Some people tell me I eat slowly. My mind has been made up about this issue for some time and I always think to myself that I eat as fast as I can, comfortably. This reminds me of when I walk on the nature trail and hear others shout from behind, “On your left!” before zooming past me. I am amazed at how quickly they get ahead of me after they pass because I feel I’m walking fast.
When my husband and I sit down to enjoy a meal, sometimes before I’ve completed cutting up and arranging my food on the plate, he has neatly folded his napkin and begun to pick up his plate and silverware, heading toward the kitchen sink. When this occurs I am angry.
Rationalizing that it was my wifely duty to help him change, I have generously shared articles extolling the digestive benefits of chewing food thirty-six times before swallowing. Recently, I strategically placed a book on the table open to a story about a Buddhist monk who let his wife convince him to slow down and have conversation and tea with her every day. These techniques have not been wildly successful. To celebrate my birthday, I had lunch at the Botanical Center with my good friend Lisa. Curiously, I didn’t feel anything but mild surprise when I noticed she finished her meal. My plate was half full but I didn’t feel angry.
So I’m asking myself, how is it that when Lisa enacted the same behavior as Wendell, I felt so differently? Kathleen Dowling Singh writes that anger is a habit pattern that always arises out of ignorance. I started to think that my concern about Wendell is really concern about myself. The old romantic notion of lovers needing to be in synch, mirroring each other perfectly, eating leisurely meals together while having deep meaningful conversations, is a rendition of my old wish for oceanic feelings, the feelings I confronted on the psychoanalytic couch. Oceanic can mean merging with the other and losing self. That was not what I had in mind.
My habit pattern is to find someone to blame for the feelings that are inside me.
When I sit down and pretend I’m on the analytical couch, I realize that anger is probably related to my fear of being alone.
IMAGE: I am always amazed at how neatly Wendell puts silverware in the drawer. I appreciate him being in charge of kitchen clean-up every day.
