Chef Ed and I had so much in common but no time to be together. I found him happy to wait long periods before we saw each other. In our time together, I learned to take my time. I had space too — long, space to desire, space to feel.
I decided not to ask myself where, when, or how long it would be before he would appear. I did not solicit his company, nor did he reach out. This was not a perfect romance, but it taught me about attachments.
In most of my former relationships, I overextended. I gave more than I had the energy to share. Many of my early lessons about relating didn't teach me about boundaries. I felt guilty about putting myself first. But with Chef Ed, there was no danger of this. My relationship with him did not define me, nor did he require caretaking. This kind of expression was new for me. Instead, he encouraged me to focus on my development in clear words and actions. I continued to change.
My hands were full with figuring out what I wanted in my life and learning the disciplines that would support it. Meditation, yoga, dance, and cooking became my practices.
In meditation, I focused on a few areas and made vision boards for them:
Self I desired to see myself as loved and loving.
Family I desired a gentle, loving unit of support.
Friends I desired to be connected to intelligent, funny, creative, loyal, and healthy people.
Career I longed to make abundant money from food and creativity, joyfully.
Home I desired more than one home in a natural setting, surrounded by water.
As I looked at these things, I realized I already carried what I needed for them to be actualized.
What it came down to was choosing me first.
And I have the recipe for that.
"I learned to take my time. Space to desire. Space to feel."
The book pairs this course with a chilled watermelon soup — lemon, ginger, a little sweetness, something cooling for a woman learning, at last, to slow down. For Yield, I wanted to carry that same trio into the glass: the brightness of cured lemon, the heat of ginger, and the deep red of the season, held in a cherry shrub. A shrub is itself an act of patience — fruit and vinegar left to marry over days, the oldest way of keeping the harvest past its moment. It felt like the right thing to make for an issue about what we hold on to.
