Post #4: Muscle Memory
We had so many meals brought to us by caring individuals that I hadn’t needed to cook on a regular basis. In fact, people were so generous in providing us care and support that it seemed every dish provided was enough for two or three meals. I hesitated. Cooking at this point seemed an extravagant, selfish desire.
But one day some stray veggies were hanging out on the counter. I cannot recall the exact circumstances that led me into the kitchen or what my intentions were but I remember the intriguing rhythm that emerged, like a tap dance. Shuffle. Shuffle. Tap. Tap. Tap, lindy, hop. Shuffle, ball step. Tap, tap, tippity, tap. Heel. My favorite knife, the French, was dancing on the cutting board and I continued.
I only know I did because then there were piles of vegetables and fruit cut in all shapes and sizes that forced me into the more mundane tasks of having to find ways to store it all. I wondered. I wondered how I knew how to do this all. I wondered at my excess. I wondered how my hands could do all this? I wondered what to do next. I wondered why I felt so filled with contentment and calm. Wonder was not unsettling, trying to pin down answers was--like trying to pin down a roly-poly organ on a dissection tray and having to get into some gruesome business.
We had so many meals brought to us by caring individuals that I hadn’t needed to cook on a regular basis. In fact, people were so generous in providing us care and support that it seemed every dish provided was enough for two or three meals. I hesitated. Cooking at this point seemed an extravagant, selfish desire.
But one day some stray veggies were hanging out on the counter. I cannot recall the exact circumstances that led me into the kitchen or what my intentions were but I remember the intriguing rhythm that emerged, like a tap dance. Shuffle. Shuffle. Tap. Tap. Tap, lindy, hop. Shuffle, ball step. Tap, tap, tippity, tap. Heel. My favorite knife, the French, was dancing on the cutting board and I continued.
I only know I did because then there were piles of vegetables and fruit cut in all shapes and sizes that forced me into the more mundane tasks of having to find ways to store it all. I wondered. I wondered how I knew how to do this all. I wondered at my excess. I wondered how my hands could do all this? I wondered what to do next. I wondered why I felt so filled with contentment and calm. Wonder was not unsettling, trying to pin down answers was--like trying to pin down a roly-poly organ on a dissection tray and having to get into some gruesome business.
I just happened to overhear another conversation weeks later in which the speakers mentioned “muscle memory,” Muscle memory, the ingrained habits of eyes, shoulders, arms, and hands directed my cutting frenzy and freed me from the formal, constraining process of thinking through the event. Comfort came at the cutting board because I tapped into the “pre-aneurysm me.” I found “me” by letting my muscles remember and continue to do what they knew to do unconsciously.
I found the renewing of cooking memory strengthened pathways in the brain. The act of chopping and cutting remained a soothing exercise and I made many salads and fresh fruit snacks for weeks. Muscle memory provided comfort. I still sometimes hear the tap dance of the knife in the kitchen today. But during the months of recovery my chopping had no greater purpose than to participate in rote, calming, activity. It did not re-introduce me to the inner cook I used to be. I felt no inspiration to cook. A vast array of other neural pathways remained dormant. And dormant they had to remain until the family could finish all the food already given to us. And so we ate. And ate.
I found the renewing of cooking memory strengthened pathways in the brain. The act of chopping and cutting remained a soothing exercise and I made many salads and fresh fruit snacks for weeks. Muscle memory provided comfort. I still sometimes hear the tap dance of the knife in the kitchen today. But during the months of recovery my chopping had no greater purpose than to participate in rote, calming, activity. It did not re-introduce me to the inner cook I used to be. I felt no inspiration to cook. A vast array of other neural pathways remained dormant. And dormant they had to remain until the family could finish all the food already given to us. And so we ate. And ate.
