The futile fight

When sadness consumed me, I could never rise above it. It was dark and I was lost and ironically, angry. It is so easy to misdirect my own frustration and assign it to others who will never know that they hold it. For years then, I have had exhaustive arguments with them, and they never knew those even took place. Once in a while, I gained my full awareness, stopped mid-sentence, and asked myself, "Who are you arguing with?" It would be so easy to graduate from such futility, but it has taken much more.

I needed a little anger in my life to deal with the pain that I did not know was coming, the lines blurred and I found that I was using it as leverage to deal with everything that came my way. It seemed like a good fit, I had such beautiful mastery over it. I could make it sing like sweet music and it had the power to make many things happen. The one thing it did not allow for however was to allow me to feel my sadness.

There is nothing more powerful than sadness and despair. Within it, the only way I could then look is up. In my life, the easiest way to know where the top is is to be at the bottom. It was always then, that I knew which way to go. I know I had to scream and protest. I know I had to do all I did because I saw no other way. I never learn the most important things easily. I am full of friction and fight. It is one of my biggest flaws. What a relief it is to know that. 

I know that knowing this is still not enough. But I am here, doing my best to do what I am supposed to do. Instead of fighting, I am allowing myself to feel. This is where the real healing begins and the real strength comes from.

The Hunter awaits

 Of the hunter:

It has been three days since I saw him. The gleam of the barrel of the rifle, the rustle of the ground debris, because of the cover and concealment I have found. Very few know what true safety can be like, and yet here I am. 

Of the prey:

The ground crumbles and even when he spreads himself out, the substance under him turns to sand falling through the ever-small glass port of the hourglass. He couldn't stop it, no one could.  

The needle pulses from empty to full. Somewhere, something heavy lays on the power lines, bouncing up and down in a turbulent wind. It said strength like waves of the sea, how I long to know this.

Of John Lennon:

“Wherever you are you are here… Wherever you are you are here.” 

Of the prey:

It is apparent, something you have is something the hunter intends to take. 

Of the girl from the spaceship:

“What would you do if you were not afraid?”

Of my nineteen year old self:

Taking what is at hand.

Of the hunter:

I have been tracking you since the night you saw the streets painted with warnings five decades ago. The hall light that slipped 50 miles away and you could not get it back. The arguments, other conversations, all weaving the web in which you cannot get away.

Of the prey: No. My understanding is more vast than you know. My rage is incredible. My advocate is unbeatable. So, no. It does not matter about the painted streets, the hall light, the noises, the man who followed me up the dark stairs on July 13, 1977. My crash landing into safety only to foolishly question my foundation. It is a game to distract me. I know where I am. 

Every now and then I forget that the fragments identified in September 2016 have been assembled just like a thousand piece puzzle. So to the girl from the sky, my answer to your question is: Watch this.

 

Stuck

 How is it that some parents can just demand their 18 year old high school graduate move out? How is it that some can send them to college and shift so easily into the next phase of their lives? For the last 21 years, everything was my children, and actually it still is. We crossed that threshold a few years ago when they stopped coming camping with us. It is so strange, because since that happened, we really have not had a good trip. Small exceptions, yes, but it was different. 

I always ran our 5 trips per year like a mobile army unit. It was all about the boys, how well we were set up, how they would manage the fire, what the food would be like. 

There was never time to read, relax, and just think. No, making everything happen in a day for me was sort of like being on American. Ninja Warrior. Nothing ever stopped until those boys were falling asleep in our laps in front of the fire later. It was perfect. 

It was amazing. July 4th 08 weekend was our second trip in the popup. Dinner was done, Noah fell asleep in Donna’s arms in front of the fire. Liam was 5. I put him on my shoulders and went for a walk because we heard fireworks in the distance and wanted to see if we could see them from a higher point in the campground. We only could see a faint glow on the horizon, but what we got was more than we could have imagined. When we got to the top of the dirt road overlooking a vast field, it was filled with thousands of fireflies! When I think back about that night, I hear Liam’s five year old voice talking with me about it and can feel him on my shoulders. It was so magnificent. This was before we carried smartphones, we did not grab the digital camera and even if we did, it could not have seen it the way that we did at that moment. At no time in my life have I ever seen anything like this, or have again. It was a fixed point in time that just happened.

We were at Attitash that fall. Noah had a medical issue that caused us to have to drive to Berlin NH to the hospital for at least three of the days we were up there. It was pretty serious and it lead to an infection. We did the train ride out of Conway, and I felt so bad for him because he normally would have enjoyed it so much, but not today. The doctors finally decided minor surgery was in order. They would put him out with Ketamine for the procedure. I laid on my back on the table and held him, facing me. They put him out and did what they had to do. I stayed in that spot for 3 hours from start to finish. I always needed to be THAT MUCH there for my boys, never abandoning, even for medical procedures.

If you were to ask me what one of the greatest moments of my life would be, I would tell you it was watching their faces as the Wolfman attacked the train up at Clark’s Trading Post. I think it was the definition of absolute joy for me. 

The point is, these boys defined my existence for two decades, everything I did was for them. I really do not know how to move on when they do not need me like they used to. When they do have needs, often they are adult ones in which I can only advise but not rescue them . Oh, I get it, rescuing them does no good, I know it, they know it. But there are some things I do just wish I could make happen for them and I am sure that will never disappear.

I know the answer is to pursue what I love and in that love, I can show them and even build good things with them. I know this happens to parents everywhere, well at the ones who care. The other kind are a little too abundant these days if you ask me. 

All I can say is all of the magnificence of everything is now clear in my vision. As much as we appreciate what we have when we are there, it is nothing compared to how we appreciate it as bedsitter people.

The art of Ramen

 A bowl of ramen. It is a beautiful thing. When you find an excellent one, the appreciation in your heart can overflow like the flavors that bowl delivers. There was a movie starring the late great Brittany Murphy called Ramen Girl. In it, there was a ramen that would make people cry, as if the sadness of the maker connected to the sadness of the diner and took it away somehow, lovingly, and gently. While I saw the movie as an obvious caricature, there is something to that idea of carrying a connection through these savory bowls of art.

Photo by Cody Chan on Unsplash

 Over the weekend I had the privilege of attending a ramen class. To call it "learning how to make ramen" is perhaps too strong. One class of ramen making is like finding an ice cube on a frozen ground. The ice beneath that is connected to that lone cube is the size of the continent of Antarctica. That contrasts one class of ramen making and the vast knowledge contained within. This class teaches Japanese cooking, words, and stories of these dishes and traditions. 

In class, our wonderful teacher instructs from the food she makes and eats and therefore, from the heart.  She brings so much more value to us than if she recycled culinary school techniques or relabeled restaurant operating procedures. Those can be found in online courses, schools, and on YouTube. Here, we cut through all of that pre-packaged white noise, and get right to the important things.

I have attended this monthly class many times on making Japanese dishes and it works nicely on a schedule. This class ran over in honor of making ramen, appropriately so. Everything was made from scratch, the broth, the noodles, everything. I learned more about the core physics of cooking in this class than all the others I have attended. Here lies the art of ramen, and of life. 

Every baker and pasta-making chef knows, that flour, water, and its companions have a mind of their own. They are unique in their response and attitude. Here is where realities are split like atoms in molecular science. It is here the maker, thanks to the laws of physics appears to be magic or a fraud. The beauty of it is that the experience in this one class is so multi-dimensional in how it mirrors the complex dynamics of life, that I feel that I will be gleaning profound substance from this one day in my life for a long time to come. I am truly fortunate to have found this perfect spot on earth to learn so much. This is what striving for...fighting for taste is all about.