It's just been a trip of a week (for lack of a better word.) Today I'm sitting here at my computer in the cabin and I'm going to give myself some props. In the days, weeks and months leading up to my moving to West Virginia I was deeply afraid and frightened to make this move. I had tried this little experiment twice in the past and failed. Only time will tell if I will be able to make it stick this time around. I am truly living one day at a time. Although I have many challenges ahead of me I'm going to give myself a pat on the back today for at least giving this whole "move up to a tiny cabin on an 80 acre farm and live" thing another try. It seems the older one gets the less risks one takes. I'm proud of myself for taking this risk, for weighing the pros and cons, making a decision and jumping in head first. I don't know what the future holds. I guess no one really does. Like I've written about previously I got here one day and started work the next. I haven't worked for someone else in so many years I can hardly remember. I think it was six years ago when I first moved back to SC to recover from alcoholism and drug addiction. It's not easy (especially with the intense micro-managing that goes on at my current workplace) but I am reminding myself that my current position is only the first step in a much longer journey, it's a stepping stone, not the final destination.
I had yesterday off of work and I used part of the day to do some scouting for a site for a future restaurant. I found 2 old houses right off the interstate and right at the entrance to Winterplace Ski Resort that would work. I also found a little BBQ stand in that same area. I'm going to find out more information about it tomorrow. It looks like a turn-key operation. It has all the equipment and everything already set up. If I can somehow find some money to buy it I may decide to go "all in" in regards to pursuing my dream. I'll just have to wait and see what the terms are. I REALLY like working for myself and it might be a great opportunity to begin cooking for people and getting my name out there and getting people to taste my food.
I got Internet and digital phone hooked up in my cabin this morning and it made me very happy. At night I've been coming home from work and I'm all alone. There's been no TV, no Internet, no nothing, just the wilderness and the great yawning void. I dig it but I also like modern technology and being to easily stay in touch with people. I've been listening to NPR programs a lot on a little radio and (when I can get a good signal on my cell phone) talking to an old friend from my Santa Fe days, my Dakota, my Native American woman of the vast Mid-western plains. She has kept me company on lonely nights and calls me at night and in the morning to check in on me. It's very sweet and I appreciate it.
Well, off to work now!
Monday, May 24, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Line Jocks
Wild stuff working back at the restaurant where, in many ways, my fine dining culinary journey began. My first night went okay but I was on the line with a guy named Justin that I didn’t really click with. On my second day I met another guy, Josh, who is another of Chef Eric’s protégés. He had a tattoo on his arm and gauge earrings in each ear. Right off I could tell I could get down with this dude. We made our introductions and then Josh joked, “What did you do to Justin last night? He came in for five minutes today and then walked out!” I laughed, “For REAL?!” Josh: “Yeah, man. Totally.” Then we proceeded to throw him under the bus. Hahahaha! We did our prep and midway through Josh turns on some music, Pearl Jam’s TEN. Back when I knew Chef Eric he would never have allowed music in the kitchen so it was testament that he had loosened up a little over the years that he was letting us rock some Pearl Jam. That coupled with the fact that his current protégé was tatted and pierced up clued me in that indeed the man had mellowed slightly.
I say slightly because when it came to the work Chef Eric was as anal and specific as ever. I really don’t have time this morning to get into all the particulars but I will at some point I’m sure. He watches EVERYTHING. And he has a specific way he wants everything done. There’s no gray area with Chef Eric. That first night was a crash course for me in the “Stalnaker Method” as I have already started calling it. Chef Eric loves that. He got a good laugh about it. Chef helped me set up my station and I pulled out my clipboard and diagramed the mise en place set up. Then Josh and I cut out for a few minutes of nicotine out back. When service started I was relieved to find Chef letting me alone and just get into it. He was working garde manger and pastries but he would come over every once and a while to check on me and my plating. He’d correct me if I put too much sauce on the plate or once when there was a tiny spot on the rim of one plate. I knew I had wiped it and that the waiter must have slopped it when he picked up the plate but I held my tongue. Chefs hate excuses and I wasn’t about to make any. We weren’t terribly busy but we always had at least one ticket hanging to work on. We stayed steady until around 8:30 when we served the last table. By this time Josh and I had already formed such a report that we were already raggin’ on each other, which delighted the hell out of both of us. On the last table of the night I got a Steak Au Poivre and began searing it in a small sauté pan. When Chef came over he told me that I needed to use a large pan so that when I make my sauce it won’t overflow out of the pan when it reduces. Josh pipes in, “I told him that Chef but he said he didn’t care how chef does it. He was gonna do it his way.” We all laughed heartily. I came back quickly with a “Dude, are you gonna be okay here on the line when I’m not here? I mean I won’t always be able to bail you out when you get in the weeds, ya know?” When it came time to break down the line Josh and I took five for another nicotine fix and then came back into the kitchen and rocked out the break down and clean up. We both wrapped up our mise en place, filled out our prep lists, scrubbed down our stations. While I cleaned the flat top griddle, Josh gathered the trash and swept the line. When I was done with the flat top I took the garbage out to the dumpster while Josh filled the mop bucket. No words were spoken we just fell in rhythm with each other like that. I mopped the line and then he swept and mopped the other side of the kitchen while Chef finished plating desserts and then we were done.
It was such a relief to me to have a compadre like that on the line to work with. He told me as much when we were closing and I said, “Dude, I feel the same way. GROUP HUG!” LMAO!
I say slightly because when it came to the work Chef Eric was as anal and specific as ever. I really don’t have time this morning to get into all the particulars but I will at some point I’m sure. He watches EVERYTHING. And he has a specific way he wants everything done. There’s no gray area with Chef Eric. That first night was a crash course for me in the “Stalnaker Method” as I have already started calling it. Chef Eric loves that. He got a good laugh about it. Chef helped me set up my station and I pulled out my clipboard and diagramed the mise en place set up. Then Josh and I cut out for a few minutes of nicotine out back. When service started I was relieved to find Chef letting me alone and just get into it. He was working garde manger and pastries but he would come over every once and a while to check on me and my plating. He’d correct me if I put too much sauce on the plate or once when there was a tiny spot on the rim of one plate. I knew I had wiped it and that the waiter must have slopped it when he picked up the plate but I held my tongue. Chefs hate excuses and I wasn’t about to make any. We weren’t terribly busy but we always had at least one ticket hanging to work on. We stayed steady until around 8:30 when we served the last table. By this time Josh and I had already formed such a report that we were already raggin’ on each other, which delighted the hell out of both of us. On the last table of the night I got a Steak Au Poivre and began searing it in a small sauté pan. When Chef came over he told me that I needed to use a large pan so that when I make my sauce it won’t overflow out of the pan when it reduces. Josh pipes in, “I told him that Chef but he said he didn’t care how chef does it. He was gonna do it his way.” We all laughed heartily. I came back quickly with a “Dude, are you gonna be okay here on the line when I’m not here? I mean I won’t always be able to bail you out when you get in the weeds, ya know?” When it came time to break down the line Josh and I took five for another nicotine fix and then came back into the kitchen and rocked out the break down and clean up. We both wrapped up our mise en place, filled out our prep lists, scrubbed down our stations. While I cleaned the flat top griddle, Josh gathered the trash and swept the line. When I was done with the flat top I took the garbage out to the dumpster while Josh filled the mop bucket. No words were spoken we just fell in rhythm with each other like that. I mopped the line and then he swept and mopped the other side of the kitchen while Chef finished plating desserts and then we were done.
It was such a relief to me to have a compadre like that on the line to work with. He told me as much when we were closing and I said, “Dude, I feel the same way. GROUP HUG!” LMAO!
Friday, May 21, 2010
Priorities
Sitting here in the little roadside café where I once worked as a short order cook. Christ. Time is a trip. I arrived at the farm at 5:30am on Wednesday morning. I couldn’t wait around to leave. As soon as I picked my mom up from the airport and took her home I drove to my apartment in downtown Columbia, loaded up the X-Terra and headed out. Once on I-77 I stopped at the Blythewood exit and filled the gas tank. Then I check the tire pressure on the truck, the trailer and the 4 wheeler. Hopped back in the truck and off I went. No traffic in the middle of the night. Smooth sailing. Thinking of my dad during the drive. Thinking of my family, my friends, my life, my dreams, hopes, plans and goals. Past, present, future. Got to the farm moments before light began creeping into the sky. Unloaded everything, made my bed and promptly passed out. Woke around noon. Rubbed my eyes and found it somewhat surreal that I was there. Then I got busy. By 4pm I had a P.O. Box set up and internet and digital phone ordered and scheduled to be installed this coming Monday. As much as I liked the internet when I lived in the city I think I’ll appreciate it even more out here in the country. It’s quiet and chock full of solitude. At night the bull frogs start honking. Fireflies light up the mountainsides. If there is no moon it is pitch black dark.
Yesterday I hit the ground running and started my new job. It’s so wild to be working with my old mentor again. Makes me feel like a kid in some ways. I’m sure I’ll write more about him later but suffice it to say the man is organized and super anal about his work. I know I still have a ton to learn from him so it’s not hard to fall back into the role of apprentice. He respects me and what I’ve done with my career since I last worked with him. His dishes are intricate and involve many steps. It’s quite different from my signature style. It will be good for me to learn his ways. It will help me step up my game and wash away any bad habits I formed while working in Columbia.
God I’ve got so much to do. I want to do it all RIGHT NOW but that’s not how things work. It’s a process and I have to be patient. Baby steps. From now until the first of June I just need to focus on my job and getting the menu and execution dialed in. I’ll be going back to Columbia to cater a junior league luncheon on the 3rd and a wedding reception on the 5th. Then I’ll move the rest of the things out of my apartment, tie up those loose ends, pack another load into the X-Terra and trailer and make the final move up the road. Then I can get down to business with everything else. Namely winterizing the cabin, putting in a vegetable garden and cleaning up the farm…the land itself. It’s been ages since it has been properly cared for so there is a lot of work to do. I’m bringing dad’s riding lawnmower up with me in June. That will help but what I really need is a farm tractor with a brush hog. When I get those things I will make short work of clearing the fields and sprucing the place up. There’s also firewood to cut and stack. And I need to purchase and install a wood burning stove for the winter. I’ve got 5-6 months to get all this stuff done if I really want to stay here year-round. But I have to prioritize. I’m light years ahead of where I had been in my past attempts to live here. I have a JOB for one thing! That always helps. And I’m a man. Before I was a boy.
It’s exciting. This unknown. I know I’ll feel even better about things once I am back from catering the luncheon and reception. At that point I will really be HERE. I’ll be able to get into a routine and start making the moves and doing the work that will build on itself. Every journey starts with the first step and I’ve taken that step. And it feels pretty goddamn amazing.
Yesterday I hit the ground running and started my new job. It’s so wild to be working with my old mentor again. Makes me feel like a kid in some ways. I’m sure I’ll write more about him later but suffice it to say the man is organized and super anal about his work. I know I still have a ton to learn from him so it’s not hard to fall back into the role of apprentice. He respects me and what I’ve done with my career since I last worked with him. His dishes are intricate and involve many steps. It’s quite different from my signature style. It will be good for me to learn his ways. It will help me step up my game and wash away any bad habits I formed while working in Columbia.
God I’ve got so much to do. I want to do it all RIGHT NOW but that’s not how things work. It’s a process and I have to be patient. Baby steps. From now until the first of June I just need to focus on my job and getting the menu and execution dialed in. I’ll be going back to Columbia to cater a junior league luncheon on the 3rd and a wedding reception on the 5th. Then I’ll move the rest of the things out of my apartment, tie up those loose ends, pack another load into the X-Terra and trailer and make the final move up the road. Then I can get down to business with everything else. Namely winterizing the cabin, putting in a vegetable garden and cleaning up the farm…the land itself. It’s been ages since it has been properly cared for so there is a lot of work to do. I’m bringing dad’s riding lawnmower up with me in June. That will help but what I really need is a farm tractor with a brush hog. When I get those things I will make short work of clearing the fields and sprucing the place up. There’s also firewood to cut and stack. And I need to purchase and install a wood burning stove for the winter. I’ve got 5-6 months to get all this stuff done if I really want to stay here year-round. But I have to prioritize. I’m light years ahead of where I had been in my past attempts to live here. I have a JOB for one thing! That always helps. And I’m a man. Before I was a boy.
It’s exciting. This unknown. I know I’ll feel even better about things once I am back from catering the luncheon and reception. At that point I will really be HERE. I’ll be able to get into a routine and start making the moves and doing the work that will build on itself. Every journey starts with the first step and I’ve taken that step. And it feels pretty goddamn amazing.
Exodus
Driving through the clay and sand hills of central South Carolina, 12am. Pines standing sentinel as a light mist falls. The truck purrs along Interstate 77, the holy road, stretching North to South, South to North. The road that carried my family to Columbia, SC in 1984, my father at the wheel of his sedan, my mother at his side, my sisters and me in the back seat. Interstate to future dreams. Interstate to new work. Interstate of love and hope. Interstate of familial longing. Interstate of pilgrims. Huge in my life. Towering in my life history, the Mediterranean of my Myth, my Odyssey.
I was terrified to make this drive. So unlike me. My truck had been burning oil. I was pulling a flat-bed trailer loaded down with my four wheeler, the back of the truck filled with my father’s tools, his shotgun, my grandfather’s shotgun, my pistols, my chef knives, all tucked into the capsule of the truck as it ate up pavement in the dark of night. Rock Hill, Charlotte, Mooresville, Statesville. The truck drifting along and carrying me away. There is an art to driving a truck while pulling a load. It is a symbiotic relationship between driver and vehicle. You become one with the engine. You tune in. A slight grade and I knock it out of overdrive, kill the cruise, ease back off the accelerator and feel the engine grab a lower gear. The rpms drift up to 3500; the engine roars and pulls us all along. You feel a companionship with long haul truckers. You hang back. You don’t gun it. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. Mount Airy. Where the rolling forested hills of the Carolinas end and the steep weathered granite Blue Ridge mountains begin. This mountain destroyed my friends Volkswagen van 19 years ago, the first time I tried to live at my family’s farm. I was 19 years old, just a boy. Tonight I am 38. Half of my life has happened between that first trip and now. The dream has not died. It’s only gotten stronger. I buried my dad two months ago. He’s here with me tonight. Here in this truck. Here in my heart. I hear him when I ease off the gas and drop a gear. He taught me this. He taught me how to live, how to be. he didn’t just tell me…he SHOWED me. He ;lived it. My dad was an amazing driver. One of the greats. The man lived in his car. It was a thing of beauty. The trunk of his sedan was organized with military precision. His engine always serviced, tires properly inflated, windshield cleaned and coated with rain-x. The man was always on top of his game when it came to his vehicle. His favorite car ever was a 1984 Light Blue Chevrolet Impala. Remember those gigantic boxy things? Yeah, it was one of those. The car was enormous…and a “plain brown wrapper” as my dad liked to call it. “No bells and whistles. No sir!” Vinyl seats, crank windows, manual locks, not deluxe trim. It was like a cop car but even more Spartan. Dad rocked the white walls on the Impala though. And he had me hand wash and wax it. I was 12 years old. I had to get a ladder to reach the roof of the thing. He was very specific as to how it was to be cleaned and polished. There was a certain method and practice to each aspect of its upkeep. First it was rinsed, next wheel cleaner was applied to the stock rims. While they were soaking, suds and a large sponge were used to lovingly scrub the vehicle from top to bottom. One side at a time. “If the suds dry before you rinse it will mess up the paint, son.” “Okayyyy, dad.” I rolled my eyes. But I did it his way. I always did it his way.
I was terrified to make this drive. So unlike me. My truck had been burning oil. I was pulling a flat-bed trailer loaded down with my four wheeler, the back of the truck filled with my father’s tools, his shotgun, my grandfather’s shotgun, my pistols, my chef knives, all tucked into the capsule of the truck as it ate up pavement in the dark of night. Rock Hill, Charlotte, Mooresville, Statesville. The truck drifting along and carrying me away. There is an art to driving a truck while pulling a load. It is a symbiotic relationship between driver and vehicle. You become one with the engine. You tune in. A slight grade and I knock it out of overdrive, kill the cruise, ease back off the accelerator and feel the engine grab a lower gear. The rpms drift up to 3500; the engine roars and pulls us all along. You feel a companionship with long haul truckers. You hang back. You don’t gun it. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. Mount Airy. Where the rolling forested hills of the Carolinas end and the steep weathered granite Blue Ridge mountains begin. This mountain destroyed my friends Volkswagen van 19 years ago, the first time I tried to live at my family’s farm. I was 19 years old, just a boy. Tonight I am 38. Half of my life has happened between that first trip and now. The dream has not died. It’s only gotten stronger. I buried my dad two months ago. He’s here with me tonight. Here in this truck. Here in my heart. I hear him when I ease off the gas and drop a gear. He taught me this. He taught me how to live, how to be. he didn’t just tell me…he SHOWED me. He ;lived it. My dad was an amazing driver. One of the greats. The man lived in his car. It was a thing of beauty. The trunk of his sedan was organized with military precision. His engine always serviced, tires properly inflated, windshield cleaned and coated with rain-x. The man was always on top of his game when it came to his vehicle. His favorite car ever was a 1984 Light Blue Chevrolet Impala. Remember those gigantic boxy things? Yeah, it was one of those. The car was enormous…and a “plain brown wrapper” as my dad liked to call it. “No bells and whistles. No sir!” Vinyl seats, crank windows, manual locks, not deluxe trim. It was like a cop car but even more Spartan. Dad rocked the white walls on the Impala though. And he had me hand wash and wax it. I was 12 years old. I had to get a ladder to reach the roof of the thing. He was very specific as to how it was to be cleaned and polished. There was a certain method and practice to each aspect of its upkeep. First it was rinsed, next wheel cleaner was applied to the stock rims. While they were soaking, suds and a large sponge were used to lovingly scrub the vehicle from top to bottom. One side at a time. “If the suds dry before you rinse it will mess up the paint, son.” “Okayyyy, dad.” I rolled my eyes. But I did it his way. I always did it his way.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Fear & Doubt
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared about moving. I'm trying to enjoy this process. I really am. But over the past few days I've been plagued by fear and doubt. They've been cropping up to piss on my parade. It's been going something like this: What if my truck breaks down on the drive up there? What if I get up there and the water doesn't work? What if I hate the job? What if I can't fit all my stuff into the storage unit? What if I forget to bring something along that I'll really need? What if I get up there and realize it was a big mistake? What if I'm just being selfish by leaving my recently widowed mother here? What if I relapse? On and on and on.
It's interesting to me that I'm having these thoughts and emotions about this. I've done a LOT of moving around over the course of my adult life. With past moves I don't recall the fear being on me like this. It always seemed like I was up for the challenge, the unknown. I was younger and more naive then. And I was also smoking a ton of weed and drinking beer a lot. And for a lot of the moves I had my (now ex) wife to lean on. And of course there was always my dad. I could ALWAYS count on him to bail me out of jam. God I miss that man. He'd know just what to say. He'd reassure me with a word, a glance, a joke. All the fear and doubt would disappear. Now I'm working without a net. It's just me and God. I'm showing my cards and playing my hand. But the stress right now is getting to me. I should know by now that everything will be alright...no matter what happens. But I still have moments of doubt and fear and that's okay, that's alright. It's pretty human to have these feelings. Aside from the death of my father this will be the biggest change I've experienced so far in my sobriety. I've been sober for almost six years. That may seem like a long time to some people but it doesn't seem all that long to me at times. I spent 19 years getting fucked up six ways to Sunday. The disease hasn't left me and never will. It lurks beneath the surface biding time and waiting for me to make a misstep, to find me in a compromising position...and that's when it will pounce. All I can do is keep doing what I've done these past several years. Keep praying. Keep seeking God. Keep growing and evolving.
I've been meditating on the nature of faith recently. I've come to discover in my own life and journey that faith isn't the absence of fear. Faith is walking through the fear...steadying ourselves in the spirit and soldiering forward. It's not lost on me that the fact that I am a little frightened to be leaving South Carolina shows immense progress on my part. What I mean is that in the past I could not WAIT to get the fuck out of this place. Time after time I've run away. Couldn't get away fast enough. Couldn't get enough miles between myself and Columbia. Inevitably I'd come back...like a yo-yo on a string. I think the fact that I am conflicted about leaving signifies something in me, in my journey, in my arc, in the trajectory of my life. I think the fact that I will miss this place...that I'll miss my friends and family immensely...I think these facts may signal that I am in fact, ready to leave. That I'm not running anymore. That I'm not looking for the quick escape. And that has me bewildered because I've been running and escaping since I was teenager. It's part of the reason I came back to South Carolina and made a commitment to myself to stay here at least 5 years. I desperately needed to stop running. I needed to stand still. I needed to stay put. I'd been flying close to the sun and my wings began melting and losing lift.
I know this is the right decision. I know this is my path. I just need to take a deep breath, lift my eyes to the sky....and believe.
It's interesting to me that I'm having these thoughts and emotions about this. I've done a LOT of moving around over the course of my adult life. With past moves I don't recall the fear being on me like this. It always seemed like I was up for the challenge, the unknown. I was younger and more naive then. And I was also smoking a ton of weed and drinking beer a lot. And for a lot of the moves I had my (now ex) wife to lean on. And of course there was always my dad. I could ALWAYS count on him to bail me out of jam. God I miss that man. He'd know just what to say. He'd reassure me with a word, a glance, a joke. All the fear and doubt would disappear. Now I'm working without a net. It's just me and God. I'm showing my cards and playing my hand. But the stress right now is getting to me. I should know by now that everything will be alright...no matter what happens. But I still have moments of doubt and fear and that's okay, that's alright. It's pretty human to have these feelings. Aside from the death of my father this will be the biggest change I've experienced so far in my sobriety. I've been sober for almost six years. That may seem like a long time to some people but it doesn't seem all that long to me at times. I spent 19 years getting fucked up six ways to Sunday. The disease hasn't left me and never will. It lurks beneath the surface biding time and waiting for me to make a misstep, to find me in a compromising position...and that's when it will pounce. All I can do is keep doing what I've done these past several years. Keep praying. Keep seeking God. Keep growing and evolving.
I've been meditating on the nature of faith recently. I've come to discover in my own life and journey that faith isn't the absence of fear. Faith is walking through the fear...steadying ourselves in the spirit and soldiering forward. It's not lost on me that the fact that I am a little frightened to be leaving South Carolina shows immense progress on my part. What I mean is that in the past I could not WAIT to get the fuck out of this place. Time after time I've run away. Couldn't get away fast enough. Couldn't get enough miles between myself and Columbia. Inevitably I'd come back...like a yo-yo on a string. I think the fact that I am conflicted about leaving signifies something in me, in my journey, in my arc, in the trajectory of my life. I think the fact that I will miss this place...that I'll miss my friends and family immensely...I think these facts may signal that I am in fact, ready to leave. That I'm not running anymore. That I'm not looking for the quick escape. And that has me bewildered because I've been running and escaping since I was teenager. It's part of the reason I came back to South Carolina and made a commitment to myself to stay here at least 5 years. I desperately needed to stop running. I needed to stand still. I needed to stay put. I'd been flying close to the sun and my wings began melting and losing lift.
I know this is the right decision. I know this is my path. I just need to take a deep breath, lift my eyes to the sky....and believe.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Ten-year-old Poem
All My Life, Spirals
In the toilet,
my piss foam swirling
with the melodic ring
of urination.
As long as I have been alive,
circulating.
And now, in Santa Fe,
the Anasazi circle of Time.
Revolving in my mind,
these times, past 2000.
And now, always circling.
Wind, always blowing.
Never bind.
January 16, 2000
(Poem I found scratched onto a sheet of typewriter paper while going through boxes during my move.)
In the toilet,
my piss foam swirling
with the melodic ring
of urination.
As long as I have been alive,
circulating.
And now, in Santa Fe,
the Anasazi circle of Time.
Revolving in my mind,
these times, past 2000.
And now, always circling.
Wind, always blowing.
Never bind.
January 16, 2000
(Poem I found scratched onto a sheet of typewriter paper while going through boxes during my move.)
Acceptance is the SHIT, yo!
Rented a storage unit yesterday. Funny how places bring back so many memories. I remember when they built this particular storage unit facility. My friends and I used to jump our bmx bikes up a big steep red clay hill behind this place. I was in 7th grade. Used to tool around on my bmx bike and look for girls. Used to do tabletops off of the jump. Later my friends and I moved on to skateboards and we used to skate through the parking lot of the storage unit and pretend we were in Powell-Peraltas Animal Chin skate video. My high school sweetheart lived up the street from here. In the front yard of her house her parents planted a sugar magnolia tree when she was born.
My mom is in Minnesota this week visiting my sister and niece. She called me this morning and we chatted for a few minutes as I drove down I-26 towards my apartment downtown after a night babysitting the beagles. Mom sounded good until out conversation moved to the storage unit and my leaving for WV. There's no going back now though. I've stepped off the edge and I gotta stick the follow through. I asked about how my sister was doing and my mom said she wasn't doing too well with my dad's passing. I don't have the time today to get into a long diatribe about my sister's personality and psyche but it is curious. She's an interesting bird, that one. These thoughts about my mother and my sister in MN made me think about my own mental state after my father's death, my own reaction to this enormous event in our lives.
I can't believe how I've handled this whole thing. When I really think about it...I am astonished at my own levity, my own mental health. Sometimes I look inside at myself and wonder who this person is...this man I've become and am becoming. First I should say that I miss my dad so much. Over the past 6 years he became my best friend. I loved spending time with him. We loved to sit around and just bullshit. We'd laugh about all the adventures and fights and stupid stuff we got into when I was growing up. We'd make fun of ourselves and each other and that laughter was healing medicine for sure. I got to know my dad as a man, as a person, rather than just as a parental figure. I know I am truly blessed to have gotten to know him in this way. I think my sister probably has unresolved feelings regarding my father. For the life of me I don't know why. He was the most loving and caring father a girl could ever dream of. But there are some unresolved issues inside her regarding how she feels she was raised. It really is a pity. I don't mean that in the condescending way it is oftentimes said. I mean it really is a pity.
With these thoughts in my head this morning I began to think of my own journey, my own maturation process. The fact that I am a recovered alcoholic has everything to do with the why and how of my being able to handle my father's passing with such dignity and grace. I can't claim credit for being so level-headed about all of it. All the credit goes to God. When I first entered recovery all I wanted was to be able to stop drinking and using drugs. I thought if I could just stop drinking and using then I could figure out the rest of it on my own. WRONG. The drugs and booze were only symptoms of my disease. The problem was my thinking, my reaction to life, my self-centeredness, my fear. When I began to dry out and get some time away from my booze and drugs things didn't get better...they got infinitely worse. I felt like a fish out of water. I was so uncomfortable in my own skin. I felt like I might drop through a hole in the floor just walking across a room full of people. And I was angry. I was pissed. At first I was pissed at the world (as usual.) I hadn't gotten my fair shake. You hadn't done this or that for me. I hadn't gotten the breaks. The world was out to get me. It wasn't long before I had to abandon that type of thinking, lest I get so amped up with rage and resentment that the only solution (that I knew of) was to get loaded again. And I had begun to realize that getting loaded just wasn't working anymore. The sense of ease, comfort and fearlessness that used to wash over me when I drank and got high went away. I couldn't get there anymore. All I could get from my chemicals was a momentary and increasingly fleeting numbness. After the numbness came horror and vast waves of pain, desperation, loneliness and fear. Through my own sick thinking I had painted myself into a corner that I could not find my way out of. I was stuck. This was the place I found myself when I became desperate enough to give the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous a try.
It's impossible for me to overstate how truly fucked up in the head I was when I first entered the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous. I didn't want to be an alcoholic but the illusions were falling off that I was anything but. I KNEW I was an alcoholic. It was the first step in a long journey that continues today. When I started going to meetings I listened to and watched other people. I heard their stories. These people weren't writhing in pain like me anymore. They were happy! They were free! But the stories they told of what they used to be like! Jesus! And I thought I was fucked up!! How did they do it? What was the secret? I began wanting it. I began craving it. I jonesed for it every bit as much as I jonesed for that next line of coke or slug of liquor. "Work the 12 steps and live them in your life." That was the answer. I had no other options. It was the only way for me to go. It was either that or drink and use drugs again. And that was getting me no where, that was only bringing me more pain and misery. I was terrified of getting fucked up again. I knew it was only a matter of time before I died or ended up in prison.
So I worked the 12 steps with a sponsor and began to get better. It seemed painfully slow in the beginning but in reality I got better pretty fast. A year after I started I really started to feel it. I really started to grow and trust God with my life. I began to pray all the time. I made a connection to the Divine and that connection keeps me sober and free. This journey began with me not wanting to drink or use drugs anymore but that was just the very FIRST thing that happened in my life. The dividends I've received as a result of working the 12 steps and getting to know God have been absolutely immeasurable.
And THAT is the how and the why of this unbelievable response in me to my father's passing. I trust God today. I know I don't have all the answers today. Hell I don't have ANY of the answers today! God has the answers and I just have to seek Him and open my mind and my heart to receive them. And I have to be humble enough to accept. I accept that my father is gone. I accept that he was here and now he is not. I accept the journey I had with him. I accept the role I played as his son. I'll continue to miss him every single day of my life. No one will ever take his place. But as I've learned on my journey, everything is spirit. We are spiritual beings having a human experience. My dad has gone back to the spirit and one day I'll follow. But for now my dad is with me in my heart. It's like Luke and Obi-Wan Kenobi. It's just like that.
Acceptance is Big Medicine. It's the shit, yo.
My mom is in Minnesota this week visiting my sister and niece. She called me this morning and we chatted for a few minutes as I drove down I-26 towards my apartment downtown after a night babysitting the beagles. Mom sounded good until out conversation moved to the storage unit and my leaving for WV. There's no going back now though. I've stepped off the edge and I gotta stick the follow through. I asked about how my sister was doing and my mom said she wasn't doing too well with my dad's passing. I don't have the time today to get into a long diatribe about my sister's personality and psyche but it is curious. She's an interesting bird, that one. These thoughts about my mother and my sister in MN made me think about my own mental state after my father's death, my own reaction to this enormous event in our lives.
I can't believe how I've handled this whole thing. When I really think about it...I am astonished at my own levity, my own mental health. Sometimes I look inside at myself and wonder who this person is...this man I've become and am becoming. First I should say that I miss my dad so much. Over the past 6 years he became my best friend. I loved spending time with him. We loved to sit around and just bullshit. We'd laugh about all the adventures and fights and stupid stuff we got into when I was growing up. We'd make fun of ourselves and each other and that laughter was healing medicine for sure. I got to know my dad as a man, as a person, rather than just as a parental figure. I know I am truly blessed to have gotten to know him in this way. I think my sister probably has unresolved feelings regarding my father. For the life of me I don't know why. He was the most loving and caring father a girl could ever dream of. But there are some unresolved issues inside her regarding how she feels she was raised. It really is a pity. I don't mean that in the condescending way it is oftentimes said. I mean it really is a pity.
With these thoughts in my head this morning I began to think of my own journey, my own maturation process. The fact that I am a recovered alcoholic has everything to do with the why and how of my being able to handle my father's passing with such dignity and grace. I can't claim credit for being so level-headed about all of it. All the credit goes to God. When I first entered recovery all I wanted was to be able to stop drinking and using drugs. I thought if I could just stop drinking and using then I could figure out the rest of it on my own. WRONG. The drugs and booze were only symptoms of my disease. The problem was my thinking, my reaction to life, my self-centeredness, my fear. When I began to dry out and get some time away from my booze and drugs things didn't get better...they got infinitely worse. I felt like a fish out of water. I was so uncomfortable in my own skin. I felt like I might drop through a hole in the floor just walking across a room full of people. And I was angry. I was pissed. At first I was pissed at the world (as usual.) I hadn't gotten my fair shake. You hadn't done this or that for me. I hadn't gotten the breaks. The world was out to get me. It wasn't long before I had to abandon that type of thinking, lest I get so amped up with rage and resentment that the only solution (that I knew of) was to get loaded again. And I had begun to realize that getting loaded just wasn't working anymore. The sense of ease, comfort and fearlessness that used to wash over me when I drank and got high went away. I couldn't get there anymore. All I could get from my chemicals was a momentary and increasingly fleeting numbness. After the numbness came horror and vast waves of pain, desperation, loneliness and fear. Through my own sick thinking I had painted myself into a corner that I could not find my way out of. I was stuck. This was the place I found myself when I became desperate enough to give the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous a try.
It's impossible for me to overstate how truly fucked up in the head I was when I first entered the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous. I didn't want to be an alcoholic but the illusions were falling off that I was anything but. I KNEW I was an alcoholic. It was the first step in a long journey that continues today. When I started going to meetings I listened to and watched other people. I heard their stories. These people weren't writhing in pain like me anymore. They were happy! They were free! But the stories they told of what they used to be like! Jesus! And I thought I was fucked up!! How did they do it? What was the secret? I began wanting it. I began craving it. I jonesed for it every bit as much as I jonesed for that next line of coke or slug of liquor. "Work the 12 steps and live them in your life." That was the answer. I had no other options. It was the only way for me to go. It was either that or drink and use drugs again. And that was getting me no where, that was only bringing me more pain and misery. I was terrified of getting fucked up again. I knew it was only a matter of time before I died or ended up in prison.
So I worked the 12 steps with a sponsor and began to get better. It seemed painfully slow in the beginning but in reality I got better pretty fast. A year after I started I really started to feel it. I really started to grow and trust God with my life. I began to pray all the time. I made a connection to the Divine and that connection keeps me sober and free. This journey began with me not wanting to drink or use drugs anymore but that was just the very FIRST thing that happened in my life. The dividends I've received as a result of working the 12 steps and getting to know God have been absolutely immeasurable.
And THAT is the how and the why of this unbelievable response in me to my father's passing. I trust God today. I know I don't have all the answers today. Hell I don't have ANY of the answers today! God has the answers and I just have to seek Him and open my mind and my heart to receive them. And I have to be humble enough to accept. I accept that my father is gone. I accept that he was here and now he is not. I accept the journey I had with him. I accept the role I played as his son. I'll continue to miss him every single day of my life. No one will ever take his place. But as I've learned on my journey, everything is spirit. We are spiritual beings having a human experience. My dad has gone back to the spirit and one day I'll follow. But for now my dad is with me in my heart. It's like Luke and Obi-Wan Kenobi. It's just like that.
Acceptance is Big Medicine. It's the shit, yo.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Pulling the Trigger
Well, the die is cast now. This morning I meditated for a while and then prayed and drove out to Irmo to visit my mom. We chit-chatted for a few minutes and she asked me what was wrong. I said nothing was wrong but she could tell that there was. I started with it. I told her that I had been offered the job in WV. I told her how anguished and conflicted I was about it. I told her how it felt like it was what I was supposed to do. I had expected a breakdown but to my surprise she was supportive. She still cried of course. And I cried too. I told her I didn't want her to feel like I was abandoning her or disappearing. She said she understood that I needed to live my life and do what will make me happy. She told me that she knew I had been putting my life on hold for some time now and that she understood that I needed to do what I needed to do. We hugged and cried together. I still feel conflicted but the relief I feel is palpable. I've been riding the fence so long now it's surreal to get down and start taking those first few steps along a path.
I drove home, ate some lunch and made a few phone calls. Called the Chef to tell him it was on. called my landlord to tell him that I would be moving out. Starting researching storage units. I'm so good at the BIG ideas but sometimes I struggle with the little ones...the nuts and bolts of making my dreams come true. I have to constantly check my expectations. Just because I am taking this step and making this move doesn't mean everything will be rosy from here on out. I know there will be many, many challenges ahead of me. But now that the die is cast and a decision made I feel a huge sense of relief and a blossoming excitement about the whole thing. In less than two weeks I'll be there. CRAZY.
I drove home, ate some lunch and made a few phone calls. Called the Chef to tell him it was on. called my landlord to tell him that I would be moving out. Starting researching storage units. I'm so good at the BIG ideas but sometimes I struggle with the little ones...the nuts and bolts of making my dreams come true. I have to constantly check my expectations. Just because I am taking this step and making this move doesn't mean everything will be rosy from here on out. I know there will be many, many challenges ahead of me. But now that the die is cast and a decision made I feel a huge sense of relief and a blossoming excitement about the whole thing. In less than two weeks I'll be there. CRAZY.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Future Primitive
I've really got no answers today either but I need to write. Got that call today. Chef in WV offered me a job cooking at Mountain Creek Dining Room, the place where my culinary journey really began fifteen years ago. I've been lobbying for this position for about six months now but slacked off during this final month. Told myself "If he calls. He calls." Well, he called. So what's left for me to do than bite the bullet and tell my mom what I'm gonna do. Everything except for her is telling me this is right, this is the path, this is the way home, this is it...And what can I really do for my mom really? I try to be there for her but no one can take her pain away. No one can make her start living her own life without my dad. It's on her shoulders. I wish I could take some of it on for her but that wouldn't help either of us in the long run. Christ how much I've changed. Used to be I'd go flying off anywhere for practically any reason just be going somewhere. Now there is an opportunity to live and work somewhere that I really want to be and I'm fighting it, feeling conflicted. I guess that shows signs of maturity or something. Thinking of others and how my decisions will affect them. God knows it's about time. I'll be 38 years old in a few weeks. If I do decide to go and I've pretty much decided to I will be returning 19 years after my very first attempt to live there as an adult (when I was 19 years old.) Exactly half my life ago. I love symmetry like that. 19 years after my first attempt and 15 years after my second attempt. Third time's the charm? Maybe.
Over the past several weeks I'd pretty much written off the idea of making the move this year. And then this afternoon the telephone rings and it's on. Just like that. Bounce and recover. Adapt. Shift and change. I've always been pretty good at that, over the years that is. I know I was born for this. I know this is my path. Now it's time to put up or shut up. Do it or don't. What I'm talking about here is literally a lifetime's worth of thought,planning and dreaming. Ever since I became an adult I wanted to do exactly what I'm fixing to do. I thought I'd be there by now. I thought things would be well underway by this point but oftentimes life has different ideas. I thought I'd have apple orchards already producing fruit. A house on the hill. Maybe even some little ones running around the land with me. I don't regret my path or wish to change a goddamn thing. I own the path I've taken. It's my life. I have to.
All this BIG thinking is one thing but the nuts and bolts of it are other matters. Trying to figure that out right now. Brainstorming. Best I can come up with is that over the next 2 weeks I move my belongings into a storage unit near my mother's house. When she returns from a ten day trip to MN to see my sister I drive up to WV with a bare minimum of things I'll need and start work at the restaurant. On June 2nd I'll return to do a luncheon I had scheduled on June 3rd and a wedding on June 5th. I'll do the final moving out of my apartment that weekend and return to WV the following week to resume working at the restaurant and beginning my life on the farm, planting a garden, preparing the cabin for winter, chopping wood, making contacts, etc. It's a lot to take in and I've kind of been in a daze all day.
Writing helps. Writing always helps.
Over the past several weeks I'd pretty much written off the idea of making the move this year. And then this afternoon the telephone rings and it's on. Just like that. Bounce and recover. Adapt. Shift and change. I've always been pretty good at that, over the years that is. I know I was born for this. I know this is my path. Now it's time to put up or shut up. Do it or don't. What I'm talking about here is literally a lifetime's worth of thought,planning and dreaming. Ever since I became an adult I wanted to do exactly what I'm fixing to do. I thought I'd be there by now. I thought things would be well underway by this point but oftentimes life has different ideas. I thought I'd have apple orchards already producing fruit. A house on the hill. Maybe even some little ones running around the land with me. I don't regret my path or wish to change a goddamn thing. I own the path I've taken. It's my life. I have to.
All this BIG thinking is one thing but the nuts and bolts of it are other matters. Trying to figure that out right now. Brainstorming. Best I can come up with is that over the next 2 weeks I move my belongings into a storage unit near my mother's house. When she returns from a ten day trip to MN to see my sister I drive up to WV with a bare minimum of things I'll need and start work at the restaurant. On June 2nd I'll return to do a luncheon I had scheduled on June 3rd and a wedding on June 5th. I'll do the final moving out of my apartment that weekend and return to WV the following week to resume working at the restaurant and beginning my life on the farm, planting a garden, preparing the cabin for winter, chopping wood, making contacts, etc. It's a lot to take in and I've kind of been in a daze all day.
Writing helps. Writing always helps.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Loveless in Catalua
Rolling earth, winding roads
course through forests and fields.
Ponies wink from meadows.
Feed stores at twilight.
Mysterious houses blinking
beneath live oaks and Spanish moss.
Fractured light bends through branches.
I think of my Spanish princess far away.
The Atlantic swells and rises for thousands of miles.
She's fixing her makeup. She's stepping into her stilettos.
Her red lipstick paints the rim of a champagne flute
as music thumps she moves her body.
I drive these roads and imagine a life we might live.
A historic mansion surrounded by hills and fields.
We'd share our pain. She'd play violin in the parlor.
At dawn we'd sleep in a big bed high off the floor.
I no longer wish the pain away.
We are blessed and cursed.
The pain is part of me just like
it is part of you.
But I'll hold you as the sunlight streams past
yawning oaks and fields of clover.
I'll kiss your soft eyelids and feel the tickle of your lashes.
Your red lips curve into the sweetest of smiles.
The sun rises and we sleep, the Spanish princess,
the American prince.
course through forests and fields.
Ponies wink from meadows.
Feed stores at twilight.
Mysterious houses blinking
beneath live oaks and Spanish moss.
Fractured light bends through branches.
I think of my Spanish princess far away.
The Atlantic swells and rises for thousands of miles.
She's fixing her makeup. She's stepping into her stilettos.
Her red lipstick paints the rim of a champagne flute
as music thumps she moves her body.
I drive these roads and imagine a life we might live.
A historic mansion surrounded by hills and fields.
We'd share our pain. She'd play violin in the parlor.
At dawn we'd sleep in a big bed high off the floor.
I no longer wish the pain away.
We are blessed and cursed.
The pain is part of me just like
it is part of you.
But I'll hold you as the sunlight streams past
yawning oaks and fields of clover.
I'll kiss your soft eyelids and feel the tickle of your lashes.
Your red lips curve into the sweetest of smiles.
The sun rises and we sleep, the Spanish princess,
the American prince.
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