Poetry

Nutella Hidden in a Wardrobe

On the fear of embracing love

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Learning how to face our fears is one way to embrace love.

Or so they say.

I know I am full of fears, from the aching mouth of my stomach to the burning back of my tongue.

I walk with fear, talk with fear, smile and laugh and dream with fear.

An unsteady ground underneath me that at any moment I know will give.

Eyes glued to my feet in fear, still I smell the irresistible scent of guilty pleasure: Nutella hidden in a wardrobe out of reach.

I shouldn’t look for it, the ground is going to give.

Yet its call is oh so insistent.

Do I dare take a step on the trembling floor?

I do love Nutella a lot.

This poem came to be during a poetry workshop centered around “All about love” by bell hooks.

We were asked to write a poem based on a quote from the book that resonated with us, and I chose the one that makes up the first stanza of the poem.

In that moment, what drew me to it was the fact that I actually did not believe it. Facing fears is a way to embrace love?

It felt antithetical. Or rather, impossible.

So I reflected on it, and a memory soon rushed in.

I’ve always loved Nutella. One spoonful of it, as a child, would drive me on an eating frenzy that I didn’t know how to end.

That is why my mother started hiding it all over the house — after the kitchen cupboards became too obvious, her favorite hiding spot was the wardrobe of my parents’ bedroom.

I would then turn into a blood-hound, and go on a hunt in my own house.

I would always, always find it.

In time, though, I understood why it was so harmful to eat so much of it, and I stopped. Now, I don’t dare buy it anymore, in fear I would repeat the same behavior.

As I was writing the poem about my fears regarding love, this anecdote made me realize that now, as an adult, I treat my passions, my fancies, my attraction to somebody just as forbidden as Nutella.

Because I fear I may get lost in it if I ever get my hands on something so good.

So I have to control myself. Not look for it. Not even think about it.

Yet, I’m not a child anymore, I have to remind myself. I can, marginally, better pace myself. And my desires are not something I need to squash, because that is a much more harmful extreme. No matter how well meaning, my inner mother needs to take a step back now.

And I may just let my senses show the way instead, and embrace that love, in spite of the fear of making mistakes, of being imperfect. That’s what it was all along.