| written by Stacey Lindsay

The feeling that takes over when you read or listen to Jules Blaine Davis—a sense of grounding amidst the world's chaos—is almost too hard to define. I've long felt the sentiments of the author and healer to be like inhaling fresh lavender oil in your palm: a tincture that instantly relaxes your shoulders and pulls you into a calm meadow, even for a few moments. When Jules released The Kitchen Healer: The Journey to Becoming You, her part nourishment guide and part essay collection, in 2022, I took long baths and numerous breaks on the floor to pore over her words. "There is no rush," she writes. "This is for YOU."

Jules' energy invokes a desire to kick off your shoes and breathe deeper. She's been inviting women into her kitchen—in-person and virtually—for many years, igniting in them a desire to nourish themselves with food made with their hands and by the mere truth of just being in the kitchen, a place of unlocked discovery and healing. When I'm spinning, I often stop what I'm doing, walk into the kitchen, and put on the kettle—a simple tool she offered me that pulls me from a vortex of 'shoulds' and back to myself.  

I called Jules last week to ask how we can nourish ourselves individually and collectively during this electrified time of suffering and pain. How do we hold space and compassion when the world feels too much? This question underscores Jules' organic template: Her ability to give honest wisdom that is accessible and true. 

During our conversation, I realized something new: The ease I feel from Jules results from looking at life and all its pain, beauty, and unknowns rather than avoiding it. "I don't think it's about the answer," she tells me. "It's about the question."

Chatting with Jules Blaine Davis

It all feels like too much right now. How do we care for ourselves and one another when so much pain and many things are happening in the world?

It's such a dichotomy, right? Or dichotomy may be too boxy of a word. It's really about: How do we find a soft place to land? During these harsh, unrestful times, how do we rest in the unrest? In truth, it's really about the question. It's pending the inquiry and carrying the inquiry and reshaping the inquiry. We are in the unknown. So we ask collectively, and that in itself is a healing. 

Wow. We're conditioned to want these perfect answers with a ribbon tied into a bow around them. But life isn't that way. When you say this about the question, it highlights the possibility for me.

Exactly. We can't unsee. And as you say about the perfect bow, we learned that was safety. We learned that was belonging, that was keeping up with the Joneses. Why do we want the perfect dot dot dot? That is what we learned. That is what is reflected in our culture.

So what if we're spinning or feeling broken? When it's all too much, I walk over and put on the kettle, which you taught me. Doing that makes me feel settled. For the woman who may be feeling overwhelmed, what do you say to her?

First, she has to want to stop spinning. I'm powerless over anyone. I can't make somebody stop. They have to want to stop. But when they do, like when you do, when you stop and walk over to the kettle, that's pioneering and then reflected in the culture. It's a huge and courageous step to stop and pause. To not get on your phone or the apps takes courage. So, for the woman spinning, that is the first step: She must want to stop spinning.

Then I will say: Any step toward yourself is the right one. These are mindful acts. You're on deadline. I have a timeframe with my kids. We are all doing so many things. And we can only do so many things within a timeframe. Then we also have a body, the energy of the world, and we're in relationships—we have all these layers. So, feeling and listening becomes our greatest tool.

How do you practice this?

Let's say I have a full day packed, and I'm going to be a rocket. I'm going to do it all! And then I wake up heavy with a headache. I didn't want to wake up heavy. I am the last one to want to accept that I woke up heavy. I want to pretend it's not happening. I want to move on with my life. I want to get it all done. So, I get a choice. I'll literally say out loud, 'I'm feeling heavy right now. I got a headache. I don't want to feel heavy.' Then I'll grab a glass of water; I'll take something from my cabinet grab some herb spray and a warm washcloth. I will love myself anyway, through this because I'm devoted to that. Because if I'm looking to fix the heaviness, I'm f@cked from the get-go—even though that's my first thought. So it's a choice. I want to get it all done, feel better, and have it all in a perfect bow. And that may still happen, but just not right now. So then, where do I go? I go into the kitchen. I put on the kettle and let the fire show me the way. I move toward myself in the unknown. Then, I do the next indicated step. Maybe I take out the dog. I still don't know, at that point, if I can get it all done or make it across town later. I don't have the answer. So I keep moving toward myself, in the quiet. 

I've been unraveling the not-knowing. I grew up in a household where knowing was everything. Being okay with simply knowing in the moment, is what I try to do. And sometimes I surprise myself. I wake up, feel heavy, and see this is going to be an even bigger, longer day. So I will take the Advil; I don't see if lavender can fix this issue. But then it is about What am I willing to do? A prominent voice inside me is saying, 'Fix it, take the thing, let's get it all done.' But that voice doesn't win anymore. Because the other voice inside me, the voice of devotion to myself and the long game, has gained volume. She is the better one to listen to. And I know my time here is precious, and that is also powerful. 

You say, 'Any step toward yourself is the right one.' How do you know you're making steps toward yourself?

This is such a great question. We all know when we're getting closer to ourselves because it's a deep inner serenity. It doesn't feel like that. It feels like a risk. And that, to me, brings up a tremendous amount of grief. Especially for women, stepping toward ourselves and getting closer to ourselves feels like a risk. And then we do it over and over again, and the idea and the feeling and the texture and the rhythm of the risk changes through deep self-care.

It's a brave act to nourish our risk. It's brave because it's a contrarian action. You may think: I’m not going to do that, am I? And then you see, oh, actually, that is what I'm going to do. It's brave. You begin one step at a time.

I heard a woman's story recently that was so beautiful. She was so tearful and said, 'I'm going to therapy with my husband today, and I'm going to tell him I'm leaving.' It was such a brave risk to hear her moving toward herself. Then I get to share her bravery with you, which ripples out even more. The healing is found in our stories. And when we share them, we heal collectively.

That brings me to ask you about the collective. What if we feel that it's selfish to move toward ourselves? What if we’d rather skip straight to helping others?

Selfish has an 'ish' on it, so I want to say selfmore. Selfmore includes the we. The more I get to know myself, the more I have empathy for you. The more I'm honest with myself and my own inventory, the more I have to give to you. 

The idea of giving myself out to you without a well is selfish. Because then you're looking to be a savior. Sacrificing myself over and over for another is not helpful. But the long game for all of us is to say yes to ourselves and take the quiet risks. I have seen this in my career for over 20 years. When women say yes to themselves and go on my retreats, they change their trajectory and their kids' lives and their community. I had one woman come on retreat who was a pediatric nurse and a mother. She cried for days when we arrived. She grieved when she came. She then grew a business, came on retreat three more times, worked with me, and then started working with women. That was a risk. That was a new model for her kids. And was that selfish? It was selfmore. It was self-full for the whole, breaking us all free.

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Learn more about Jules and order her book at julesblainedavis.com.  Interview by Stacey Lindsay, conducted exclusively for Liberty Road.

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