Hello again. Quite
some time has gone since the last time I've written. Growth has come in
unmeasured spoonful's- much like the way my mother seasons traditional Mexican
stew, just like the women who taught her. Hands are guided by something more
atavistic- gut feelings and smells. A mood and a dusting of palms.
Working at this new
place, forming new habits and breaking others has been busy work on its own.
The kind of work that has to snag on something first before it seems totally
necessary. In some ways I'm just as good as I thought I was, and in others,
have much to learn. It would be bold to claim that I've done a great job of
handling these things, but there has at the least been more positive than
negative. That's all we can really ask for sometimes.
The holidays have
come with heartbreak for some I hold dear, so I've done my best to keep a
dustpan ready and glue back the chipped pieces. They come back together, not as
smooth as before but stronger for it. Holidays have a way of doing that-- mending
while breaking. One way or another they act as blinders right about the time
that focus is absolutely necessary. 90% of my break-ups have happened around
holidays. Maybe it's the distance that gets people. Familial expectations. Jobs
turned down. A word spoken out of turn.
Maybe it's even
deaths out of the blue. And to that end, Mr. Sene, you will be missed for a
long time to come.
I read a book called
The English Patient- a tasteful dip into whimsy that filled the gaps in my days
when sleep didn't come soon enough, or I found that I missed a certain traveler a bit more than planned. Something
about reading the same words and contemplating what must've swirled through her
mind brought me comfort. They say that people who read books develop stronger
propensities for empathy- because when you read books, you interweave your life
with the lives of dozens, hundreds, thousands of others. In this particular
novel, I found myself filling the shoes of 4. This was doubly helpful for the
days I spent "under the shady tree"- and those days were not few. To
escape between the lines of text was to find a breath of air where there wasn't
supposed to be.
Some might
understand this more than others, but sadness has been pleasant as of late. The
melancholy doesn't hurt like it should, but instead brings a heaviness to my
limbs that offers peace- like a weighted blanket or a comfortable hug. It's a
matured hue of blue that is content staying as it is, and leaves room for
genuine smiles. It does not need, it simply is… Maybe this is the most
dangerous form of all, because of how welcome it feels, but I don't aim to
place urgency where it doesn't belong. Patience has never led me astray. I
haven't been speaking as much these days either. It seems I'm finally getting
tired of my voice again - but this is a good thing. Good listeners aren't easy
to come by and I could stand to give my opinions some rest.
So I've begun a new
book. Cooking healthier meals and learning techniques from shows that flicker
from across the living room, or in my ear with bachata to accompany it. Things
like searing versus frying, or how to flash fry a fish steak without undercooking
the middle. Even the chef's translation of adding a "little bit of
salt" (throwing in a generous handful). The silence is welcomed,
encouraged to be filled by others and I'm happy with all the noise it makes. A
mind totally dry is a shaky place.
The clutter makes it
home.
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