A 22-year-old experiential education facilitator by-way-of art school, employee of an Ivy, vegetarian, procrastinator, and rock-climbing wilderness first responder living in picturesque rural New Jersey. She's holding her breath as she tests her clumsy legs post-college.
I've been able to cook more in the past two days than I did all the rest of second semester in my apartment in the Commons. It's definitley a time issue, but it's not just that. I didn't feel the need to cook as much because I got the face-time and emotional appreciation from my residents and socializing with them, not, like in previous semesters, from my classmates who I fed.
Which, once again, goes back to oxytocin thing. Why do I produce oxytocin when I cook? Is it because it reminds me of being close to my mom, and my body remembers that cooking = feeling loved? It's funny that after a whole semester thinking about work, art, love, cooking, and domesticity, I find myself equally as distant from any sort of solution.
After all, as the wonderful Kristine Woods always says, you have to have an opinion in your art, you have to have a point of view. If you're making art that doesn't offend anyone, then it's probably not resonating super-strong with anyone either. I feel really strongly about feeding people, about empowering people with information, about being nurturing and enabling. And part of that may be because I was raised as a girl in America, but I'm good at it, and I love it.
And it just shows how much an inherent part of myself feeding and nurturing people is, that even now that I don't have any obligations to my old residents, and there's no reason for me to feed my room-mates, I do. I can't NOT do these things. Go figure.