An Epiphany about Nostalgia

In the decade of our brilliant youth we had so much beauty and so much love. These things existed in excess, so much that they were all we saw, at times -- it was either these things or the darkest, ugliest parts of life. It was as though we never lived in the in-between. Our senses and reflexes were keen, and we dealt in gorgeous extremes. And we were fearless. Perhaps we weren't truly courageous but we were certainly cavalier. All that mattered was what mattered to us, and all that mattered were the series of moments we barreled through. Time moved quickly, but it felt like an eternity of endless magic, and I felt as though I'd either live forever or not give a damn if I died, as I would die in a glorious implosion of light. I always think fondly of those times, and find myself missing them -- missing myself, in a way. I've said as much, that I want to get back to my "true self," she who didn't try to control everything, and wasn't concerned about silly things like time management and risk management, but rather allowed things to be what they were and always sought to be present in each moment. But then I realize I'm like a forest, with all the layers. In our wild and free youth we are shrubs. We have so much possibility and to all the world appear green and bright, and we are beautiful and plentiful. But we do not all live to grow from that point; we do not know how delicate we are. And in the end, maybe it's alright because those of us who do not leave that place really do depart in a glorious implosion of light. These years, as I begin to build the forest canopy of my life, it's difficult to see that shrubs still exist beneath my deep green leaves and my ever-stronger, if yet somewhat willowy trunk. I feel my deepening roots, but the ground layer just above those roots goes largely unnoticed. I realize now: the issue is not that these elements are lost. I'm just too busy looking up, up to the rain, sun and wind that continue to strengthen me and help me grow. But all that's beneath me remains and it feeds me, too. All that beauty and love? I made it, it's a part of me and continues to grow with me. It's the inner knowingness that comes with my fully-realized growth that's not quite there yet, and it is that knowingness which allows me to see myself in all my layers, and use those layers to define, impassion, protect, refine and develop the tree that is me. I own it all, it's deep in the rings of my history, and the beauty shows in the deepening color of my leaves.

Well done.

I just had the best scrambled eggs of my life--at a tiny restaurant in restaurant in Birmingham, Alabama: Trattoria Centrale.  These were not the Disneyland eggs found at your typical IHOP, supporting cast devoid of personality and whipped into submission. These were smooth, unctuous layers of luscious, buttery goodness.  They had a weight that indicated more than a touch of cream ... well-salted and peppered, and served with two slices of sunflower bread, toasted to auburn and baptized in unsalted sweet cream butter. This is why people eat scrambled eggs.  I ordered mine "well done." I'm sure they (rightly) thought this was blasphemy against all that is good, kindly ignored my request and then gave me the eggs they wanted me to have. Those eggs changed my outlook on life: If the unassuming scrambled egg can be this lovely, then there is hope for us all. This is how a morning should begin.

While drinking my morning coffee and half-watching Channel 2 News, I saw a headline that read, "The Rising Cost of Giving Thanks." The related video clip featured a person carving a turkey the size of a Cocker Spaniel.

Stupidity abounds. Giving thanks costs nothing. Watch: "Thanks for reading my rarely-updated, barely-used soapbox of a blog."

That cost me free-ninety-free. Over-eating, on the other hand, can get very expensive, and no one does it like we Americans do.

Don't take this rant to mean that I won't be stuffing my chubby little cheeks this November 24th, muttering my thankfulness between oversized bites of bacon-wrapped macaroni-and-cheese fritters (I just made that up and WOW, it sounds amazing). I will. I'm just saying that I'll be thankful that I can, and be thankful not only BECAUSE I can, and remember that gratitude doesn't need to be scheduled and doesn't cost a penny.

So....

I stop at McDonald’s for an espresso and in front of me I see this dude in a mini van. I can tell he is smiling and somewhat relaxed, chatting with his passenger while he surveys the menu. I can tell he is a genuinely nice guy.

As he leans out of the window and makes his order with his elbow casually propped on the door he says, “Pohr fuhvoor. Grawseeiss. Day-nawda” –-word for word, just like that. I can’t help laughing because this is the typical, middle-aged, “somewhat-more-progressive-than-his-peers-and-this-is-how-he-shows-it” response to seeing Mexicans anywhere at any time and it’s funny, sad, embarrassing, sweet and precious all at the same time. What I know for sure is that seeing him do this is far, far better than watching people speak slowly and loudly to my father when I was a kid and thinking, “My Dad’s English vocabulary is larger than yours … pretty sure he can understand ‘Turn left on State Street.’”

The Mayor of McDonald’s goes to the first window and again pulls the “Grawseeiss” and adds, as he drives toward window #2, “Hasta Looegoh. Mañana!!” In those five minutes, he has spoken every Spanish word he knows.

And I know that deep down he is happy and self-assured that he has made the World a better place.

The two drive-through attendants, who may or may not be Mexican, are laughing hysterically.

Joy is internal. It is not a sentiment. It is not a reaction. It depends neither on the weather, nor circumstances, nor other living things, as everything around me changes, as it should. Joy, rather, is the northern field, the focal point of an internal compass: a direction to which all my thoughts and intentions can, and should, ever direct me. Joy is a place; it is a state of being.

Spam is the New Journalism

Yesterday, I wrote what I thought to be a very informative email and sent it to four of my friends. Two of them thought it was spam. Note to self:

Reconsider email communication strategy. Alternatively, start a spam campaign.

Butter Face

Last night I dreamt of white cake with vanilla buttercream icing. In my dream, my Dad ('cause he's cool like that) took me on the hunt for the perfect cake. We didn't find it, but ate many while searching for the one I wanted. My Dad, of course, made the infallible choice of carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. I chose nothing and awoke full of dream cake and longing. Now, in my waking hours, I feel like I'm still searching for my perfect slice.

This is not a metaphor. I just want a piece of cake.