Mom's Lentil Soup

---

In this (extended) season of life, i’m finding myself needing space from my mom. Space geographically, space mentally, space emotionally, and space spiritually.

Today is my 90th day in Belgium. Yet another stop on my accidental world tour to find my place in this world. Intentional or not, one thing that has been very clear is that I have needed to put some serious physical distance between myself and the web of narratives that had been installed for what seemed like for my protection.

I’ve come to learn that people really do try their best — but the word “best” has different equivalents and standards deemed uniquely by the judgment of the beholder.

People really do have good intentions — no matter what. People are always acting and believing and moving towards a belief that is strongly held. And that’s it.

Adults are just big kids. Sometimes healing has happened, sometimes it hasn’t. But no matter what, it alters the lens through which the world is viewed.

And as a parent, this has massive implications on children. For better and for worse.

It is at this moment in time that I refer back to the above:

People really do try their best.

and

People really do have good intentions.

So on this 90th day in Belgium, it is time to act on my own good intentions to nourish myself with something warm and herb-filled and hearty and of the earth, and make the lentil soup that I have been craving for four days.

Time previously in the week did not permit me to act on this urge, and so here I am on this gray Belgian “summer” day — chopping carrots, onions, potatoes, and way too much garlic first thing in the morning, preparing a vat of lentil soup, that of course, will disintegrate into a thick stew, that is far oversized for the consumption of just myself and one other person.

Searching Spotify for a nice Saturday morning playlist, I try out a couple. None are providing the mellow and nurturing feel that I am craving. I continue on chopping, aspiring to meet my need for nurturing and nourishment through the creation before me.

Enough is enough, I know what I need and I need it now.

Trevor Hall — who else?

I change to Green Mountain State and immediately feel my body soften. The chopping becomes a dance. Something takes over my body and I start to sway.

And then it hits me.

A deep yearning for family — the very thing that I had put so much physical space between the last two years. I hadn’t intentionally put it between my brother and sister and I, I just really needed it from my mom for reasons unbeknownst to me at the time.

I missed them. I miss them.

The last several weeks, okay months, I have not had any space to give to my mom.

Phone calls were curt. I showed nothing but apathy, despite how badly I truly did want to show her that I, her oldest daughter, her first child, was actually okay. That I was happy. That I missed her. I missed my mom. I wanted to show her that I cared about her life, but I wanted her to show me how much she cared about mine first. I really was trying my best, although in the eyes and heart of the receiver, this may have been viewed as the contrary. I think I had good intentions, but the words just didn’t leave my tongue in the way that my heart wanted to send them. Heart, why won’t you open? It’s safe.

But it didn’t feel that way. Not for a long time. No matter how badly I wanted it to be.

I start by chopping the carrots, as I can finish those off, and dump all of the residual waste into the plastic bag in which they arrived in the bottom drawer of my refrigerator. A cooking tip I learned from an Argentinian best friend from university.

I prefer these to be large and chunky, as opposed to thin and meager. I want to taste not only the sweetness of the carrot, but the contrast it provides amongst the lentils that will turn to mush after prolonged simmering.

Contrast.

I lived in Singapore prior to my move to Brugge, Belgium. I worked as a chiropractor in a pediatric and prenatal centered office. And here, I took care of pregnant mamas, postpartum moms, first time moms, moms who were pregnant with the third child and wondering how they were going to manage on top of the two under five they already had, and of course, their babies.

I saw the way the first time moms came into the office with their newborn. The way the would hand this brand new life to me with trust for what I was going to serve them, and complete astonishment of what they had grown and safely brought into this world, just days or weeks before.

Contrast.

I gently unwrap them from the safety of their swaddles and hold them in my arms, equally as amazed that I had been working with this darling little thing through the protective cocoon of mamas belly for weeks prior and now. And here you are.

Beloved. Admired. Adored.

I can’t help but think of my own mother, my own entrance into this world.

Where did things go astray?

I complete the carrots and put them into the never-big-enough pot.

I look around for what to chop next. The onions.

My mom always taught me that onions are great for digestion. They help everything to just move right through. In the off chance that the lentils needed any reinforcements.

From a young age, my mom was always very conscious of moving her body and eating clean. She told me that her own mother was also ahead of her time from a nutrition standpoint — eating cottage cheese and hard boiled eggs before it was a fad. She instilled the same awareness and desire to feel good in me.

I limit myself to two onions, as I know that space will fill up much more quickly than I want it to. But those onions are just so damn good. Providing a silkiness amongst the fog of the lentils.

I chop the ends of the onions off first, peeling the skin and placing it on top of the empty plastic bag in which the bio carrots came. Slicing longways.

As length and distance between my mom and me increased, I started to see things differently. I started to see that my vision as a 13, 16, 18 year young oldest daughter to a mom in the thick of, what I perceived at the time, to be a nasty divorce, was perhaps slightly skewed, slightly biased, and slightly blinded by a deep desire to show up for my mom. To be her best friend. To be her confidant. To be her person to whom she could say anything, anything at all, even if it was something nasty about my dad.

But then, I also just wanted to be her daughter. I wanted to be the one that she could go on jogs with, down Roosevelt, to Broad street, to Drexel, or Wolfe Park if we were up for extending and adding in one small hill, before finishing up Main Street with a conclusive 3.6 miles. I wanted to be the one that would crawl into bed with her at night after my sister and brother had gone to sleep and ask the Magic 8 Ball questions about our futures, asking again and again until we got the answers that we desired. I wanted to be the one that could eternally share clothes with her, despite my physical build being different than hers, which led to harbored resentment for some years until I grew more into me and learned to love myself.

I wanted to be all of that. So that is what I was able to hold at the forefront of my memory for so many years. Until I took physical distance and was able to perceive things differently.

In my head for so many years, my mom could do no wrong. None.

I defended her, I showed my loyalty, I stepped up to the plate whenever I felt like she needed, and even when she didn’t. Because I loved her more than anything. And because I felt like this was my duty as the oldest daughter in the throws of a long divorce with a single parent doing her absolute best.

I, too, did my best.

Even in writing this, I have a twinge of dis-ease in my heart, as a fear lingers of portraying her as a bad mother in the very undertone (and perhaps overtone) of these words. I would like to make very, very clear, that she was not that at all. She gave me everything. And I, too, wanted to give her everything.

But things started to change between us.

At the time of these changes, my relationship, or lack thereof, with my dad sat at the precipice of the self work that I needed to do throughout my years in chiropractic school. This was the thing I needed to “fix” from my childhood and early adulthood. All else…was fine.

Onions are in, next up is the garlic. A rule of thumb for me is to always take what would be considered a normal amount of garlic for a dish, and double it. Five cloves, crushed with the flat side of the knife, which, when lucky, will allow the skin to peel off rather easily. Peeled, chopped, and tossed in with the carrots and onions.

I remember sitting at a friend’s apartment in Chicago, who just so happened to be a life coach. We were sitting on his couch, talking about life, and a recent incident with my mom came up. He looked me square in the face and said “It sounds like the relationship with your mom is the one to work on”.

These words hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt as if the wind had gotten knocked out of me. I felt the color leave from my face. I couldn’t feel my legs.

Do I have a bad relationship with my mom? I asked myself.

Flashes of my mom and I went through my head. Words that were said, things that were not let go, apologies that were not received.

Holy shit, thought to myself. I have a bad relationship with my mom.

I was 24.

This crushed me. As my mom’s biggest fan, her most loyal supporter, her confidant, I felt wrecked. I felt like what I had done to show my love all of those years wasn’t enough. How was it not received? Was I not loyal enough? Did I do this by making her feel bad for not coming to enough field hockey games in college? Can I apologize? Will she forgive me?

I know she had two other kids to deal with, and a career, and friends, and her life. I really didn’t mean to make her feel so bad for not being enough.

To be frank, I of course played a role in this, too. These things do not happen in a one-sided manner.

But I was a kid. I was learning. There was no way to do everything correctly and justly the first time. How could I have known better?

There have been many moments in which I have thought back about incidents that occurred between my mom and I that deeply hurt her — typically without my knowing it at the time. But that is the point of growing up. Shedding layers. Seeing things differently. Doing our best. Having good intentions.

It has felt as though there was an unspoken expectation for me to do it all right the first time, and I still do not feel completely forgiven by her for that.

Contrast.

I want to do it differently.

One day.

But I also want to do some of it the same.

One day.

Potatoes are next. I don’t remember Mom putting potatoes in her lentil soup, but the consistency of earth in their very molecular structure seems extra appealing to me in this moment, as I do my best to understand where to plant my own roots. I just want to plant them deep into the earth. I chop them in chunks and then chuck them in with the carrots and onions and garlic.

Mom would like this batch.

I add in the lentils and water. I survey the creation, estimating that I will definitely have to disperse some of this to a friend, as I do not have a freezer in which I can store the surplus.

I add spices.

A mix of ginger, cumin, black pepper, cinnamon, and cayenne pepper.

I always grew up eating spicy food. Mom always had Cholulah stocked in the fridge. Sriracha came later. And in our house, it would disappear at an alarming rate.

I toss in some extra cayenne for good measure.

I give the concoction a mix and put it on high.

As I sit back down to type, I can give appreciation to the soundtrack of boiling in the background.

I think of the sweet, kind, loving mother, Rebecca, who brought me her 16-month old to adjust on my chiropractic table in the apartment.

I had cleaned the house completely, as I do for any clients coming in. I want them to feel welcomed, at home, supported, accepted.

She handed Nora to me. Explained to me that she is always on a nublizer, that the birth was horrendous, not how she had envisioned at all, and that she wanted better for her daughter. So much better.

This was Nora’s second adjustment. Sacrum needed some serious guidance in order to find fluidity, ease, and cohesion in her tiny little growing body. Same with occiput — this amazing tunnel between brain and body, that allows for the two to communicate effectively, controlling and normalizing all regulatory function like mood, appetite, circadian rhythm, and temperature.

I can really smell the cumin now.

I wonder if mom still wants that for me. So much better.

I’m sad that we feel like we can’t communicate with one another. Like she always hears what I say with a negative undertone. I really do mean no harm. I just want to feel understood.

Frustration.

The rain comes down harder outside the window.

I look to the plants that I’ve been nurturing for the last 60 days, wondering how much longer I will be able to care for them.

Did mom feel like she wanted to stop caring for me?

Again, guilt kicks in.

She did her best, I say to myself. She didn’t mean to be mean.

At what point to do the excuses stop and we just learn to accept people for how they are? Mother, or not.

Am I really that hard to love?

Now I smell the garlic. It is taking over the apartment. I wonder if the plants can take it in, too. I hope the flowers in the glass oblong vase don’t wilt prematurely as a result of my excessive use of garlic and onion, whose scent is bombarding every corner of the apartment. Mom would like it, at least.

Rebecca wants to help Nora live as naturally as possible, helping her avoid all of the health issues that she encountered as a child, and then some.

I know mom wanted that for me. Don’t all moms want that for their kids?

Acceptance.

She wants that. Wanted that. I know she did.

But she wants me to see her, too.

And as her child — her 28-year old child — I just want her to ask me first: how are you doing, Gab?

I can’t bring myself to ask her.

Every cell in my being holds me back from uttering those words when we speak. From asking about Alan, her husband. From asking about her life, her work, her travels, her engagements.

Because I want her to ask me first.

I’m the kid.

Is that so hard?

The soup is boiling louder now. Battling with the rain outside for recognition, on this 90th day in Belgium. My last legal day here as an American, making a move for love that her mother does not understand and may never understand. Living a life without certainty, without definites, with out concretes. A life from the heart. A life of the heart.

Apparently it is hard.

I’m sitting here, thousands of miles away, making her damn lentil soup. Doesn’t she comprehend that I love her? That I’ve done everything for her? That I acknowledge her?

Why is it never enough?

The rain slows. The boiling gets louder. The whoosh of the cars outside on Baron Ruzettelaan swells in intensity.

I’ve tried so hard to help her, to make her life easier, to lighten her load, to unhinge her from burden.

She doesn’t see it.

If she tells me that is truth, it feeds her story of not being enough.

She, nor I, can’t have that. It wouldn’t be right. As I know she tried as hard as she could, did as much as was humanly possible. Where did it all go wrong? I didn’t mean wrong.

I get up to check the soup. Give it a stir. Check to see to what degree the lentils have transformed into their liquified self, distorting from their original form of solid, strong, dense, fibrous.

We all transform to a less dense form at some point. When we’ve had enough. When we can’t take anymore.

But we solidify again.

We occupy our space. We stand up for ourselves. We take root.

And those roots may not always be where we anticipated we would find ourselves.

And it is okay.

Because we do our best. Because we have good intentions.

And at some point, we must choose to live our lives for ourselves, and not for those who cling tightly to visions of versions that we simply are not. And we let go. Even when others do not possess the ability to do so themselves.

We find that we have scents, and tastes, and nourishment to offer to those in our world, even if those who have previously been closer to us do not want to absorb them into their very own neurology and senses — it simply might be too much. But don’t worry sisters and brothers, it isn’t personal. Please don’t forget.

Everyone is doing their best.

Everyone has good intentions.

Please don’t forget.

I give the lentil soup one last stir. I look outside the window to see the row of cars stopped along the street. The bridge must be up — a boat is passing through, hence the pileup of anticipating vehicles and occupants.

The windows are fogged from the heat of the concoction on the electric stove, simmering at a three out of nine heat.

I stir, I smell, I take it in.

Mom would like this batch.

Another mix. Another whiff. Another moment of peace, as I step away from the reality that mom will never ever be close enough to try this one. Not that she has offered.

Maybe another time.

I give it a taste.

More salt.

I add a couple turns of the sea salt grinder and give the cauldron before me a mix.

Much better.

I wish I were still hungry. So I could have some of this distorted version of mom’s lentil soup.

Wonder if she would even like it, or if she would tell me she isn’t in the mood.

She’s just doing her best.

Although, us adults seem to not always know what that is for ourselves. But we sure are quick to be able to deem and command “best” for our children.

I think it is easier when we are young.

I sit here now, at 28, writing, smelling, analyzing, commemorating, being.

Could I have done better?

Wish I could eat. Can’t. Just can’t.

All I know is I did my best and I had good intentions, whether she sees it or not.