Not in the form of imaginary beings that haunt, but the hungry ones Buddhists say are cursed with an appetite that can't be sated.

The ones with mouths the size of pinheads and stomachs as vast as mountain ranges. Animalistic in their fervor to feed themselves. Exhausting themselves with their endless eating.

Theirs is desire unchecked, the drive to obtain. Más, más, más they say with each bite. This is suffering.

I have learned to let go of a lot over the course of my life, and this last year was a master class in it. I wanted a healthy baby. I wanted to see my family for Christmas. I wanted money back from my tax return. Love and money. A recipe for suffering.

Where I feel the most fear, I know, is where there's the most clinging. When paranoid what ifs begin dancing across the back of my mind like it's a dusty stage and the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy is playing in full orchestra. When I start my statements with shoulds in the sound of someone else's voice. When I feel my heart clench instead of leap. When I find my body holding tight against some wanting...

These are all signs the hungry ghosts are awakening.

What can break their spell? What can quiet their tummy rumbles? Can reassure them, there will always be enough? What will shrink their stomachs to a size appropriate to their mouths?

Only one thing: nourishment.

When have I ever felt full after eating junk food? I can eat cheese puffs til I'm orange in the finger, but I know I'll still be hungry. What are all these cheese puffs I'm chasing? Dinner will be ready soon enough. I'm not going to die of starvation.

But knowing this and knowing it are two different things.

Sometimes a visual reminder can help. So I look at my hands, balled into fists. Bracing against some phantom force that will take away whatever I'm holding. Clutching what I have with all my might.

As I unfurl each fiddlehead finger from its staunch stanch, I release some of the fear, some of the wanting. I allow the the blood flow to return and the slivered moon-prints in my palm to fade.

And because it seems these ghosts are also cursed with amnesia, it takes doing this over and over to remember: An outstretched hand is more apt to receiving. An open palm can hold more.

P.S.,

I’m creating this space, but you’re a curator of it — you can reply to this email to tell me what you thought, what you felt, what you want to feel.

And you can spread the aloha by sharing with a friend.

Credits

Accompanying music: Conversations by Fallow Dear.

This talented musician also happens to be a lovely human and my friend. Check out her work and forthcoming album and you can listen on Spotify. 

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rachaelmaier.substack.com