Slump Pie-- Stages of Grief Series
Feeling slumps rush over you like a tsunami? A slippery beast washing out your last dim light? You, a dark pile, now crumpled in your bedroom closet, hoping you'll wash away in one, swift gush. Too monumental to even register what just happened. But, depression just heads further south, never raising it's many thorny heads to anyone's wishes.
How to combat the inevitable? How to find breath above it, until it seeps under the back door without notice-- hopefully! Surely there's a recipe for this one-of-a-kind pie; the right net to catch and release the next-to-last stage of grief--keeping the bottom dwellers alive for now. The least resistance toward acceptance. Cast wide to recovery! Let's give it a name? Bet you can guess what I call this crossroads' pie. Yes. You can. And, lets experiment with a recipe for making this cathartic pie. So, here goes...
Round up all of your deep-seated fears, and line them up like angry, plastic soldiers on your kitchen counter.
You'll need your extensive collection of passive behavior spices, despondent flour, a blindfolded concoction to intuit beyond the slippery slope of raging waters; the ability to turn dark walls inside out and look for that crack of liquid escape.
After denial, anger, and bargaining, the inevitability of the news eventually (and not before the dinger's gone off) sinks in, and the sliding mind reluctantly accepts that it is bound to happen in time. In the Ren and Stimpy of anger and bargaining; we slump into a tub of despondency. In this white womb, we see an institutional door with no signs of life beyond it. And, in turning inward on ourselves, we turn away from any solution and help that others' recipes offer. The tub remains colder than frozen meat, and doesn't yield to tears and hopelessness--which is probably a good thing. However, there's still an infantile comfort in the porcelain cradle. I have discovered this a few times.
Now what? After all of the universal culprits are lined up per the cook's instructions, it's time to mix it up!
In this phase of baking, the slumps may begin blaming themselves as they take responsibility for their lassitude when something has gone awry. In previous phases, we may scapegoat others, or run from the situation, in some familiar way. Fortunately, there are no ships willy-nilly in this recipe to navigate, or anchor.
Now, pour from the gut, the immeasurable ingredients. Chop up the intolerable; the lump- dwellers that rise to the surface with insistence; toss all of the scapegoats that your bowl can hold--they only yield bitter residue, rimming the crust with bubbling angst that spills over onto old haunts we need to leave behind.
Bake at 450-degrees--and don't peek through the netted, glass door. When it's done, you'll smell success wafting right out your door-- leaving it all behind you. Resist looking over your left shoulder. Catch a ride on the last, peaceful pie waiting for you to discover. It's all yours. You've earned it. Accept it!
Now, can you imagine the flavor of acceptance?