Session four with the new therapist yielded so many tremendous lessons. They all deserve my full attention and meditation. And so I will commit to my plan to slow down and absorb them as they come.
Our session began with a request for me to slow down; with my story, and processing, and to be more fluid with what came up in session, and what had yet to be achieved.
At my core I am still and will always be an academic; desiring of achievable goals, introspection, and study of patterns, labels, and the like. I love taxonomy, categorization of people’s true nature….of my own true nature. But I have always feared being the butterfly pinned to the board for inspection. I feel her gaze when I am simmering on the brink of anxiety, or sadness, or recollection. It is uncomfortable, but tolerable, and very much necessary. In short, it is a good discomfort. One that deserves my company on the couch with my insecurity. It does not feel entirely unpleasant now, only a passing frisson of self doubt when I begin my dialogue and then I can give myself over to the advice and observation she offers.
Today’s lessons were extremely helpful; how to move back into my body, feeling toes, a straightening of spine, a sensory recollection of happiness. (Mine is basil….the beginning of my culinary journey and exodus from childhood) How to exit frustration with timeliness; mindfulness of space, walls, boundaries, my hands. My hands were the one part that actually recycled my belly into anxiety….they are my vehicles of success….I look at them often, but feel them almost never. I have taken them for granted even though they are my eyes, my heart, my tools of my trade. Thankfully I do honor them, try to keep them from injury, touch people and ingredients with compassion. But never ever letting them have access to a full voice.
I learned today how to rein myself in, not cycle back until tears and it was revolutionary.
The piece most relevant for my global healing was this; do not shelve the times when I have embraced my honesty and truth and allowed for the reaction. I reconnected my brother with my father on the brink of and in the midst of real heartrending trauma. It was awful, and bloodcurdling, but I did it and when it was over it was ok. I put this success away, discounted it, and braced myself for worse and more. Too many times we do not revisit our emotional successes, choosing to relive regretful times instead. I need to begin counting these as part of my emotional repertoire and reliving them like I do when I smell Basil; independence, autonomy, innocence, and freedom laced with a smattering of unadulterated potential.
Today’s Lesson: Crying isn’t always awful May 30, 2012
Lessons learned May 27, 2012
Its not an easy thing to admit one’s missteps, especially if you’ve done them a few too many times for them to be called mistakes, errors in judgement, or worse yet intentionally self defeating.
I have made another friend out of a lover, which is to say, I spent more time thinking about her reactions than observing my own. It is a sad state of affairs when you have chosen to live the first half of your life letting someone else drive the bus. It renders your inner compass useless, and what’s more, causes a strong loving heart to atrophy in the worst of ways. I have forgotten to ask for what I want, to allow room for anger, misunderstanding or the stopgap between two women when a compromise must be negotiated. I mislabeled myself as a poor negotiator, underestimated my own resources. When I went for my run today I realized that it is of my own doing, this silencing of voice and amplification of self doubt. I would say I regret it, but regret is such a waste of heart; leaving one stalled in the past and reticent of future potential. It is high time and long overdue that I
become selfish, to the point of self absorption. I should become my own best friend; practiced in the art of self advocacy making every decision count. So here I go….more chef, less sous.
Memoirs of a Sous Chef – the first chapter May 27, 2012
A kitchen without a sous chef is a kitchen without an arm. No matter how amazing the chef, or how talented his legion, the sous chef is the one who can anticipate everything down to the last damned detail, without pause or hesitation. This is what sous chefs do, they are the underlings, the vice president, the stand in, the ones who know all without pretense. This is not a story about a sous chef, this is a story about what it takes to be that kind of person, and then what it takes to overcome that instinct to be number two, and transform to number one, whereupon you reclaim your life. You take up golf, or crew, or farming, or writing. That is of course if you still have your wits about you after the pressure has turned your coals (hopefully) into diamonds.
Inexactitude May 25, 2012
This week my mind has doubled back to this memory more than once. When my mother finally announced to my husband and I that we “were not working” in her opinion, and that he was a total drain on my energy, emotions, and finances it came with another, then empowering decision for self preservation. It was shortly after this pronouncement that she decided to leave Las Vegas. She had found a home in Dallas, and fearlessly packed her things to make the multistate trek. We found a condo to rent, took the dog and tried to lick our collective wounds. He; being told he was inadequate, never quite recovered from my mothers admonitions. I, superficially accepting a commentary from my only objective advocate, kept my nose to the grindstone, working more hours than I could handle, resting only on Sundays to run off to the spa, sleep, and wash my truck. It was a weekly meditation, I would rise early, wash my truck, detail it, get a coffee and drive to the spa, only to return home after several hours of massage, steam, and soaking. I ate very little then, almost nothing except for the periodic tasting of student food and my midweek shawarma. It became quickly apparent that I needed to leave too. A woman came along and became a beacon in the midst of a self imposed rant of a workaholic.
So I vividly remember this one thing. She set the date to leave, called me and said she would come by my work to say goodbye before setting out on her roadtrip to Texas. I was detached but present, knowing I would likely not visit her much being as astranged as we were. I still prepared for the day, bought her a card, and a small thermos; wanting her to buy coffee on the road, and not drink it from a styrofoam cup. I have that thermos now, sitting silently like a sentinel on my counter, next to my sugar bowl and some jam. We talked for a few minutes, detailed her course of travel, admonished her to use her navigation and call me at each stop. When she pulled away I sobbed like a baby, for a long long time, retreating to my office afterwards and hiding in the storeroom until the close of my workday. SHe made it to Texas in two days, and it took me two years to finally visit her, exactly 728 days too long. I cannot take any of that back, or say I am sorry and it slowly eats at me daily, but there it is. My mother, who I could never ask to be held, or tell my deepest darkest secret to left us all almost 3 years ago, peaceful, without fanfare, a slow exhale that I will never purge from my mind.
That woman was there with me, and I will never know the words to say thank you, or I am sorry, but perhaps that, in itself is the lesson.
Matrilineal Confluence May 24, 2012
I had to say goodbye to my therapist of three years last week. She is moving back to the east coast, and our work together had sort of stalled. It is good though, she referred me to a woman who I had initially sought out, but was too busy for me. So, in many ways, the timing seems fitting.
I was nervous to retell my story to someone new; for whatever reason I thought it would be stale, or irrelevant, or worse, I would leave some critical detail out that would be an important hitching post in our time together. In fact, the exact opposite was true, after telling my story in a guarded inauthentic way to my first therapist. It was the right thing to do at the time, I was not ready to come out of my shell and come clean with all that I was protecting. I eventually did detail all of my missteps in vivid, visceral detail but only after the loss of my mother and so many other important valuable pieces parts of myself.
So now I am at a new place, not quite a rebirth, and not quite an ending. I told her everything in perfect crystal clarity, and there were no corners to navigate. So completely painful to relive everything, the loss of her, several times over, while still being captive to it, and the loss of my mother.
By our 3rd session I am fully divested of any notion that I can contain what is about to emerge. It is terrifyingly beautiful, and pulling on my deepest belly strings in a way that leaves me breathless.
So much remorse, and reliving of detail is happening/about to happen that I want something. Boxing gloves, a economy case of kleenex, sunglasses….something.
A thought occurred to me today. She did not leave her circumstances for any reason more simply than the one that left me with one last secret to tell my mother, still sitting on my tongue after her last breath. Our mothers; powerful and astranged were the keyholders to our desire to escape that painful chrysallis. She did not leave her place because of any other reason more simple than a small seedlike fear that her mother would not say “yes love, be happy, that is all I want.” I did not leave my place at her side because it was the safest quietest closet I had ever known, and with all of the storms in my life, that was enough.
Food, Water, Rest January 20, 2012
Chefs have this impeccable ability to push through most conditions, hunger, exhaustion, and extreme physical discomfort. I have cooked with a second degree burn, saute station, on a Saturday night. That’s a masochist for you. Stubborn as mules, and soft as pizza dough we think we can continue indefinitely. Im here to tell you, we cannot. We grow old, our bodies break down, our sleep patterns stay the same and we pull from a smaller and shallower reservoir of energy.
In these past months, almost two full years after my mothers death I felt irrationally crazy. Edgy, empty and lost, my sleep was elusive, I found my patience with everyone wearing thin. Not ok for a teacher, whos job is to swim in a sea of questions, as gracefully as possible.
In the midst of cooking for two weddings for chefs (intimidating) I met a lovely new friend. In the absence of spending *actual* time together we talked a lot over email. Also a writer/blogger we talked about feminism, food, books. It reawakened a part of myself I had lost to work and life. We developed a cute system of checking in; breakfast questions, accounts of exercise and daily activities. On a cellular level I remembered how good breakfast was. I slowly became less irritable, very slowly. I looked forward to spending a quiet hour to myself, eating.
Then came the questions about why I wasnt sleeping. Actually, the exact question was what my achilles heel was. And I honestly couldnt say, I was that far removed outside of my body that I had forgotten. Any disruption or lack of sleep just further fueled my inner asshole. Fall closed in, and I started to bundle up, crawl into bed with a book and force myself to wind down and get ready to sleep. Enduring the short period of impatience was worth it, every morning when I woke up far from exhausted and hungry. My body was slowly speaking to me again.
That last piece was tricky, I am notorious for wanting water and never drinking it, small cups of it laying around the house like tiny birdfeeders for some invisible companions. My morning coffee was joined by a glass of water, and my water bottle at work was always in sight…and lo….that complicated swirl of balance returned. The flashes of deja vu that had been missing, and the gut reactions I used to have came back.
One of my dearest friends, and her partner told me at my lowest point that when I felt destroyed, horrid, implacable that I should do a diagnostic check….food.water.rest. They are the tenets of self care that should never be forgotten, because they nourish our complicated beings on a cellular level, and those small atoms are so easy to feed or neglect every moment, every day.
Hungry Ghosts or Loss and the ghosts it leaves behind January 2, 2012
It would seem strange to be talking about ghosts, after ringing in what promises to be a good year. After spending the morning at my uncles house; a combination of new walls and old, 4 generations of family and so many smaller tribes of children running through it seems fitting. Each new years day, my uncle and his immediate family go to the cemetary, a tradition that my family also does, albeit not on the same day every year. They go to pay respect, and also I think to remember the bonds that remain. It is a certain strength this, to remember who is left and to honor who is gone.
My cousin Tommy died when he was 14, much too young of course and unexpected to all of us. It was the end of an age of innocent happiness for all of us. Because even though we were scattered all over the island, and the west coast, we could always rely on coming back together, and the 3rd gen running around the house, or the beach eating, screaming, and getting scoldings. I remember taking him and my brother to the beach; they were so little, caked with dried sand, drinking passionfruit juice and eating chips. Tussling little boys are always beautiful to behold, brown limbs flailing, enlisting any passerby to help them build the biggest fort ever. Tommy’s mother is like a sister to me, she made sure I stayed out of trouble, gave me dating advice, snuck me beer when we would go out for Thai food.
Tommy toggled between Washington and Hawaii, just like me, but only because his father lived there. Eventually, somehow, his father got full custody, and my cousin only got him during the holidays. We were all very upset, but we made the best of it. No one completely understood how miserable this made Tommy, how he felt displaced from both his mother’s family, which now had three little ones, and his father’s, which had a new addition of its own. In the family pictures of him as a young man, he looked increasingly forlorn, and not of the typical teenage variety. But who could know? Having gone through custody battles myself, his mom and I would discuss the stupidity and injustice of it all, but it was like discussing the weather, or sports, it seemed normal. When I turned twenty eight, I got a phone call from my mother telling me he had died, killed himself while his parents were out and he was babysitting his baby halfbrother. Never have I seen my entire family cross the ocean at once. Never had I seen them so…empty. My cousin never looked as happy or as mischevious again. She and her parents, so proud of their washington boy became for many years, what I refer to as hungry ghosts. After a great loss, there is a greyish green sheen of light that hangs over the ones left behind. They laugh, and move forward, but their voices become softer on the subject of those gone, and the reminiscence can range from a pause over favorite foods, or a drive past a park or well loved destination.
I never knew what it was exactly, only a creeping sadness. Not until I lost my mother two years ago. It comes and goes like the ebbing tide. I know this now, and it informs how I appreciate and move through the world myself. But I am determined not to become a hungry ghost, it is too much, it can suck the fire out of life this loss and grieving.
How to cling to the happinesses that remain, when you are confronted with profound loss, even from lifes blows? This much is clear: you cannot stop dreaming, you cannot keep yourself empty, because waiting for someone’s return is not giving them a better evolved version of yourself. Anyone, even someone long gone, would not want that, not if they loved you that much.
So this post, while a recollection of a young man ten years gone, is also a celebration. It is a reminder to myself that this year I have seen myself at my best, and my worst and both have given me the tools to move forward in earnest.
grrlchef13
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