balance

Ramadan conversations regularly surround me at the moment, perhaps because of my tendency to listen to Radio France International while walking around the city. I mumble phrases, trying out this language that is not mine like I try on shoes or a dress, seeing what fits, how to wrap my body into new shapes. Similar to the games of agility required by a new language, an entire month of fasting requires a rethinking,a restructuring of time, of eating habits and work habits and even personal relationships. None of this is first-hand knowledge, yet my imagination is spinning about with the possibilities.

I see it as not all that different from the August vacances that the large majority of Parisians take. The city remakes itself, bringing in sand to make beaches along the Seine, food deliveries happen later in the day, so I can actually wander past an entire beef half outside the butcher's, mid-delivery. Hanging there in stasis, an almost unimaginable reality in today's world of cellophane-wrapped foods, visible as the animal it was before being transformed, remade by a simple knife into food.

I imagine the joy of the evening meal, the anticipated moment when food first crosses into the body again. I know this moment, as I fast the first Sunday of every month. It reappears, in small form, every morning. Sunlight creeps in, my body readjusts, and hunger announces its presence via burbling, gurgling, growling demands for food, for attention, for care. This may be why breakfast is my favorite meal, because it carries with it a true remembrance of what hunger can be.

So today I offer up the suggestion of fresh melon, arugula with a fried egg, and very, very dark cocoa. Happy munching.