Yesterday I sautéed some purple onions until they were slithery with sesame oil. I added smally chopped sweet potatoes and sautéed some more, added some soy sauce and fresh ginger and garlic and some whole grain noodles, then served myself at our table by the sliding glass door, eating while the winter sun shone whitely through the sheets of blinds.
It was a comfort food, too oily to be strictly healthy, but I wanted something warm and filling. I plopped some on Sophie's baby plate and she picked up the slick noodles with her fingers and dropped them carefully onto the floor. When we finished eating (and dropping), I cleaned her and washed the dishes and then put her to sleep.
While she slept, I applied a red-tinted lip stain. It's ridiculous to wear makeup at home, but I am learning to embrace the ridiculous with glee. In other words, I am learning wildness as an art form, as something to be cultivated carefully as the intellect. This includes, but is not limited to: boiling the flower heads of the bouquet Georg bought me (intending to use the liquid for an art project), sometimes writing poetry on the hidden parts of my skin, or sometimes wearing a red-tint on my lips. These acts are not calculated, but are sometimes suggested , sometimes demanded by that wild warmth inside of me, which drains me if I ignore the demands for too long.
I am so lucky that I can stretch my full length (in intellect and soul) and not frighten my husband. When we were dating, sometimes I would test his limits. I never found them. If I wanted to do something, he laughed or listened, always supportive.
The safety of that love helps me be brave. It helps me erupt in small acts of resistance against the ordinary. It makes me believe that, someday, I will weave together a life that isn't ordinary at all.