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The best recipes are our memories


I'm aware that I'm not the most patient person. 
I find deep comfort through food. 

Patience is extremely complex and I realise that I still don’t quite understand what it means.
Food seems quite natural to me and often like an extension of my being. 

I think that part of why I struggle with patience is because of anxiety, and how I likely connect the time required to “have patience” or “be patient” with not knowing, and I struggle with not being in control of my surroundings.
I’m learning that timelines are often non-linear and that putting your time towards something or someone is no guarantee that it will go the way that you intend it to. The outcomes of uncertainty, however, often meets us at our doubt.

Patience is an act of self-care as much as it’s an act of respect to those around us. 
I sometimes fear that I am incapable of being patient, which makes me feel like I lack the capacity to care.

I never follow a recipe. A part of me believes that this is rooted in a fear of failure.  
I am at peace when I feel understood.

Culture is preserved through food.
I’m constantly reminding myself to make time and space to actively listen to what others are saying. This is not only a good practice in kindness, but I gain a lot from this as well.

Food and cooking have this beautiful way of making me feel strong and independently able while simultaneously letting me care for and feel close to myself and those around me. It occupies the space between us.

This ingrains in me that togetherness is always more important.

My lack of patience prompts me to confront the parts of myself that I often find scary.

Cooking feels honest.

Our senses feed into various corners of ourselves.
I often wonder how connected patience and empathy are.

I’ve been thinking lately about hope, hopefulness, and the difference between having and being. I think that the root of hope rests in trust, so I don’t know if hope can be taught so much as it’s something to be offered. Trust lets me relax and makes me feel safe. As a practice in personal wellness, I’ve been making a conscious and active effort to remind myself that hope and patience exist with us rather than around us; that it's in good practice to let them multiply rather than to divide them.
Food, for me, contributes to my life far beyond literal nourishment. It nurtures my creativity and reminds me to have fun. Food makes me slow down and take time for myself. It teaches me the importance of trusting my instincts and brings to light the blessings of my senses. It's a way for me to feel closer to familiarity and allows me to communicate beyond the limits of traditional language. It reminds me of the importance of community and sharing. Food is also a binding force in many of my closest relationships, and I constantly crave the myriad of conversations that surrounds it.
I have recently gotten into preserving, canning, fermenting and sourdough. These processes require not only my time, but my ongoing attention. It’s nice to have something to look forward to, as well as getting to experience time through their shifts and changes. These rituals offer me a sense of purpose and accountability. Perhaps the way for me to grow into a better understanding of patience is through food. Patience and the path towards it are not perfect, but I'm choosing to arrive as my most honest self with it each day, being mindful that a daily practice requires daily practice. Take time to nourish yourselves this week, friends.  

love and light, 


compress(ed memory foam) is a series of ongoing sharings and suggestions in relation to built environments, care, the practice of preserving and following through.

This weekly (news)letter will run from 1 November through 20 December and is hosted by Juliane Foronda as part of A Spoon is the Safest Vessel at Glasgow Women's Library.
Copyright © 2019 Juliane Foronda, All rights reserved.

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