Never Waste a Grain of Rice

When the voice of my ego is louder than the voice of my higher self we all lose.  When my son was learning to eat, he did what all babies do.  He picked up the food and threw it on the floor.  Every meal.  Every snack. Every day.  The first few times I could remain calm and practice the tips I learned from parenting books. 

I’d look him in the eye and calmly say, “I see that you’re curious about what happens when you throw food on the floor.  I don't like that. Food is for putting in your mouth to eat.”  

By the third or fourth time I’d feel a surge of anger firing through my body like a tropical storm intent on ravaging the coast line.  I needed to remove myself from the table and do push ups to release the rage that quickly accumulated inside of me. 

In retrospect, I understand that his behavior is developmentally appropriate and that my job as a parent is to be patient and supportive while he learns how to eat. I should appreciate his scientific curiosity as he experiments with the laws of gravity and delights in observing me contort my body to retrieve his food from under the table.  There is a vast chasm between my logical mind and my body.  

My body is screaming, “NO! That is food. Precious, sacred food.  How dare you waste even one morsel? Do you have any idea how rare it is that we have food to eat every time we are hungry?!” 

When my wife and I were married we wrote “never waste a grain of rice” in our wedding vows as an ideal to aspire towards.  We both come from families of immigrants who were intimate with extreme poverty, and we have internalized their values around being resourceful, possibly to a fault. When I try to be patient with my son for throwing food, I am experiencing a fierce internal battle between my logical, patient mind and my angry, fearful body. There are generations of hungry ancestors inside of me who are all joining forces to overpower my intellect.  

My father grew up in extreme poverty in the Sacramento Delta in California. He lived with his parents and 3 siblings in a small shack, in a community of factory workers.  His parents fled southeastern China which was externally ravaged by the Japanese during World War 2 then internally demolished by the civil war that followed.  Food was scarce, and my grandparents carried vivid memories of hunger in their bodies. My Amah was particularly pained about not having enough. She grew up in a wealthy family with servants then lost everything as the Communist party came into power, sending her on a completely unexpected trajectory that resulted in working most of her life in a California cannery packaging asparagus.  She was known to say there is nothing worse than to waste a bowl of rice. My father’s childhood diet consisted mostly of rice and vegetables, the occasional salted fish, and on special occasions his personal favorite, the mayonnaise sandwich, which was simply mayonnaise spread between 2 slices of bread. Wasting food was absolutely not an option. 

There is a legend in my family that if free food is available my father will always materialize as the first person in line to eat it. Whether it be an elegant wedding or a backyard barbecue, he has a sixth sense that knows where the food will be and when it will be served.  At the moment when the lids are removed from the catering trays, he will be there with a plate in his hand and a smile on his face.  I always viewed this behavior with a sense of humor as well as respect.  As someone with a metabolism that burns furiously no matter how much or how often I eat, I often follow my dad’s lead and am grateful to be the second person in line.  If you are invited to a dinner party at my dad’s house that begins at 6pm, if you arrive at 6:01 he will have already begun eating. He does not play around with food. 

The rage I felt when witnessing my son constantly throw food on the floor forced me to reexamine my dad’s food culture in a new light.  Even though he hasn’t missed a meal in my lifetime, his body behaves as if he were still starving in his childhood shack.  It made me think about the mindset that was instilled in me around waste.  On the one hand, I deeply appreciate the values of being frugal and resourceful, and they have served me well. On the other hand, I have a fear of not having enough, which is an unwanted companion that is always by my side.  

How do I teach my son to be grateful for food without him developing a scarcity complex? Probably not by yelling at him for throwing food on the floor when he is preverbal.  

As I watch more food succumb to gravity, anger once again courses through my veins. I begin to wonder if it is good for my son to be afraid. 

I ask Maya with genuine curiosity, “Is it good for Taishan to be afraid of us sometimes?” 

“Absolutely not,” she replies with a hint of disgust in her tone.

She thinks I'm being too harsh, and it doesn’t take long for me to agree.  I quickly pivot from anger to shame and regret that I ever voiced such a ludicrous question out loud.  I realize that my ego is the voice telling me that my son should be afraid.  My ego wants to feel a sense of control over the situation. My higher self doesn’t want to instill any fear into my son. He is sure to get his fair share of that when he goes out into the world.  My higher self wants to create a container of unconditional love where my son is never afraid of me and will always see me as a safe place to turn when he needs support. I can clearly envision how I would like to show up, yet the emotional triggers of fatherhood seem to keep me trapped in the realm of the ego, where I think and act in ways that I later regret.  I know that my ancestors don’t want me to control my son through fear, but the genetic material they have passed down to me insists that I do something, anything to prevent this food from being wasted.  My mind, body, and spirit are being pulled in opposing directions, and it feels like at any moment I could completely unravel and turn to dust, mixing with the grains of rice, and chunks of avocado and sweet potato that now carpet the dining room floor.

~

For a musical tribute to my Amah, check out “The Other Side” by clicking the image below.

“Feeling stuck in a time vortex,

ever since your life force left,

I’m experiencing Minor stress

Cause your sacrifices mean I’m more blessed”