constant state of flux

When all is hustle-and-bustle in the house and you stand at the centre of it all, the simplest of tasks take on a significance that is breath-taking; peeling carrots, sweeping the floor, washing the dishes, ladling soup out into four bowls neatly lined up on the table, waiting for dough to rise into bread – intent on the warm aromas, the boiling stock pot, the steamy window panes, the heat. Everything becomes an act of love, an act of supreme devotion, an act of beauty and meaning.

And we reside deep inside it.

It is done again and again and again, in a never ending movement around the same counter, the same oven, the same sink, over the same floor, it is the altar of our family and the hearth of our healing.

The world is sacred, the snow falling out there in the kitchen garden is sacred, our bodies are sacred, the potatoes are sacred, the sprouting grains in those jars over there for our bread is the sacred nourishment for my family. The sun is sacred and the sun’s sacredness bursts from these grains. We are sacred, our unit is sacred and solid. The soil, frozen now under white blankets is sacred and the stars that will appear one by one as the snow clouds clear later on tonight are sacred. They look over us, they are our ancestors and we use their light to nourish our children.

This and only this, is the sacredness of woman’s work. This and only this is the reason why I am here.