The cats and I are lying down on the bed. Bean is curled up in the nook he has made between my shoulder and my neck. He has fallen asleep while making biscuits, and every now and again, he sighs, blowing little cold bursts of kitty breath on me. Choux is a perfectly formed kitty baguette pressed close against my hip with her head resting on my leg. Her snores are as creaky and gravelly sounding as her meows. The sounds of their breathing mingle with mine as we all take a moment to unwind, me from a hard week, them from their hard week where I’m at work for most of the day.

I breathe in the conversation I had with a friend who has been struggling and is finding her light, and I breathe out the week’s worth of microaggressions from work. My shoulders relax a bit, and I open myself up to allow my friends’ light to join the flickering light inside me that feels like it is going out. 

I breathe in hearing from friends that they’ve found new jobs or have had new opportunities find their way to their doorstep, and I breathe out the anger I have at this city for doing their best to shut down Chicago because the streets are allowed to fill with people celebrating their heritage, but not if they’re Mexican. I move my neck slightly and hear a loud CRACK, and I know when I get up, I’ll be able to move my head to the right and left without pain. 

Bean unfurls himself and gives a big stretch. “Good boy,” I say. “What a big stretch!” He murmurs something in cat that I interpret as a directive for me to shush so he can go back to sleep. He is no longer curled against me but draped over me like a mini pashmina. His little paddy-paws make a few biscuits on the other side of my neck; he sighs and is back to sleep. Choux has started purring. I listen to their breaths until I find myself focusing on my own. 

I breathe in a conversation from weeks ago with a friend who told me that I’m doing a good job and that they’re proud of me. I cried after that call. I am always worried that I’m not doing enough and that I need to find the energy to do more, be more, and care more. I breathe out this idea of perfectionism that I have. Although that anxiety will return, for now, I am enough, and I am so grateful to my friend for sharing with me that which I struggle to see for myself. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Bean is dreaming. Little mew sounds are coming from him and his paws and his whiskers are twitching in his sleep. I hope he catches whatever he’s chasing. Choux gets up. “Big stretch,” I whisper to her. She prods my legs until I adjust so she can curl up between my knees. She has changed her form and now resembles a furry little croissant.

I close my eyes and let go of the bit of Joanne Epps I’ve been selfishly carrying around. I have no right to keep any piece of her from her afterlife. But as a Black woman I wonder if I will end the same: stepping up to fill the needs of others before the needs of myself. I let her go. I let that fear go. The fear will return, but today, I tell myself that I will reinforce my boundaries when needed and do my best to take on only what I can and want to carry. A deep breath in. An impossibly long breath out. 

I breathe in the scents of my mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, strong Black women who refused to be defined by their strength alone. I fill myself with their love, support, and confidence. I breathe in my mother’s determination, and the scent of banana bread fills my nostrils, a throwback to when she sold baked goods at farmer's and flea markets to earn more money to support the family. I breathe in my grandmother’s grace and care for others; it smells like Anais-Anais perfume. I breathe in my great-grandmother's love and am immediately comforted by the smell of hot oatmeal with raisins and butter. I try to breathe out the fear and rage I’ve been holding onto because Black women are not protected, believed, respected, or cherished. I can’t let it go. I can feel my body becoming tense. I open my eyes. My breathing becomes heavy, and the rhythm speeds up and disrupts the cats. Bean gets up and sits at the foot of the bed. Choux gets up and sits like a statue. She looks at me and then climbs up to lay on my chest. Her yellow-green eyes look straight at me. She starts to purr and shimmies so her head is right by my chin. She closes her eyes as I stroke her head. Her purrs reverberate through my chest. Bean walks to the head of the bed and kisses me on the cheek with his rough tongue. He curls up right by my head and promptly falls asleep. 

We breathe in and out. I let go of my fears and anger. I know they’re not gone forever, but for now, for this moment I don’t need to carry them. I breathe in and I’m tickled by whiskers. I breathe out and hear purrs. Breathe in and little puffs of kitty breath surround me. Breathe out. Breathe in. All I need to do, all I need to be is who I am right now. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. 
 

tidbits...

resources on anti-racism, environmentalism and food culture AKA stuff we're reading / listening to / watching / noticing / thinking about / captivated by this Tuesday . . .

Cook Along: This week we're going savory with our pie dough. Dor opted for a potato galette with Gruyere, mustard, and chives. Tay remade an old favorite that her friend Amanda made their first time having dinner together: galette with caramelized onions spread over a thin layer of dijon and sprinkled with some thyme. Have you been cooking along with us? Tell us what pie is gracing your table? 

Today we needed Desiree Adaway's clarity, by way of Ricardo Levins Morales, on the slow, deep, and irreversible work.

The words and wisdom from Rowen White have been getting us through the last few months - but this conversation with Prentice Hemphill about the diaspora of disconnection really hit home. 

If you've been loving the history lesson that Beyoncé's new album offers us, or if you want to learn more about it, Monique Melton is teaching on it tonight.

Julia Turshen on The Pride Podcast.

Susan Cain offers us seven ways to keep loving humanity.

View and share this free guide to How to Write a More Equitable Job Post, and stay tuned for new resources to deepen this work.

"Plenty has been written about the economic impact of the pandemic on the food industry, but not enough about its lingering effects on the bodies of people whose mission is to nourish us." Read the latest GFJ Story on the creator behind Anjali's Cup, with words by Nicole J. Caruth and photos by Christine Han.

got a tidbit? drop it here for us and we'll share it in next week's newsletter.