I see her
face so clearly. Her straight black hair in a simple bob, her kind, open
expression, the sprinkle of freckles – yes, Chinese people do have freckles.
In her
hands was a simple ceramic bowl containing a soup wafting a delicious
fragrance. Her little boy snuggled against her as she offered it to me.
Did she
know how tired I was? Could she see how lonely I was?
 |
| My neighbour, her little son, and one of my girls, in the alley just outside our front door |
I spoke
only passable Mandarin, and barely any Cantonese. She spoke no English and only
Cantonese. But she was fluent in the language that transcends all barriers.
I sat right
down and ate every drop of that amazing soup. There was chicken on the bone, a
whole egg, Chinese greens, shallots, Reishi mushroom and Dong Quai root.
It
nourished me to my bones and to the depths of my soul.
She cooked
it in the little slate-roofed, brick hut in the 700 year old walled village
where we lived, in the far north of Hong Kong, in sight of the Chinese border. Her
house used to be the goat shed and hungry ghosts whispered through the gaps in
the ancient stone wall that her dwelling leaned against. She and her little son
lived in two rooms – one for sleeping, one for cooking. I never saw a husband,
or any other relative. We shared the heat, the humidity, the rats, mosquitos
and cockroaches of our environment, our houses on opposite sides of a sewer
covered only by a metal grate. I could peek in her open doorway and see her
tossing food in her iron wok, with a serenity I rarely had.
 |
| My girls, with our neighbour's home, right behind them. |
I never
found a way to thank her.
It’s only
with the clarity of hindsight that I can finally admit that I was trudging
through a fog of post-natal depression, induced by sleep-deprivation, isolation
and impossible burdens. We were based in Hong Kong as volunteer workers with a
Christian aid organization. I was pregnant with my third, my older girls were
just 4 and 2, and my husband was in ICU following an assault in a random road
rage incident.
She saw my
swelling belly, but she saw something more. She brought me a bowl of soup
traditionally prepared to strengthen and sustain mothers. She ministered to me
with womanly solidarity passed down through generations.
Where are
you now, my sweet neighbour? How I wish I could thank you.
Do you even know
what you did for me?
 |
| Just outside the walled village. Is there a tired mother alive who doesn't know that face? |
The baby in
my womb then is now 14.
Just last
week, I heard about a young mum who is unwell. Her kids all got the flu and she
caught it from them. It’s settled in her chest, and she feels like death.
This mama
is a bit special to me. I was her doula and our hearts were entwined at that
point. I count her a dear friend, a soul friend.
She’s also amazing
for the incredible work she does in empowering other women, not only through
her birth-serving and photography, but through mentoring women to face their
fears, stare down their blocks, and, step by dogged step, move forward into
business success. Her work is the stuff of miracles, with a twinkling of
stardust.
Suffice to
say, I am rather a fan of this epic human.
She gave me
an opportunity to give back and I grabbed it with both hands.
From my
dear Chinese neighbour, I’d learned the secret embedded in so many cultures –
that food nourishes so much more than the body – especially soup. She showed me
that there is no dividing line between food and medicine. I remembered the
garlic, the ginger, the medicinal roots, herbs and mushrooms she’d put in that
delicious bowl of nurture.
I went out
and shopped for a whole organic chicken.
As the late
Autumn cold began to bite, I had a great reason to stoke up the woodstove.
In went my
Schisandra berries – magical berries from China; my Astragalus and Withania
root – immune boosters and nervous system soothers from India; the delicious
and anti-inflammatory ginger and turmeric, nature’s anti-biotic, garlic - and
of course, the immune-boosting mushrooms. From my garden I picked herbs washed
in the mountain rain – sage, thyme, oregano, rosemary, coriander.
The soup
percolated all day, filling the house with anticipation and aroma.
Now to
convince Angela to let me bring it to her.
- Oh I couldn’t ask that of you.
- I’m coming
anyway, I gently persist. If you really don’t want me there, you can have me
arrested.
Next day, Angela
lets me know that she needs to spend time with a visiting relative.
But see, I
know this darling woman. I know that she who gives tirelessly and selflessly to
others finds it hard to let people care for her.
I found
this out as her doula, when, just after giving birth, she politely declined my
offer to come and look after her for a few days.
How I
regret that I did not press firmly, and kindly, and persistently through her
resistance.
Not making that mistake again!
Next day, I
bundled up the soup, along with Elderberry cordial and herbal medicines. I
drove 3 hours to her door.
Sent a
quick text.
- Angela.
There is a delivery at your front door. It should probably go in the fridge as
soon as practical.
- OMG!!!! Are you there?
- Um – yes?
I'm committing an act of civil disobedience.
- Are you a SAINT??
- No - a
friend
- I am so indebted, texts Angela.
- Oh no you
are NOT!
*puts on
bossy mama doula hat*
My darling,
I am giving you a challenge. I am helping you strengthen your ability to
*receive* …
Just
receive, and know you are worth it, you are worthy
And then an
echo from my own soul:
- You have no idea what you do for
me.
Do you even
know what you did for me?
I am right back
in that crowded, concrete village. I feel the unyielding concrete under my
soles, I smell the acrid cooking oil, the fish and the sewer, I am sweating in the
humidity. Where there was never any
quiet, where I was so lonely in a place where there was never any solitude.
A friendly face. A loving gesture. A bowl of soup.
I text
Angela again:
- I'm your
friend. I love you. This is what your friends, your village, do for you when
you're sick. It should be ordinary, routine, just "As You Do"
The fact
that hard-working women feel so overwhelmed by simple little acts of kindness,
is an indictment of society's treatment of women and poor value of women.
Text
bubbles …
- You are so, so right.
And it's incredibly fucking sad.
I text:
- Consider
it my personal F*** You to the patriarchy.
And my
darling Angela replies:
- I f***ing love your patriarchy-smashing
ways!
I know that
Angela will exponentially multiply any small blessing I can offer her, because
she is that sort of person.
She is a
knitter, a weaver, a spinner of connection, in a society sick with separation.
And so am I
And so are
you
And most of
all, so was my sweet neighbour, who reached across a smelly sewer and other
divides, to bring me a bowl of love soup.
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