New Discoveries and Overdue Revelations

The Dog has OCD
I tossed the ball. He stared contemplating a pounce. I walked to it, picked it up and tossed again, this time in a different direction. He took off running. When he returned, he stepped ever so delicately around the place the ball had landed before. It was a portion of the lawn that collected the most rain. It was mushy and he refused to get his paws wet. He continued to avoid that space as I tirelessly tried to outwit him. He dodged it every time.

Pennies Add Up
Today, I counted my pennies to buy a banana. How essential, I thought, that these pennies again mean something. Whereas before they’d get lost in the lining of a purse or walked over on the street, now I covet their 1 cent worth. I’m fortunate to even have these pennies. Next time I see one on the street, heads up or heads down, I’m picking it up!

We Made One Another Lame
I dated a painter for nearly seven years. He stopped painting shortly after our relationship began. I too went through a period where my creative energy seemed inert yet nascent. I think we both snuffed one another out. The only time I remember him picking up a brush with gusto was after a major fight. It was then the life roused and thrilled him enough to respond. Did we really flat-line one another so miserably?  I lament an affirmative answer, and so ponder the question a little further.

You Can’t Do it Alone
I’ve lived much of my life believing that self-sufficiency was an element of self perfection, and strove with vigor to achieve it, often at the expense of relationships.  The most vital reality to accept is we need one another. Life isn’t livable without the companionship, support, and company of others.

A Potty Mouth Diminishes Your Vocabulary
Valuable words begin to escape you when dirt becomes your common talk. In the event that you feel an expressive urge, a passionate impulse, and you’ve patterned yourself to say “son of a bitch”, that’ll be the first thing out of your mouth. It’s not exactly the most dimensional, and eloquent assessment of reality or expression of emotion.

Don’t Worry, You’re Not Dying; Beets Make Your Pee Red
Beets make your pee red.

A New Eye for Contentedness

"The truth is that our finest moments are most likely to occur when we are feeling deeply uncomfortable, unhappy, or unfulfilled. For it is only in such moments, propelled by our discomfort, that we are likely to step out of our ruts and start searching for different ways or truer answers."

M. Scott Peck

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The kitchen’s a mess. I have a million projects going at once. The loud electronic dance beats in the background don’t help, they’re only fueling the fire, enlivening and burgeoning today’s ambitious spirit while complementing the growing disarray.

Tea is brewing for my first ever batch of kombucha. The coffee grinder’s going, loudly spinning, filled too full, and spurting grounds. A host of this morning’s garden picks are strewn across the counter washed carefully of their garden dirt, diligently cautious not to wash away their sun-kissed delectableness. The water has just boiled for the coffee press, and has met the grounds to begin its delicious work. Jars are being sterilized in which to ferment the kombucha and grow the scoby (Symbiotic Culture of Bacteria and Yeast) culture. All the while, I’m writing, reading, online browsing, blog posting, stepping outside to chase the dog, and trekking mud across the linoleum as I coerce him back in with promises of goodies.

I return to the garden to pluck the weeds I missed in my early gloss for ripe veggies. The dog follows and exhibits a newfound nerve, stepping into the garden with me. He usually lingers just over my shoulder as I preen the plants and remove the unwanted guests. Waiting, suspended in readiness, he eyes the weeds in hand until I toss them into the tall grasses lining a contiguous creek.  Off he goes. Retrieving the uprooted weeds, he runs around like a maniac tossing them merrily and feeling accomplished.

This has been our morning routine for some time now. Today, he’s feeling bored and musters the courage to go at it alone. He steps into the garden and goes right for the gold, pulling a large leaf from the outer layer of a head of purple cabbage. I hear the crunch of the crispy leaf and turn to see he’s escaping with purple foliage brazenly protruding from his muzzle. Proudly prancing away, I’m at first yelling my disapproval. Then, the comedy in his playful mischief has me thinking, what a perfectly contenting moment.

I’m enjoying the feeling of rain dampened grasses on bare feet, while reaping the rewards of my summer project, spending the day at home surrounded by creative endeavors, worrying less and less about life’s major concerns, feeling more and more emboldened by a sense of peace and self-assurance, re-animated with a fresh spirit of hope, and more than happy to share the cabbage. Life is more than ok, it’s perfectly balanced with free and nearby delights.

I’m jobless, uncertain what’s next, rejected by employer after employer, and approaching pennilessness. I could never have expected any of this, and that’s half the charm. I savor these surprises, because daily I’m staggered, made slightly dizzy by sheer befuddlement. I blink and shake my head, regain equilibrium, breath in, and smile. There’s no luster, but it’s more than grand.

I’m working on project after project. Writing copy for a medication management website, designing visuals for the recycling system at a green biz incubator in Detroit, planning a fundraiser for drought victims in East Africa, (all unpaid) and couldn’t be happier. Sure, I’m going to need an income stream soon. Until then, the dog can eat all the cabbage he wants because I’m more than pleased to have this opportunity to garden with him.

The Path to Euphoria; Tied Between Shoelaces

We’re bombarded with an uncountable amount of options to entertain and occupy us. How does one choose? We can, with ease, become fickle, at the whim of trends and easily arrested by the newest gadget, work-out fad or virtual gaming experience.

After much pain and many miles, I’ve found and activity to occupy my leisure time which I can take anywhere and engage in until my knees go bad. I eased myself into running after a few years of the sedentary thrills of college – movie watching, online chatting, late night munching, etc. It hurt at first, but now I love it! My running shoes go where I go. In the grand scheme of things, they’re not that expensive. They help me release bad energy, meditate on the day, flood my system with euphoric endorphins, and give my heart a healthy dose of exercise. How can one go wrong?

When my feet hit the pavement, kick up the gravel, or dodge a tree root on a trail, a thrill pulses through my psyche that I have never achieved with any other activity—save for maybe a Halloween haunted house. I can run alone for repose, I can run with a friend for camaraderie, or I can run for competition in a road race. The variables continue, and the activity never bores me. Although by running I don’t immunize myself from marketing ploys, there still seems a measure of purity in the activity that I don’t feel when I watch a marathon of “Keeping Up with the Kardashians”. I’ll thus love to run ‘til I can run no more.

If the Broccoli's Bitter, Don't Date Him

I’ll never date another white collar, MBA who drives a nice car, wears polos tucked into perfectly pressed pants, and would rather hail a cab than walk a few blocks in the rain to make a memory.  I want to be inspired. I don’t want the lackluster life of monetary comfort and by-the-book conventionality. I’m after something rugged and unshaven, whose value system isn’t warped by an outdated and unhealthy American dream, who has an eye for simplicity and finds the joy of life there, who’s inquisitive and confident to search, a man who will protect but will also shamelessly love.

Forget men. Maybe I just need a bulldog, a nice loyal, low-maintenance partner that could care less if my hair’s dirty, my t-shirt’s torn, my bike is my major form of transit, and our apartment living means we’ll never have a yard of our own. That’s what public parks are for. Private yards only further degrade community anyway. Let me re-center my thoughts...

When I begin to survey my “tastes” in men, I begin to think more broadly about the use of this word “taste”. I recall once reading this article whose gist was to say: believe your kids when they say they don’t like broccoli, it may in part be because of their genetics.  Apparently as the result of certain genetic configurations, broccoli leaves a bitter resonance on the palates of certain folks. These kids aren’t avoiding the green stuff just to spite mom who practically force feeds it, they are legitimately repulsed. (“Bitter Consequences”, The Economist, Sept. 21, 2006)

Another recent read discussed that among our taste sensations of sweet, salty, bitter and sour, that help us avoid the bad and consume the good, there is another that has been detected yet unarticulated for years. We are drawn to such savory foods as anchovies and parmesan cheese, but don’t have a term for their intrigue. It’s not the fishiness of anchovies one might identify as the source of their irresistibility. Come to find out, these savories have something in them that tip our taste buds off to the presence of protein. So, subconsciously our body is responding to not only the taste sensation but the protein message interpreted from our taste receptors. (“Yum’s the Word”, Psychology Today, August, 2011)

Now, where do we go from here? The trouble of science: it demystifies everything. Now we can take away our child’s responsibility to make good food choices by assenting to the fact that (no matter what) their genes will have the last say. We might assert that we’re preprogrammed to seek protein, and the pleasure of parmesan is part of a biological mechanism to promote survival. My enjoyment is thus secondary, or merely a means. Now, what of my taste in men? Am I powerless to my genetics and my tastes are thus meaningless? Some might say, yes.

I’d like to maintain that my taste in men is an amalgam of factors, a balance of thought and emotion, and not utterly and helplessly reducible to my genes or animal instincts. I’d like to believe my taste is the result of thoughtful assessment and the evaluation of experience, balanced by the butterflies of chemistry and mysteries of love.

If the next time I feel an attraction coming on I think, “Oh, it’ just my biology calling”, I’ll totally take the value out of the person and relegate my own judgments to the level of meaninglessness. If my perceived or assessed tastes in men are merely the illusion of my instincts for the purpose of procreation and progeny, then why listen to them at all? Because they make life enjoyable.

One thing to consider: why force something when it doesn’t taste good? Eating broccoli when your taste buds despise it can result in a host of noxious consequences.  The results could be anywhere from nauseating memories of eating against one’s will, resenting the cook, dietary obstinacy or deviance, psychological damage, or the fear of green. Thus your interaction with your environment and your relationships in it chance indelible damage.

So, your tastes matter on an external, environmental level as well. They don’t just affect whether you get enough protein or secure a mate and ensure the survival of your genes. Even if some clever scientist could reduce my taste in men to the result of animal instincts, there’s a whole external world beyond that of our genetics that these tastes interact with, impact, and are affected by.

In order to be drawn to broccoli, we need to enjoy it. In order to be drawn to a guy, we still need to like him. And if we want to have the gift of love and the blessing of a committed relationship, then we certainly have to find him appealing in a variety of ways. If broccoli tastes bad, don’t force it. Find another veggie that will provide its own value to your diet and appeal to your taste buds. The same goes with one's partner. Figure out what you want. Don’t settle. Don’t force what seems good for you but doesn’t delight your palate. Don’t disregard your specific tastes in men, it’ll save you from (more than) bitterness.

Coffee Cures the Blues

In a place of discouragement, sorrowfully accessing everything as terrible, I’m suddenly aware that the perfect sip of coffee just grazed my lips and passed my tongue to leave a pleasant lingering throughout my mouth. How was I able to notice this in the midst of my angst?

I’ve enjoyed a cup of coffee before in this way, but usually undistracted, my undivided attention arrested by the detection of every bold, earthy, spicy, herbal and acidic note. This is when I am purposefully in tune with all the flavors that resonate through my mouth, and I’m happy, completely satisfied with a humble cup of coffee. I’m further delighted with the simplicity of the moment.

Right now, I am preoccupied by a series of disappointments, wholly unconcerned with any such uncomplicated delight.  I’m looking at the big picture and I’m frustrated that I don’t have the sizably significant stuff of life (career, community, relationships, etc.) figured out. Yet the simple everyday pleasure of a coffee gives life a rhythm and consistency that this bigger stuff can’t always. And yet, we’re all quick to peer past these simple treasures.

As I enjoy this sip, in an unexpected moment when I am otherwise atrophied by dismay, some part of my being brings me back to the realization that it isn’t all peachy, but in these sour moments we still have coffee, we still have other things to take pleasure in. I am reminded that amidst despair there’s something favorable to be seen, experienced, or construed, and reality is never entirely awful.

This plain, non-complex, and easy to remember moment will be recollected along with another sip of coffee down the road. Hopefully then I’ll be in a place of poise and peace, and I’ll look back in a head shake thinking, “How could I have been so ardently against hope, and so sure of defeat?” Then I’ll again be amazed that something had triggered a pause in that manic moment to enjoy life.

My subconscious mind reacted to my out-of-control emotions, and I was able to quiet myself, albeit only for an instant, to be happy. The question is now: how much coffee will I need to drink to see the sun above the clouds before they pass?

How to Make the Most of a Summer in Suburbia

How does one make the most of a summer in suburbia? How does one avoid fixating on an escape?

Hmmm...Is this a word puzzle posed to gauge one's intellect? creativity? Perhaps this query could serve as a valuable test of resilience or survival skills.

I'm more than half tempted to create some obscure challenge for myself. Possibly pitch a backyard tent, feed only on the fruits of the family garden, while drawing speculatory glances and back garden wispers of the neighbors for added challenge appeal.

What else could give suburban life an unconventional edge? What tips and tricks can I devise to sustain sanity and gratitude? Knowing that complete contentment is a unicorn, I don't want to rush these days in hopes for a perfection to come.

Just when the isolation and mundanity seems to be draining of vibrancy and inspiration, I open my window to an evening breeze and crickets chirping. The sound of the suburbs: an often unidentified and underappreciated quality. I've lived in busy cities where you try to put the sounds outside your consciousness and you learn to sleep with sirens. Here (in suburbia) I have to relearn to listen. This is my greatest pleasure - a practice in stillness and a pause for awareness.

The Mustard Green Invasion

The high yield veg for this year’s garden appears to be mustard greens. Planted by accident, they appear to be overtaking the garden. I’ve never eaten nor cooked with this hearty leaf, and I’m nervous about its vivacity and disregard for its neighbors. It’s my summer challenge: to figure out 101 creative ways to use mustard greens.

So as not to loathe them when they’re still available to harvest in the fall, my mind is spinning with thoughts of mustard greens. They may become my daily meditation, a part of some spiritual exercise to train my directed attention to place itself somewhere quietly and deliberately, undisturbed. A leafy green for this? Seriously? I say it mostly in sarcasm because I am amused at how much attention these mustard greens are getting from me.

I had hoped for an inordinate and unmanageable amount of tomatoes. I wanted to be the can queen. I wanted to store up for winter every version of canned tomatoes that are conceivable: stewed tomatoes, diced tomatoes, whole tomatoes, tomato sauce, tomatoes with garden basil, and maybe even my own tomato ketch-up. I had these plans, and the mustard greens may change them.

I’m looking at them now, blowing blithely in the wind, little yellow flowers sprouting at the top singing:

I’m gonna go to seed soon
wait and see
my pretty little yellow bloom
will sprout up green
I’m gonna go to seed soon
wait and see
these flowers are only the beginning
of another set of leaves

See how they torment me?