Djinn

There is always this presence inside me,that takes on a form nearly of spirit quality. There has never been a moment in any of my recollection that this discomfort was not present.

As a small child I would lay myself on my mothers’ lap and demand she rub my belly.

It was as if there were Djinn resident within me, I was their precious vessel. I was the identified servant, merely a vehicle , a reluctant home.

As a child, growing up, and to this day whenever I was upset or sensed danger or felt any kind of negative emotion, the spirits inside my belly would swell and demand their freedom.

 They were angry spirits, defiant and garrulous spirits. The spirits would take form as a wave

of nausea , a rising up of  bile and enzyme , now awakened,  rebellious and determined to rouse me from  my complacency, my lazy inner voice, my inertia.

They are unforgiving and show no compassion or sensitivity for timing, place and situation. They might arrive as I ride an elevator in a museum, they may arrive as I am waiting in line at Macy’s to pay for my new underwear. They may arrive as I sleep, committed to a dream and no longer in this body. They seek to bring me back to this body to serve and acknowledge them. They care nothing for convenience or decorum or invitation.

The spirits love ginger in any form.  The tender little chews from Asia, or a a tisane, fresh shaved ginger root, infused in boiling water. They love Canada Dry Ginger Ale, served in a tall glass filled with crushed ice, as it was first served to them by Sister Maria Stella, from the Convent of The Little Flower of Jesus.

It was the eve of my First Communion.  At 6 years old,  I too young to be in a convent and too young to be receiving this First communion, not fully understanding the symbols of partaking of the Body and Blood of Christ, and I woke the morning of the ceremony, ravished by the Spirits as they pounded and protested , devoured my calmness in the uprising of Bile which turned my skin a terrifying shade of green.

I lay on the cool floor of the bathroom in the dormitory where we all lived, feverish and vomiting and Sister Maria Stella, came in with a tall glass of Canada Dry Ginger Ale, filled with crushed ice, and a straw and as I drank this miraculous tonic, The spirits were pleased and smiling and smug. They went outside, and relaxed on the lush green lawn outside the dormitory building, they were happy and celebratory, resplendent and sated.

I was given a bath and dressed in a crisp white Communion dress my mother bought at Saks Fifth Avenue, a confection of organza and ruffle punctuated by seed pearls.

I was made sacred with new white socks trimmed in lace and perfectly new white patent leather mary jane shoes with a tiny pearl button clasp.

The Spirits looked over at me from their lounge outside and nodded in approval at my outfit, as I sipped the ginger ale from a straw as Sister Maria Stella brushed my hair and wiped the sleep from my eyes.

We were never given sodas at the Convent, nor were we ever given crushed ice in anything.

It was momentous and remarkable that we were given such an offering. I suppose if was from that point on, that the Spirits knew I was at their beckoning, their dutiful servant.

The procurer of Ginger and Ice.