I have a blue glass butter dish on my kitchen counter, frequently visited by a gold knife and slice of sourdough. The taste of warm bread, slick with salted butter, makes me feel like things are going to turn out okay. Toast accompanying a cup of tea gives me a sense of comfort.
Growing up my family always kept our butter in the refrigerator. I remember the particular struggle of trying so desperately to slice the cold block thin enough to melt, and become spreadable before the toast cooled. It rarely worked.
In my late twenties, mid-pandemic, I had just finished my first master’s degree and said goodbye to the housing and job that came with it. Fortunately, I was lucky enough to call the guest bedroom belonging to two friends, a married couple, home for the next six months. I needed some time to figure out what was next. Those six months were hard in many ways, and beautiful in many others.
January to July of that year I found myself in a deeply depressive state. Getting out of bed was hard. Falling asleep was hard. Being happy was hard. I couldn’t figure out my next steps or where I was headed in life. I felt like my purpose had slipped away from me behind a curtain of fog. I felt aimless and angry. So angry, but I couldn’t even pinpoint why.
My tendency, when I start to feel swallowed whole by my own life is to retreat further into myself. I believe if I can just be alone long enough, write, make art, walk for miles in the woods or by the sea, I will find the answers I’m looking for. If I’m being honest, this usually works pretty well for me. If I’m being really honest, this is probably a coping mechanism I learned in early childhood that could use some attention.
My friends were so gracious during this time of retreat. Even though we shared the same small home, they gave me space to be alone in the discomfort of my life. And while I retreated into shadowy-soul-places to reflect, they made me coffee in the mornings. They planned meals for three instead of two. They kept my favorite tea on hand. They asked for my location before I disappeared on a walk for hours. They hid tiny plastic babies in my shoes and in the shower to make me laugh upon discovery.
Whenever one of them placed the kettle on the stove for tea, from my bedroom cross-legged in an ocean of paint I’d hear, “V, water’s hot!” Hot water reminding me that while I was alone, I was also being held. When tea was made it followed that bread would be buttered. Stored in a white dish with blue lettering — B U T T E R — along the sides, it was always room temperature. Ready to spread comfort to the places of a heart and soul needing it most.
Now, I keep butter in a blue glass dish on my kitchen counter. There’s a green kettle right next to it. The water’s often hot. Bread next to the toaster, ready to be warmed.
At the start of this year, I found myself caught again in the liminality of living. Having moved back to Maine to care for a sick parent and support my family through the winter months, the fog returned around my purpose. A thick layer, made thicker by the heavy clouds of parental care, and family expectations. I had not lived in my hometown for over a decade. Suddenly, I was transported back in time to my teenage self. I once again became desperate to retreat inwardly but had little opportunity to do so for the next six months.
With a kind gesture from the universe during this time, I also began a friendship with someone who birds. Have you ever spent time with a birder? When I say birder, I mean ornithology enthusiast. I mean binoculars always in the car. I mean one of those camera’s with a lens as long as your arm at the ready.
Bird-guy was not the kind of person who passed a bird and said, “Nice bird.” No, bird-guy was the kind of person who saw an eagle and said, “Did you know eagles are actually considered kleptoparasites?” Or a chickadee on a winter branch remarking, “Chickadee brains grow 30% in the fall to remember where they stored food, and then they shrink back down in the spring when they don’t need the memories anymore.”
Bird-guy was a B I R D E R. I learned so much from him.
On our walks together—of which there have been many—every bird was acknowledged and admired while we logged miles upon miles by foot. Every song or call, wing-beat or drum, regarded as a gift we were lucky enough to witness. I slowly forgot what it was like to move past a bird without pausing. Often on these walks, bird-guy would say something like, “Good day or bad day, birds are still birds and you will find them if you look for them. Birds are always there for you.” Bird-guy would want me to add, that while birds are there for us, they actually aren’t there for us.
But I like the idea of birds being there for us.
Now, I sit by the lake in the early mornings, noticing chickadees, dee-dee-deeing. I recognize sounds of osprey communicating with each other from across the water. I run to the dock when I hear the infamous echos of loons calling in the purple hues of dusk. I wander into the woods as the moon rises, pursuing a parliament of barred owls. I observe their behavior and listen closely, noting their sounds. Because, birds are always there for you.
The birds and the butter dish, reminding me, when I am alone, I am also being held.
This was such a beautiful read after a long and flitty day. It reminded of a word I learnt recently, 'thrapt', which refers to the emotion we feel towards people who have impacted our lives (https://www.thedictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/word/thrapt). I have grown to love how some people show up in my days, and within me, reminding me that they're still here perhaps despite being gone. It's a reassuring thing to be connected to others in small ways, and a nudge to what matters most. I also share your love of toast, forever the comfort of home to me.
I enjoyed reading this. I'm a birder and I keep my butter at room temperature!