wish things didn't end so terribly for her. I admire her work ethic, and her relentless need to create.
It's her verses about motherhood and pregnancy that touch my soul most profoundly. As I re-read her words, I'm reminded of how much I love my boys, and how much my mother loves me, and how, in the midst of this wintery blanket, I am still cherished. I am still beautiful.
I will rise, like a loaf of bread.
You'reClownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fool's Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our travelled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.