Emulsion

When the winds change
and the tides turn
a certain coven
of hyper-capable women
descend upon a
designated host's home, 
a flash mob of a dinner party,
turning suburban dining tables
into feast boards of culinary tourism 
brought together under banner 
of comfort, restoration, and 
a celebration of color and spice.

While its timing, location nor guest list 
ever the same, nor publicized,
this assembly of mavens, at its core
swirls with the vibrational energy 
that bathes the women present
in a light, in a purpose, 
that fuels us until the next 
planned-spontaneous gathering.

Spanning industries,
we hail from technology, journalism, 
laboratory sciences and advocacy,
international policy, finance, 
innovation and world health.
Some are moms.
Some are caretakers.
All of us are tired.

The terms "bandwidth" and "capacity" 
and "saturated" bandy about
fast and freely as men 
opine on their team's yardage 
on a Sports-and-Sofa Sunday afternoon.

Our roster ebbs and flows 
with the pressings of commitments, 
deadlines, keynotes, illness, 
injury and travel, 
but still, a quorum keeps the flame lit
rekindling joy, affirming competence, 
reminding one another 
of our inherent worthiness.

And soon chatter popcorns 
across the circle:

"The news...."

                  "It's so much to process—"

"And the midterms!" 

               "Things at work are so tense —"

"I feel for you, your public role must be so fraught —"

         "It's a shame she's not here —"

And in unison:
"We miss her!"

These inside fears 
come out slowly at first,
shared aloud with a halting tongue,
the kind of chastened pause 
and slowly formed, 
tentative sentences.
These emerge as a byproduct, 
a survival instinct
— Darwinism afoot —
of living immersed 
and unprotected
in mixed audiences 
from boardrooms 
and myopic mommy groups
to family chat threads.

Hands clasping knees, 
subtle swaying,
gently probing the edges of safety,
members of the night 
let loose at last
the lurking, haunting thoughts
that have accumulated exponentially 
since the last time 
we felt cocooned enough 
to release that ever-straining 
pressure valve.

Without fail someone comments:
"I almost didn't come"
met by nods
and full-chested "Mm-hmm!"s.

"Life is so hectic —"

Which calls someone to interject:
             "But I'm so glad I made it!"

Ripples of verve shift us 
into the next realm:
interspersed in our angst for the world,
soon dribbles of delight,
moments of pride, 
and hype for our sisters in soul 
begin to enter the mix,
as if a warm stream of olive oil 
joining raw eggs 
and a standoffish smear of mustard.
From first frenetic confinement
of polar realities, 
a lava lamp of chaos, 
—thoughts defying capture, 
concerns without cure —
we start murky, broken, 
battered by the universe's
unseen stick blender.
And when we blink 
we are aioli, 
a coveted mother sauce, 
a gift of the divine,
emerging an emulsion, 
a singular silky symphony 
that only humans with hope and trust
could summon into existence
from such disparate 
and bitter ingredients.

"Did you read her latest paper?"
          "Groundbreaking!"

          "And how did your talk go?"

 "What do you mean 'imposter syndrome?' You full-on switched careers!"

"You're in the room where decisions are made —
                            "The ones holding things together."
                
        "I get such a boost of hope being here."

"Can you believe she won that case against the State? Superstar!"

"I'm so impressed with you!
What do you mean
you were "just" 
'dancing on a stage 
on Pennsylvania Avenue' 
— and let me see that photo —
'in the shadow of the U.S. Capitol!'"

"Listen to yourself, 
do you have any idea 
how incredible you are?"

"You mean to tell me 
that you ran an international vaccine study 
that changed the history of the planet
and you doubted your ability 
to make us butternut squash salad?"

                   "You're right, all of you!"

"Look around at this room of awesome women!"

"And here's how you know
that I love you.
Because I made butter chicken
from scratch, on a Tuesday!"

Our hostess is delighted, 
surprised at her success.
We swat away her apprehension,
marinating her in shared awe,
cheering her on: 
Encore, 
encore!

As teas steep and voices simmer
we settle into cozy perches
becoming one with the furniture
feet relax, toes unfurl;
shoulders loosen, 
jaws unclench,
an audible, collective sigh of reset
spreads through the room 
like the warm honey becoming one 
with the leaves in our mugs.


From the constant buffeting
by news and external forces
we find smooth embrace in friendship forged;
for at least tonight,
we find our feminine glide path
in a man-made hurricane.