enough.

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January is just too long.

It’s a recovery month, I think. At least that’s the way I see it.
Everyone is adjusting to a new year, and regaining some composure after the blast of late year holidays.

I, however, am in the midst of some funky stuff.

When I was in counseling and seeing my doctor regularly, I was picking up tools to use. Granted, it would be nice to have that sort of thing here, but Mississippi lacks in what I would consider a more holistic style of healthcare. But the tools I did gain, keep me aware of my body processing the world.

What I ingest, both physically and emotionally, takes a huge toll. I keep that at the forefront.

The sad parts of my being are craving physical touch and connection. I’d say more of a longing than actual sad, sad. Though I think feeling sad is important. I think there’s plenty of poetry there, some marrow, and perhaps a bigger part of our life force.

Restlessness is something I feel.
As a person who is in constant thought of something bigger, I have a hard time adjusting to the slower seasons.

Lately, I’ve been learning to adjust to my own expectations. Of basically every damn thing.

My cooking. My attractions. My belly which has been eating a lot of carbohydrates (read: delicious things) the past week.

More so, my expectations of what falling in love looks like. I’m having a hard time separating the things I know of that kind of love. Granted, I am not in that season and don’t imagine it happening here any time soon, but what I have been noticing is my fear of intimacy.

I feel some fear in my belly. For losing someone again, even though I haven’t much made an effort to pursue. I am influenced heavily by the elements that surround me. I get knocked down a few pegs when I feel a little too confident and remember why it’s so good to be humble. I enjoy who I am. Truly.

I don’t own much. I don’t make much. I don’t need all that much.

I’m in the in-between, as far my spirituality goes. I crave that Great Mystery, but for some reason, I cannot grasp it. Like some pit I’m falling into, trying to grab hold and it’s just too slippery. I feel it may be my undoing some days.

Not God-fearing enough.
Not confident I am tough enough to handle this industry.
Fear of being an asshole, because I have asshole thoughts.

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I am a messy form of a human. I know we all are, at least I know that’s probably what you’re thinking. But I want my beliefs to be a bit more firm. I suppose seeing more of the world, and more of the worlds of people, I am swayed to believe that we are all floating forward towards the same sorta thing.

I float around not really conforming to this or that. I will not judge you for your lifestyle, as I hope you won’t judge me for eating a Christmas tree cake even though they are out of season. (Which, in my book, is never true.)

I can tell you that I love fried catfish, and a nice medium rare steak.

I love eating hash browns on Sunday with poached eggs and hot sauce.
I love being there for people.
I have a hard time taking without the weight of giving back.
When someone orders food when the kitchen closes in 10 minutes. Ugh.
(But really, it’s fine. Really.)

These things are true.

There is nothing I enjoy more than learning how to cook better. Hanging my head over a pot of kombu and dried shitakes, wondering, “Is this right??”

Maybe that’s the idea that I’ve known all along.

A longing of sorts, of tasting and nodding.
Adjusting,
Adding,
Taking away,
asking,

is this right?

I’m not quite sure.
But I’m always asking.
Always tasting.

And today, that is enough.

sacred vessels

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I never thought I’d be divorced.

This is what I said, on the eve of this past week’s summer solstice.
I said it to my buddy Kyle, whose response was basic and clear as day:

Well, no one ever does, I guess.

I was a little frustrated that I said such a thing in the first place. I think I was in a weak spot. A little buzzed on a couple of strong pints, and sweating like a sunuva-gun on a warm Mississippi night.

We were watching a bat swoop in and out of the porch light — snatching moths and various light-drunk bugs.

The crickets were loud. This feels like home. We both agree, silently.

My story has certainly changed. I am left with an abundance of free time to think. Sometimes, too much. There is the hum and rumble of my wall unit, keeping me cool as the humidity leaks through the cracks of this old building.

I think a lot about where I live. It was built in 1945, for soldiers returning home from WWII. It has these beautiful floors and the kitchen is precious and tiny. (And hot as hell in the summertime, apparently.)

I also think about the people who have lived here. Including those soldiers coming home wounded, physically and in other ways. I wonder how well they healed here. I wonder about their ghosts, and I wonder about a space designed to house people in transition. This certainly isn’t a place to settle down and start a family. It’s a bit too cramped for more than one big presence, even for a person as dramatic (albeit quiet), as me.

But what to do with this freedom?

I guess I’m having to restart that process a bit. I believe I’m young and have a lot of space to change and grow, in a few different ways. I talk to people all the time who have had at least four different professions. I suppose I have a little time to really figure it out. But not just professions. There are loads of those nagging philosophical questions and the South, is truly a different state of mind.

For the most part, I think about how I like the adult I am becoming.

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Yeah, I wish I had those perfect things we always want in on too. I am okay, though. I don’t need much.
I had figured, long ago, that this would be my time to travel and see the world. To experience what the other worlds had to offer. Sometimes you can do that.

I got a little ahead of myself, but that’s okay too.

The ebb and flow of starting over feels okay. I think building a community takes some time, and I gots plenty of it. I still have the urge to see so much. I don’t know what our world will look like tomorrow, and especially not twenty years from now. I just know that I love this place, and its people and I want to see as much of it as I can.

I find myself looking down my hallway from where I sit and write, and see my cookbooks line familiar shelves.

I see my wine glasses, many of them used for holding more than wine. They are used for exploring depths and laughing too much and getting to those quiet moments where we raise them and look into each others’ eyes. Sacred vessels, in my opinion.

This is my constant. 

The ability to connect.
Connecting, what I miss and crave the most.

Every day I discover little secrets about who I am. Why I have chosen food and drink as my medium to explore your depths. I think often, “Well, this is no surprise at all.”

So once again, I invite you to my table.
It is tiny, but substantial and we will eat and drink and sink deeper into each others stories.

Just give me a heads up though,

so I can put on the air conditioner,
open up the wine,
make a good soundtrack,
dish out somethin’ good,

and live into the truth that we are all sacred vessels,
poured into over and over again.
intoxicating,
and full of the stuff that gets better with time.