I believe this is my last Christmas. No offense to my Christian or secular friends who celebrate it and I will not give up the practice of celebrating with my family but I believe this is the last year I will have a tree of my own or decorate the house for Christmas.

This may not be such a surprising admission following my previous post on religion. Nor is this an easy admission to make. I had considered it last year when, what used to be one of the highlights of my year, something magical, full of meaning and memories, became instead onerous. This year, it felt even more so (though being ill at the time did not help) and as I continued to look around my house decked in red and velvet, I realized that I was done with it all. It isn’t that it isn’t pretty, but it means so little to me now. It is now social convention and an empty ritual (this is what I have always done) rather than embracing a feeling and sentiment.

Will I find some other rituals, something more meaningful to me, next year to fill that space in my heart that used to hold onto Christmas dearly? I don’t know. Everything in my life is upside down at the moment. It could be that I leave Nashville within the next year and find myself alone and lonely in Portland and needing to cling to my old ways for comfort. If that is the case, I accept it, because I have often found self-soothing in constructive ways much healthier than climbing into a bottle (even if it is a bottle of Christmas cheer). It could be that I adopt some other means of celebrating winter or commemorating past events. A ‘holiday’ rosemary bush, perhaps? I kid. But in a sense I don’t. I adore the lights twinkling on my tree but no longer feel the need for this assimilated pagan symbol. I have no spirit of Santa Claus or the baby Jesus swimming in my veins. No, my veins are filled with something more powerful and more tangible these days.

And so it is, that on Epiphany (aka The Feast of Fools, Three Kings Day, or January 6th), my tree will come down for the last time. Away will be packed all the small trinkets I have collected or been gifted over the years and should my world appear the same next Thanksgiving, I will divest myself of these items, keeping only those things that are sentimental to a particular degree (items made by or given to me by my mother, grandmother, etc) for posterity… or perhaps display on a rosemary bush.

Happy Holidays to everyone regardless of religion or creed! May this winter be kind to you and may you find rebirth in the new year!

Matisyahu is not the only impetus for these thoughts, nor is he the most pressing. I have found myself at a crossroads in life where I wait and struggle and never more have I wished that I could pray- wished that I could cast my concerns to another and wait for that one to answer me. Instead, the divinity I feel in the universe, the meridian lines of energy pulling me to and fro, crossing and uncrossing thoughts and paths in life, is indifferent. I am not beloved by my divinity, nor does it chastise and punish me when I fail. It exists and it works itself through all things, exerting control unseen but unconscious, creating opportunity for growth and success as well as for regret and pain. But how I wish it was a white haired man at whom I could rail should things fail, at whom I could hurl my displeasure at the current state of my little world. That man, the G-d of the Book for many, his physical image in the world is typically derived from Grecian lore, to appear as Zeus. It would be nice if I could be his child again.

I remember when I was. I remember looking to this paternal figure, who was called Father and Lord, and weeping on my knees in His august and unseen presence. Oh, there was such beauty in the breaking of hedonistic Me. I wept, I surrendered, and I became a supplicant to the alter of forgiveness. And I was comfortable there for a time. “Give over your thoughts, your will, your logic, and The Church will guide you.” Ah, well, we see how well the Catholic (and even the catholic) Church has done in the world throughout history (“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!”).

But I grew. I had to leave behind dogma but I did not leave behind morality. I did not leave behind a love of ritual and tradition, I simply left behind what I considered antiquated ideas of human interaction. I found instead a philosophy that guides my heart to places that are not always comfortable but are without shame and without punishment. I punish myself quite well, thank you. I am accountable to myself and to that which I choose to be accountable to, not a man in a robe who claims piety. The men (there are only a couple names I would list in this and neither at this time are women) I look up to in my spiritual life and in my relationship with the divine do not claim any piety. They live it. They are examples of it. But they are men. Not divine messengers. They are just like me: fallible, mortal, and walking along a similar but not identical path.

Oh, but I could hope now to close my eyes and have someone else to blame should my world come crumbling down around me. Should I fail, should I lose, should I create chaos… I only have myself to blame… and truly only myself. I cannot even look to others and blame them, for my way through the divine and living world calls for accountability, calls for accepting that only I made these choices, only I had the intention to create and/or destroy, only I could take the leap and hope to fly to the place I wanted to land- but I think Kierkegaard remains correct in saying we must take a leap of faith (though my faith now is different than his). My faith is now in what I have built in my world, the strength in my resolve and in myself and in those around me. I am still an existentialist by and large and I still hold fast to Kierkegaard’s philosophy that at the edge of logic, at the edge of all that we thought we knew, if we step off in faith, we may find ourselves in the existence we so need.

I began writing this on December 15, 2011, and now it is a day later and I find it vaguely amusing that my thoughts on faith and my lack of it were so stirred on the same day as the passing of orator and noted atheist, Christopher Hitchens. As I read some of his work written during his struggle against cancer, I mused that, while I speak of Kierkegaard here, a philosopher of deep religious convictions, it is more often Voltaire, Freud (specifically and only his work, Future of an Illusion), Marx, Aristotle, and Plato that I turn to when I offer up my opinions on the nature of humanity. I have also been known to quote Spinoza and Nietschze and yes, quite often I refer to my beloved Gautama Buddha and his thoughts on the potential for all of us to reach Buddhahood (ie our inherent Buddha nature), but I remember distinctly the last time I prayed. It was also the last time I sat in a pew as a supplicant, though I have sat in pews since as a wedding attendee and in services with friends (notably Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve) but never since as a supplicant to the alter. When ill, I cry out for my momma to care for me, not to a deity to heal me. When loss comes, I accept the shedding of the mortal shell and the release of the energy that animated a loved one but I do not picture them in white robes floating among the clouds. In saying all of this, I would say I am likely somewhere closer to Hitchens than Desmond Tutu (though I highly respect each).

I feel the need to go back to my academic writings spinning my own theology (I was forced to in Divinity School), my philosophical interpretations of theologians and atheists alike, as well as the primary sources to refresh myself on the theories put forth by each. I feel the need to delve back into religious and philosophical study because I feel myself sitting at this odd crossroads, stuck, waiting, and who doesn’t enjoy reading while waiting for time to pass and the world to shift once more into a forward momentum?

With this shift and the passage of a day, it is difficult to reengage thoughts of yesterday. Hitchens’ passing does not change my belief that a leap of faith, even a leap of faith without a deity to catch one in mid-air, bears the potential for the greatest happiness. A faith in what? In ones’ self, in the drive of the heart and the soul to experience the farthest boundaries of love and joy, faith that the self and those surrounding it can create and mold the universe and all its divinity to reflect the good intentions of a soul (I use the term soul but my teacher, SN Goenka, refers to this as our bubble mass- the ever changing entity within that can view the world, the inner thing/ voice that is ‘self’ and has nothing to do with our dying bodies). Faith doesn’t live and die in the deity, it is instead a feeling, the sense in the gut that if we remain frozen in dogma and orthodoxy, we deny ourselves the possibility of reaching our potential and we deny others the same by holding them to ideals that may not reach the true pulse of our humanity. Some would say I am wrong for embracing such freedom but in leaving behind hedonism and never holding to utilitarianism, secular existentialism remains at the core of my being. And this would not be a philosophy based off someone like Ayn Rand- I do not adhere to the ideal that we are all at base selfish, though we hold selfish thoughts and desires. Instead, His Holiness the Dalai Lama provides the modern ideal of a life of peace and happiness: create good spaces, act with good intentions, embrace our personal truths, and we manifest joy.

If this is a meandering treatise, I apologize for a lack of focus. This is not my academic writing. This is not footnoted and shaped into an argument, because I am not arguing this point. I am offering you an opinion. Albeit, it is a well researched opinion, born of 6 years (more if you consider the religious education I provided myself long before I entered university) of intense study. Am I, like Hitchens, an atheist? Absolutely not. Could you label me any particular organized religion? Absolutely not. I am agnostic to the core, and this is not a “fence sitting” position. I am not hedging my bets either way (I was once advised by a Catholic that I should simply believe “just in case”). Through study and contemplation I have come to accept the most unacceptable answer for most: I just don’t know. Uncertainty is an uncomfortable place to exist in but it is by far the most comfortable place for me after hundreds of hours of reading. I can attest to the fact that, in a foxhole or staring death in the face, I still do not cry out for a savior (unless you count saviors among the mortal humans who act to save a mortal existence).

It would be easier to hedge my bets, just in case. But without compelling evidence otherwise, I see no reason in altering my empirical take on the world. Yes, I believe in divinity and in some sense, I find myself believing in some sense of predetermination, which works for me since I had come down on the side of compatibilism in the free will debate under the tutelage of philosopher, Mike McKenna. I consider the world in terms of robust options versus non-robust ones and when I consider those robust options, I feel myself free to choose among them and yet I still believe that there are people in my life I am “meant” to know and be shaped by and places (in the metaphysical sense) I am “meant” to go. These are not contradictory to me.

So, I find myself at some end with this mental ramble. My soul remains troubled but secure in its beliefs. It is troubled by the workings of mortal beings in a divine world, with the divine being simply that which we do not understand, cannot fathom, in its workings. The meridian line that pulls me strongly remains a robust option. I can choose it, as can others. The question is, will I? Will others?

Here is a very brief list of readings that shape some of these thoughts:

Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics

Plato, The Republic

Sigmund Freud, Future of an Illusion

Fischer, Kane, Pereboom, and Vargas, Four Views on Free Will

Voltaire, Candide

Soren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling

Karl Marx, Philosophical and Economic Manuscripts and The Communist Manifesto

Also, websites: www.dhamma.org and the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy.

So, a few friends have asked me lately if I’m okay. Probably because between recent blog posts and my twitter feed, I sound as though I’m relatively close to jumping off a bridge. My answer: I will be okay, I’m just not now.

Why? I can’t explain it. It is complicated, life is just complicated. If I had the means, I would pack my shit and move to Portland and never look back. I would shrink into a tiny shell and never emerge. I would disappear.

Yes, there’s plenty of good. I can’t say it is all bad because I am suffering right now towards an end, towards the possible realization of all my dreams. Sounds rather ridiculous, doesn’t it? Well, it’s true. I can say that some of it has to do with my health of late. They often say if you have your health, you have everything. Well, what do you have when you don’t? And when there is no one around to care for you and so you have to shlep your feverish, aching carcass around your home and back and forth to work, unable to cook, unable to eat, but trying desperately to sustain that worthless shell… when, for the first time in your life, you have to sit in the ER by yourself? Does every other little irritant in your world, every other small failing grow to the size of an elephant and press further upon your soul? Well, for me it does and it has.

I found some solace during this prolonged period of illness in comedic blogs. Thank you Allie Brosh (www.hyperboleandahalf.com) and The Bloggess (sorry, I forget her real name at the moment and I have little time to pound this out but look her up, www.thebloggess.com, and you’ll understand). These two women made me laugh through sleepless nights, which was rather painful in itself since my persistent cough became prolonged coughing fits through my guffaws.

If I were to show how I felt at the moment, I can illustrate it thanks to Allie Brosh. This is her interpretation of the hospital pain scale:

I’m somewhere around a 7 at this point. See, doesn’t that help?

She also recently posted the above on her latest blog and I concur with this feeling. That awful critic in my head has kicked into high gear and is kicking the crap out of me. I usually beat his ass by running 15 miles but being sick, there was no doing so. Instead, I get to lay in bed and think about my failings and everything going on in my life and painting the worst possible outcome for everything.

Saying all that, I will be okay, barring spontaneous aneurysm and such. I wish I could talk about what I’m going through but circumstances prevent that. Instead I’ll say, eventually, hopefully, I’ll have really good news to share and hopefully, now that Western medicine is slowly restoring my malfunctioning machine of a body to its standard operations, I’ll be able to pull that 7 down to a manageable 2 or 3 until the storm passes.

So, am I okay right now? NO. Absolutely not. Will I be? I expect so. Sorry if this isn’t more amusing or uplifting or cheery but this is life. If you are depressed reading this, then hop over to those websites and get your laugh on. It’s amazing medicine.

I trace this back months… oh, June 25th, you cruel, cruel day. Yes, I’m still reeling from Sasha’s death and I feel sharply repetitive in saying so. But it is from that point that I feel I began drowning. Each step since then seems to take me nowhere… I was treading water and failing at keeping afloat. And so I sank.

Now I’m embraced by the dark and deep. Do not doubt, I have moments of sunlight, as though flotsam above my head has cleared and the sun is glinting through the waves onto this sandy bottom where I lay. These moments, though, come with the threat of all that lays beyond those rays.

I cannot breathe and so I simply stare. I watch. I watch what moves over and around me and I try to engage but I am unable to move for fear of losing the air I hold in my lungs- that final breath maintaining my existence and my position.

Currents make this place vascilate between warm and cool as the wind moves with the seasons in the world above. I shiver and sweat in the pressing weight of water around me. I think, “All I need is to recharge, to regain some energy to swim again, to find focus or clarity or peace… or forward momentum because, reclined upon a bed of pebbles, I am beginning to be lost under the sand and no one is looking for me.”

Oh, there are voices around me. They say what I need to hear but they are muted and distorted through the water’s walls. They do not see me anchored here and they do not hear my thoughts. They do not know what the world looks like here in the deep- all the crevices hide colors and predators. They do not understand the silence. If I could but kick to the surface, I could scream of the facts of this small existence.

And so it is- I have lost my words. I have nothing I can say, so I say nothing. I retreat deeper. If some read this, they will question me, “Is there no good?,” “Am I not here?,” “Did I not reach for you?” Yes, yes, and yes. But this is not a place for the quotidien aspects of my life. This is not for the laughter, for the adventures, for the amazement. This is for the deep where the words are bound and crying to be set free. This is for the possibilities that are languishing, somnolent in their fear. They hide. I hide. And somehow… eventually… there will be a storm that sets us free.

Yet, as it builds, this quiet and dark place becomes an ever more powerful prison.

It seems that 30 or so years of never dealing with a food, it took some time for Brussels sprouts to seep into my consciousness. Then, recently, my dearest friend posted that he had roasted some and it set off a craving. MUST HAVE BRUSSELS SPROUTS! Then I forgot about them again for a month or so. Finally, food bloggers I follow, The Bitten Word, posted about a bacon and apple Brussels sprouts dish they had made and I couldn’t wait any longer. The problem was, I wanted to make mine vegetarian because my friend, with whom I often trade goodies, doesn’t eat bacon (Odd, I know). I intended to share my first batch of Brussels sprouts with him… alas, I sort of gobbled them all up. Next time, my friend, next time.

Whatever your thoughts on Brussels sprouts (they do have a rather nasty reputation), I found them to be delightful little vegetables. As I chopped them in half and doused them with olive oil, tossed them with chopped pink lady apples and added several generous pats of butter, I thought, “How cute, they look and smell like little cabbages!” I put them to roast in my toaster oven and when they came out caramelized, I topped them generously with Point Reyes Original Blue (I had originally wanted gorgonzola but my tiny local grocery shop didn’t have it, so if you’re a bleu cheese fan, feel free to mix it up. Though, I will say that this is a wonderful creamy bleu cheese with just enough tang to be noticeable but is not overpowering.) and went a little nuts on the bowl I had made up. In fact, I’m thinking I will stop by the store tonight for more Brussels sprouts and apples so I can make this dish again tonight.

If you’re skeptical about Brussels sprouts, either from a bad childhood experience or, like me, you’ve simply never been exposed to them and are turned off by their reputation, I’d suggest you try this recipe. The sweet tartness of the apples with the savory delicateness of the Brussels and the bitter creaminess of the bleu cheese are a perfect match.

(Pictures to come soon)

Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Apples and Bleu Cheese

•  1 lb Brussels sprouts, cut in half and woody stem trimmed
• 1 large or 2 small Pink Lady apples, cored and chopped into 1 inch pieces
• ~1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
• 1-2 tbsp butter (I used unsalted), cut into thin pats
• Point Reyes Original Blue cheese (or another bleu cheese of your choosing)

Preheat oven to 350. Toss Brussels sprouts and apples with olive oil in a roasting dish. Top with pats of butter. Roast in oven ~45 minutes, occassionally stirring. Serve hot, topped/ mixed with bleu cheese to taste.

See? So simple and so tasty.

Long weekends- I’ve been having quite a few of those. I took a long weekend to Washington DC to visit old friends and generally enjoy our nation’s capitol in the autumn and enjoy it I did! There was a stellar long run around many of the monuments and memorials that went well except for a noted lack of available bathrooms along the route until about mile 9 (too much coffee) and a rather intense “bonk” about a mile later. A bonk being one of those lovely runner moments when the blood sugar has dropped low and tunnel vision begins to set in. I sat, I GU’d, and hobbled back to my hotel for a much needed overload on brunch (and mimosas). There was also some imprudent spending on books but found the loveliest local bookstore that actually carried something other than the Twilight saga. I now own the memoirs of Pablo Neruda. The weekend was way too short but I was so happy to wrap my arms around one of my oldest friends, my “boyfriend” from 7th grade, and one of the best people I know: Fred, and his well-matched and lovely wife, Clare. I love those two and their children dearly, even if we don’t get to spend any time together.

It was back to Nashville then to unpack and repack to head to Cedarpoint for a girls’ (plus Squirrel) weekend. Squirrel was our token male and hey, he loves Jack Daniels, so of course he was an awesome addition! We drank lots and lots of beer, had plenty of laughs, rode all the roller coasters, and ventured into a few haunted houses (which were lacking in the scary department). I spent much of that Saturday SERIOUSLY hungover but hey, I still rode all but 1 ride (I wanted to hurl just looking at it due to its simulataneous spinning and swinging). Then we had the long ride home and I had to pass on stopping in Louisville for Bourbon Ball Graeter’s ice cream because we had to get the rental back on time… so if anyone is going to Louisville and coming back to Nashville, bring me some!!! YUM!

I came home and had a day to recover and was supposed to unpack and repack for Ragnar Relay but came home with the worst thing possible: an injury. All the roller coasters shaking me about and running around in my Chucks in the cold rain inflamed my sacral-iliac joint and I was out for the count. Still nursing it but back to running a bit but sadly, had to drop out of Ragnar at the last minute. Not only did I feel bad from the pain but I felt awful about leaving my teammates in the lurch (and missing such a fun race).

But that gave me a four day weekend to rest and recuperate, which I desperately needed. So, what did I do? I cooked. And baked. And cleaned. I’m still doing laundry! I will definitely throw up some of the recipes I waded into and successfully executed soon and I’m looking forward to canning some of these creations for this winter. A new stainless steel 20 qt stockpot joined the kitchen family a few days ago for just such enterprises and I’m looking forward to test-driving it. I have a few soups to can and I’m also planning on a batch of lavender jelly and pepper jelly. Lots of hot peppers left over from my CSA still!

Phew. So, as of today I appear to be fighting off some sort of flu bug but I’m hoping with the rest I got last weekend and the impending 3-day weekend for Veteran’s Day (my day!), I will be able to knock whatever it is out of my system and focus on baking. Can you say bourbon brownies, applesauce oatmeal cookies, and chocolate ginger fudge? Oh yes, I can.

Pics and the like to come…

but by mid-day have worked myself into a frothy fit. This beautiful vista was preceded by a great run under a beautiful moonlit and starry sky. Who can ask for a better start to a morning than this gift of nature’s beauty and the physical capacity to do what I love in the midst of it?

Why do I want to be a bitch, then? Well, maybe I don’t really. I was in a perfectly good mood and something just rubbed me wrong. And I sat stewing about it momentarily and the stewing made me want to lash out. I wanted momentarily to just be a bitch- to whine, to complain, to attack, to be utterly irrational. Unfortunately, this mind is trained beyond that. Both my logical and compassionate minds piped in almost a half second later. They spoke to me, first by identifying what exactly I was feeling: envy, and second by identifying why: desire/ craving and aversion, two sides of the very same coin.

These things create all our suffering and within a breath or two, I was still left with a desire to lash out but only to satisfy the twinge, no longer with any particular avarice in mind. Misery loves company, right? But I will not, nor do I tend to in my life. I have even been advised at times by women in my life that I should be more of a bitch but there is a part of me that loves so completely and also a part of me that has a serious aversion to confrontation and these parts together engage the compassionate and logical minds (which are deeply entwined) and suddenly I am saying things like, “I wanted to be angry with you because of…” but never raising my voice, never accusing, never giving into my passive aggressive whims (well, almost never).

Oh, in the mind it feels as though it was so much easier when I was less educated about my emotions and the arising and passing away of all of life and creation but now, the Buddhist philosophy is such a part of my nature (even if I remain a particularly “bad” Buddhist), that it is difficult to move past two breaths before centering and realigning. Interesting how the flailing, screaming, rampaging thing appears to have been the easier path because it required no discipline but the lack of discipline is unwanted pain and torment. Instead, it is the introspection that is much easier… and it feels so much better, even if I don’t get to indulge in a wanton rage.

I still struggle with my bad moods, especially when things are heightened emotionally in my life, but I no longer have the license I had in youth to self-destruct and rampage. This is a good thing. I may remember it as easier but in truth, life was so much more difficult when I chose to act out of selfish desires and envy. Insecurity creates these things and when one can recognize insecurity, one can address it with the compassionate mind. While a hug from a loved one helps, there has to be those mental hugs one gives oneself. One must be kind to the self that is struggling daily to achieve dreams and attain goals. One must be gentle with the self that suffers daily setbacks. There is only failure in any of this if the self quits trying.

So, yes, sometimes I want to be a bitch. It would be so easy to call or text hurtful and angry things to spread the pain but where is the efficacy in this?

Embrace the beauty of the day, even when moments arise to stir the waters and muddy the clarity with silt. If you wait but a brief time, the water will settle and become clear again. It takes the time to sit, to breathe, to become aware. Then, and only then, will I no longer want to be a bitch anymore and can move forward in loving kindness.

“Bhavatu sabbamangalam or Sarve bhavantu sukhinah – ‘May all beings be happy.’…

May all beings be free from aversion and be happy.” ~S.N. Goenka

You see, I am not a morning person. BUT my commitment to this race and to myself has led me to wake up at 0430 several days a week in order to run in the mornings. I’m still running in the evenings sometimes as well, doing “two-a-days,” in preparation for Ragnar Relay TN with my fellow East Nasties, which I ran last year and loved. 28 hours of sweat, friends, cold weather, and questionable food- who wouldn’t love it!?! So, this new training schedule kicked of and it alone was enough to take me down a notch, as well as affect how my days and evenings go (sorry, my friends, if I’ve become a hermit crab).

On top of that I added some overtime to my work schedule. It won’t last long but goodness, this week is interminable. Starting at 0430 and not getting home until about 1830 makes for a long day… and a cranky me. But what have I been doing with my time off?

Cooking and baking.

Before this week began, I spent Sunday in my kitchen since I couldn’t do a long run. I caught a rather nasty virus a couple weeks ago and finally had to slow down. So I spent my off day happily cooking for 9 hours. Hooray! I made another honey cake and made some tasty cinnamon biscuits (recipe courtesy of Two Peas and Their Pod- who celebrated the birth of their son this week! Mazal tov!). I also had a sudden craving for a bagel and lox so, whilst in the midst of rushing around my kitchen, I assembled bagel, cream cheese, capers, tomato, and smoked salmon and chowed down. Really, it’s one of my absolute faves!

After the sweet stuff and breakfast were out of the way, I turned to savory dishes. I’ve gotten a lot of squashes in my CSA with the changing of the season, so that is what I am working with. I made a mixed yellow squash garam masala with sunburst, summer, and spaghetti squashes, and golden zucchini. I added some of the hot peppers from my CSA and froze most of this so that, as winter takes over, I will have some spicy filling meals to look forward to. I also made a batch of butternut squash soup. I’ve posted the recipe below. It is rather amazing, especially since I did not care for butternut squash soup previously. It was too sweet, much as pumpkin soup becomes rather cloying after a few bites. The key to the change: star anise. I also did not care for star anise previously but as my palate has shifted and grown, I have discovered pleasure in the wonderful spiciness of that licorice flavor. It could be that I’ve begun drinking absinthe a bit of late, mostly in my sazeracs.

I made a new batch of kalamata tapenade as my pots were bubbling and melding flavors because my house really can’t be without an olive tapenade. What better and easy snack than tapenade on crackers with a little feta cheese? I did not use up all of my spaghetti squash in the curry, so I sauteed some with balsamic vinegar and topped it with parmesan cheese. I had an acorn squash that needed using as well and truth be told, I’d never had it before. I asked a friend for some basic instructions and an hour later I was enjoying sweet and soft squash. I simply halved the acorn squash, scooped out the seeds, put a few pats of butter in the center and topped one half with brown sugar and the other with maple syrup (the real stuff, grade A).

That was just my Sunday.

As the week took over and exhaustion set in, I just couldn’t stop. So, Monday I took a recipe for gougeres (courtesy of Molly Wizenberg) and substituted a bleu brie for the gruyere to deal with a serious bleu cheese craving the cooler weather has brought on (I may also have a wedge of cambozola in my fridge waiting to be demolished). I think next time I do this particular substitution, I will add more flour since the triple cream of the brie caused the puffs to be more like soft, cheesy pancakes but they were delicious nonetheless. I also baked sunburst squash and eggplant slices after lightly breading them and coating them in shredded parmesan. A very lovely dinner and when reheating, they crisp up like chips.

Wednesday I was back at it again. I picked up my CSA and didn’t even put it all in the fridge because I was back in the kitchen. I happened to grab 7lbs of end of season tomatoes because I was really craving some more naked tomato sauce and wanted to freeze some for heavier winter meals (let’s be honest though, my love of this sauce means it will not make it that long). I omit the butter from it for health reasons and because this sauce does not need anything added for it to be perfection. Yum. I also canned two jars of homemade pickles with my abundant supply of cucumbers. Both were very simple dill pickle recipes- 1:1 ratio of water and vinegar (I did one with white and one with apple cider), salt, garlic, hot peppers, and fresh dill. I’m looking forward to these crunchy, tart treats soon!

Whew, I feel like I’m forgetting something but isn’t that enough. I already have my weekend eats/ projects lined up: pickled watermelon rinds, canning some of that tomato sauce, making a lovely autumn inspired granola (using some star anise), sauteed collard greens, wilted tatsoi and arugula (both from this week’s CSA share), and perhaps a pizza or some eggplant parmesan.

I don’t know how all that is going to get done since I have work tomorrow (I know, on a SATURDAY?!, but I’m snagging plenty of OT while I can), a party for a local brewery, and plenty of running to do. But I think you can tell, I make time for my kitchen.

Oh, and did I mention my craving for matzo ball soup? Yes, that’s coming soon…

*Photos will be added soon*

I was chatting online with an old friend of mine the other night and I asked him how things had been going for him. His response, “Things are pretty boring, safe, and predictable.” My response, “My life is anything but. I’d pay for some boring, safe, and predictable at the moment.”

But I wouldn’t. Not really. I guess this ties in well with my recent post on Robert Frost. I continually choose the right path for me and it is not usually the safest course of action… certainly not the easiest. I continue to push limits, to push myself, and I’d say I’m pushing a few others at the same time. ‘Be better, be braver, RISK so that you don’t regret.’ Safe has its place. It may be nice (I wouldn’t know since I haven’t ever really had it) to know everyday what you are getting into; to know each day when you wake up how things will play out until you climb back into bed. Safe. Comfortable. Convenient.

To me, that sounds rather sad. I like adventures. Now, my adventures may not be as grand as others’ adventures. I’m not jumping out of or off of anything into free fall- at least not physically. My job is not dangerous- well, except for the danger of starting to look like an overstuffed chair, which I will never let come to pass. And generally, I have a rather “normal” American life. But I refuse to settle for just good enough. When you see that there is potential for EVERYTHING: everything you ever wanted, could have dreamed of, all the potential for happiness that exists… why would you settle for comfortable and predictable? Why would you relegate your precious years to boring if you could possibly have fulfilling and exhilerating?

Yes, this path comes with a certain sense of danger. There is danger in walking alone at night but oh, the night calls to me and the sparkling fireflies in the dwindling of summer’s heat are mesmerizing. There is danger in climbing higher, running farther, and trying new things but the reward in these are great new vistas and new hidden trails. There is so much potential to be disappointed, to be hurt, to fail in all of this. SO WHAT? Tread lightly where there is ice upon a bridge but do not stop trying to cross it. Plan what you can and hope that your intentions carry you through new obstacles that may arise.

I could have failed when I left my hometown and scurried back to the safety and comfort of my mother’s home. I didn’t. I could have failed when I moved to Nashville, given up in loneliness and again scurried home to acceptance and love. I didn’t. I could have failed following graduation but instead found a worthy career. I could have locked myself away when I didn’t know a soul in Nashville. Instead I ventured out and now count among my friends some amazing, talented, intelligent, funny, and soulful people. I could have hidden my heart away after its last breaking… but I didn’t and knowing full well that it may be broken again does not stop me from loving with every cell of my being. The shifting and roiling of what makes me in each given moment calls forth from the heart and offers what I have without reservation.

Yes, there is pain on my road but my favorite Voltaire quote is that we are “born to live in either the convulsions of distress or the lethargy of boredom (Candide, 110).” I choose the former, if there must be a choice between the two. With our distresses, we find growth and when beautiful moments break through our suffering, they shine and sear into our memories. They become tactile, fragrant sense memories that are the last thing to disappear if we happen to live to old age.

My beautiful friend, Rae, is a constant reminder to be bold and to be brave… for therein lies true beauty and magnificence. I am currently on an adventure that is certainly requiring all my bravery, as it is a free fall into a rather harsh landing that is impending. Not a question of ‘if’ but a question of ‘when.’ I’m okay with that, no matter how I wish it was different. The end cannot determine a lack of beginning or cause one to give up on all the beauty of the story between. We know in reading much of Shakespeare that there are tragic events to befall us all but should this cause us to choose instead the life of a sitcom rather than being a part of the grand arc of history in some sense? Do you stop reading Shakespeare because you know that star crossed lovers or beautiful Ophelia will die? No, we embrace those losses and tuck the words and stories inside our chests, grateful for them because of their pain, because they resonate with that within us that abhors boredom. Would you rather life be a sitcom than an epic?

I don’t really want to be safe… I want to be great. I want to approach my deathbed someday knowing that I gave everything, that I strove for everything, that I didn’t settle… and even if I fail, even if I end life very much alone, I will know that I gave my story all the twists and turns it deserved to become an epic that may carry on past my time. I don’t want anyone to say, “She did the same thing everyday, she worked a safe job, and came home to comfort, and died quietly.” I want to go out dancing, as I spend each day doing. I want to leave this world singing, as I do at the top of my lungs every day. I want to pass from one existence into the ether knowing that the love in my heart was not mine but it was the love that was sent back to me because I’d given all that I had to those I could reach.

Life is not safe. Life should never be predictable. Take rest where you can because LIFE should be a very bumpy ride and that makes it all worth it. Climb the hills. Enjoy the quick descents and LOVE. LOVE WITH ALL YOU HAVE. There is NOTHING else.

Music has constantly played the backdrop to my stories. I write my life in others’ beats, in their voices, in their words. They echo through my nights, grip my days, and spill forth from my mouth as though a songbird is alive in my chest desperately beating its way out. And I have opened my mouth more lately than I have in years… my song is broadcasting loud and clear and only one hears it but it is deafening. But I have already begun writing another soundtrack in my head… and it will make Florence painful to hear, as she belongs to this time.

So, if one chooses falling and chooses the soundtrack to occupy that space where music must thrive, what of dreaming? What of considering other universes, dimensions, or times, when all of our heart’s desires have manifested- and I do not mean those for wealth or fame or success, but only for love- and in those other spaces, we walk hand in hand with the one we love, watching our chubby legged creation skipping before us, as sunlight streams through small, supple droplets of rain on a warm spring day. Oh, what worlds our hearts create without ever meaning to… and no matter how impossible they are in the light of reality.

My grip on reality is firm. My dreams fanciful. My falling- ah, still free fall and the wind feels cool upon my cheeks, leaving my smile wide and flapping in the opposing of gravity. The ground will bring grief and will shatter my dreams as the shards of a kaleidoscope upon the compacted earth- all that will be left is colored glass glinting in the sun, blinding to the eye, burning what was once freedom.

Oh, why do we choose as we do? Many will rush forth and free fall without thought and they forget the ground. How different it is to jump, acknowledging the ground’s inevitability and still jumping! To free fall for the time allowed and to willingly embrace the ground’s effects. Oh, but this would make me think of a sad, chosen end. No such end for this protagonist. No… when the ground rushes up to meet me, when there is grief, so will there be rebirth. It is not an end but a beginning. And each day is a similar beginning, in free fall… knowing that someday, there will be ground and it will be painful… but oh…

it will be worth it.