the simple wait.

whiteIn all the busyness Or really all the sitting and reading and writing
That never ceases to end
[Well, for another 8 weeks. And then you can refer to me as ‘master’]
And in the midst of the unknown, once again
Of so many different things: job. relationships. travels.

Of trying to find routine and be settled.
To define myself somehow in the complexity I understand of myself

Regardless, I can control what I put in my body. The bread is rising
for sandwiches. And toast: what’s a late evening without tea and toast?
I am sitting with a copy of ‘kinfolk
Gifted from a dear friend who understands my identity
Of bringing people together and eating
Good. Simple. Food.
And the work that goes behind it.  Because even a simple loaf of bread
Takes time.

If I try to rush it before its proper rising, resting and rising again
It is like a rock, better to chuck at the perpetually barking dog in the back alley way.
Than to nourish.

I have been complaining about being in this constant state of unknown
and about being in lincoln, where life moves at a snail pace,
where wearing husker gear is appropriate at any and all occasions,
where brunch is non-existent
and often one can see the bottom of their mug through the coffee poured.
where ‘classy’ means putting a floral design on it
and greenspace cannot be recognized beyond corn fields.

yet all in all
i try to remember the good. and unexpected.
and the beauty in the simplicity. often times, we crave
simpler lives with less material goods
but even simple lives have complications
What is mundane can bring an onset of bored apathy and the gimmees,
or it can push. stretch. create.

Because sometimes we stop thinking about what we eat
As in the same way, we stop thinking about why we are doing what we are doing,
reaching for what is more convenient, Rather than waiting.

Oh I am an impatient person.

before i die.

Video

“That our endless and impossible journey toward home is in fact our home… To envision us approaching and pounding on this door, increasingly hard, pounding and pounding, not just wanting admission but needing it; we don’t know what it is but we can feel it, this total desperation to enter, pounding and ramming and kicking. That, finally, the door opens… and it opens outward – we’ve been inside what we wanted all along.” – David Foster Wallace, Some Remarks on Kafka’s Funniness

unplugged.

social media and networking have always been the source of a love/hate relationship. occasionally when i am driving westward, the nebraska sunset begs to be photographed. and texting is so much sexier when you don’t have to slide the keyboard open from underneath the phone screen. perhaps i would even blog more if i could instagram the amazing food creations that i weekly concoct.

i was at the bank a few days back when the teller asked if i had a smart phone.
“no,” i replied.
“will you be getting one soon?” she asked, perplexed.
“not at all.”
i remain one of the few who can’t instantly tweet my witty thoughts while standing in line at the food truck on my way to buy light bulbs. and as of recent, i join the slowly growing group of facebook dropouts. i thought it was revolutionary when i quit myspace for the much cooler, educated stepson.

i preach my annoyance of sitting around a table to converse, only to be starring at the back of a phone whose information precedes personal presence. and of how social media allows us to creepily be connected to be people, but only by way of which they present themselves to us, remaining completely unknown,
unconnected. no more of a friend than the mouse on my computer allows.

technology, though, allows us to skype with those who cannot sit at our table. a 14″ mugshot of any friend is easily wins as a day hi-point. it cultivates mind-blowing opportunities for networking that stretches our creative minds, joining kindred spirits that ignite small [or large] measures to make our world a better place to exist.

with all things, though, i personally strive for moderation. to not allow technology to be my source of communication, the way in which people know me, and i them. letters, are still a joy to receive in the mail, often the best at capturing my true thoughts. and of course, nothing beats a conversation in which a table is the center.

i hope that our thoughts towards each other
are not diminished to mere texts.

(another fascinating video letters from stangers.)

the ballad of the jars.

“The essence of optimism is that it takes no account of the present, but it is a source of inspiration, of vitality and hope where others have resigned; it enables a man to hold his head high, to claim the future for himself and not to abandon it to his enemy.” -Dietrich Bonhoeffer

lately before i fall asleep, my mind becomes crowded with negative thoughts
that cascade into a downward spiral
robbing my worn self, of needed, rejuvenating sleep.

there is no logic or reason to the thoughts
its as though they are standing at a small door at the base of my self worth
ready to push through the moment the gate keeper of the door steps away to stretch out his legs.
paralyzing any existing strand of logic and truth.

it reveals my reality that at this moment
life is exhilarating,
intended to be inspiring

because i don’t know what is going to happen next.
i am in a whirlwind of possibilities
with many pots boiling on the stove, needing to either be pulled off
or throw the pasta in to start cooking.

i admit i don’t always know how to begin
and feel that i can’t commit to anything or give my full attention
so its pieces here and there
however,
i’ve started putting each project into a [mental] jar
and allowing a lid to be opened and then screwed on tightly
to control the overpouring. the overwhelming.

because trust me,
what could happen is big in my small world.
and i love my collection of mental jars,
admiring them and how they are being filled.

{image from a collection a day}

morning routine.

my mornings, over these long months of silence,
have begun with a simple craving of oatmeal, cinnamon, and apples.
i crawl out of bed, start the hot water pot
grind some coffee beans
and make some old-fashioned rolled oats
on the stove top. if it’s on hand,
i add a spoonful of almond butter (or better yet, sunbutter)
coconut nectar and a few sliced almonds.

the coffee is pressed and i can sit down
to enjoy my simple breakfast
before the craziness begins.

but the craziness, well a chapter of it,
has ended. not saying things won’t be crazy again
because they soon will be, but i will be meeting it on
a different level, in a different capacity.

when i left seattle, it was in large part due to
burnout, that had singed my spirit and mind.
all i could think about was going to sleep
and waking up without having to do it all over
the next day.

i found myself back on the farm in nebraska.
drinking coffee on the pack deck in the humidity of august,
thankful. the days filled with hard manual labor,
my body purging the toxins through buckets of sweat.

a year later, i walked back into the world which
began my burnout, that of government contracted social services.
i had a vision, a reason, so i convinced myself.
but what happens, is i let reason take over
and forget the vision, and my identity.
it didn’t take long for the heartburn to return.

sometimes it takes the rug being pulled out from under your feet
before you take the subtle hint
that ‘this is not right’
but then again,
there are worse ways to come to conclusions.

this morning, i stuck to my morning routine
i have many questions about the future,
i have proposals to write. ideas to corral.
chaos is looming
but i don’t have to convince myself this morning to take part in it.

good morning chaos,
i welcome your presence,
full of uncertainty and hope.