The Grain of Gratitude

The smell of steam rising from a bowl of rice is a specific kind of comfort. It is humid, starchy, and carries the scent of earth that has been coaxed into life by rain. When I was a child, my fingers would often brush against the rough, woven texture of a reed mat while waiting for a meal, the grit of sand still clinging to the edges. There is a particular warmth that travels from a ceramic bowl into the palms, a heat that settles deep into the joints, reminding the body that it is being held, that it is being fed. We spend so much of our lives reaching for things that are cold or distant, forgetting that the most profound peace is often found in the simple weight of a spoon or the steam curling against a cheek. If we listen to the quiet hum of our own hunger, do we find that we are satisfied by the sustenance itself, or by the sudden, sharp realization that we are still here to taste it?

Ryszard Wierzbicki has captured this quiet truth in his image titled A Plate of Rice. It reminds me that even in the most difficult corners of the world, the body remembers how to find joy in the smallest of offerings. Does this image stir a memory of a meal that felt like a sanctuary to you?