Where do you want to go with this? What do you want to be when you get there? How do you want to end? Where is the finish line?
For a change, I’m actually starting this post from an arguably morbid place and trying to guide it back toward a more holistic one- beginning with the end in mind.
The internal editor is both a writer’s best friend and worst nemesis because its voice sounds like all of our heroes, influences, instincts, talent, and tastes. The problem is that those voices are both encouraging us and criticizing us, simultaneously and constantly. I think writing only really comes out when you can shut all those voices off- even just for moments at a time. Between news of the world, work, and my own preoccupation with getting back in shape, there are precious few times when I can actually feel “still” enough to hear my own voice.
In the Hagakure by Yamamoto Tsunetomo, the samurai-turned-Buddhist monk writes “Lord Sanenori said, ‘In the midst of a single breath, where perversity cannot be held, is the Way.’”
Think about that for a moment. You’re breathing right now, right? I hope so, anyway. Don’t do anything to change your breath, but just kind of notice it. When people meditate, the reason we get told to “count our breaths” or “focus on our breath” so much is that it’s impossible to breathe anywhere butin the present moment.
So here you are, breathing, and just being aware of air going in and out of your body. Without changing your breath, though, try to notice the spots between the breaths. The point just before you inhale or exhale when the previous motion has just finished. Nothing in, nothing out, you’re not actively holding your breath… it’s just stillness.
Paying this kind of attention to something as ubiquitous as breathing- really just being still and present long enough to notice- can feel really freaking weird. It’s like suddenly noticing how your clothing feels on your skin, or realizing you can feel the structure of your teeth in your mouth.
Okay, that last one WAS seriously weird. Sorry about that, but when was the last time you stopped long enough to notice something like that, though? Before I started meditating regularly, that kind of sensation only happened when I was injured or something felt off/wrong. We’re not encouraged to stop or think or be present- there’s so much to do and see and consume and needs doing and we’ll be left behind otherwise, and therefore less-than therefore shamed therefore unfuckable therefore therefore therefore… It’s not a good way to live, but we’re used to it. We’re so used to it that stopping to think, feel, and be present in our bodies feels really goddamned weird.
I still don’t always feel as still or serene as I want to, or when I want to, but I have started to notice moments that make feeling present easier.
I’m a chef, so of course focusing on a taste or flavor is important. Whether it’s shutting my eyes to focus on what a new batch of nectarine jam needs at work or sitting up on my porch, determined to experience everything a dram of whiskey has to offer, those are moments of quiet focus, stillness, and presence that I need in my life.
When I run, that feeling of presence and stillness is called “the Zone” or “the Void.” The mind goes blank and there’s nothing but the slap of shoes on asphalt and wind on skin. Even physical pain is ignorable and thus endurable.
It’s a bit different when I’m sitting down at my writing desk because ironically it’s here that sensory presence can be a distraction. The candle I’ve made a habit of lighting when I write does less to inspire presence than encourage contemplation. Above my desk is a large print of Rene Magritte’s “Personal Values.” I chose it because it’s surreal, serene, and just odd enough to let you stare at it for a moment and think about other things, like watching fish in a tank.
“Personal Values, 1952”- Rene Magritte
Even as I sit here writing, there is that internal editor again. “Where are you going with this, Matt? Does this have anything to do with food? The culinary industry? Are you a food writer or aren’t you?”
Yeah, I am- and I could easily spin this whole article to be something about finding stillness in the creative life, maintaining mindfulness in the kitchen, or meditations over a medium-well-roasted tofu block. I’m not going to, though. Even in your creative life and the pursuit of a craft, you need to take the equivalent of a breath and find the stillness before it.
No man is an island, Entire of itself. Each is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manor of thine own Or of thine friend’s were. Each man’s death diminishes me, For I am involved in mankind. Therefore, send not to know For whom the bell tolls, It tolls for thee.
John Donne
sonder [ son-der ] noun the feeling one has on realizing that every other individual one sees has a life as full and real as one’s own, in which they are the central character and others, including oneself, have secondary or insignificant roles: In a state of sonder, each of us is at once a hero, a supporting cast member, and an extra in overlapping stories.
Dictionary.com
It’s none of my business why someone is wearing headphones when they are walking around town, what they are or are not listening to, or why they chose to wear gigantic ones that look like a vintage glam version of a Korean War radio setup.
Especially when I take the bus or go to the supermarket, it’s hard not to notice mostly people my age and younger wearing large, studio-style over-the-ear headphones. I imagine they are a lot harder to lose track of than earbuds, might be more comfortable on the inner ear, and avoid the waxy grossness that in-ear headphones face. They might also be more cost-effective compared to earbuds for the time being.
More than anything though, I bet they help with overstimulation in noisy areas and visually broadcast to others “leave me alone.” I can definitely feel the need for that.
I tend to carry a small pair of off-brand earbuds around with me, but I don’t use them nearly as much as you’d think. In fact, except when I’m specifically trying to focus or I’m listening to an audiobook, I like hearing and connecting with what’s around me. Not for any grouchy, holier-than-thou, “put down your phone and touch grass” reasons either. Those opinions and the people who have them irritate me.
It’s because I’m a writer and a storyteller, and to tell good stories you have to learn to listen and find them first.
“The devil whispered in my ear ‘You can’t withstand the storm.’ I whispered back, ‘Big talk from someone who lost their golden fiddle to some rando in Georgia.'”
A brief but loud storm blew through Portland this afternoon. It put the kibosh on my plans to head out and enjoy some beers and sandwiches this afternoon, but if I’m honest that’s alright. I’ve been pretty good with my spending lately, and I don’t want to mess it up over beer and sandwiches that I already know where to get separately. Besides, I’ve been treating myself well lately. A new weight vest for running, trying out a whiskey bar tucked away in a basement in Southeast, showing some of the guys in my run group a food pod they knew about but never visited, and fucking them up for life over a plate of chicken and fried potatoes. Next week, they say, will have to be the french fry truck. My body is ready. Indoctrinating new foodies and being a weird sort of “food concierge” for Portland is one of my favorite parts of going out, meeting people, and talking to strangers.
Tonight, though, I’m ready to take it easy, be still and quiet for a bit, and dive into my writing. I’m finally back to working on the book on training and mentorship that I’d shelved after getting a job that A. Required me to test everything I thought I knew about the topic and B. Eventually drained every speck of creative energy from my body like a copper heat sink. “I’m still learning!” I told myself, “I can’t finish the book yet!” My wife, ever the voice of reason, then pointed out that if it was true I couldn’t write a book until I had full, complete, and absolute knowledge on a subject, there would be no such thing as autobiographies.
As I sat down to write, I looked to my left and saw a little brass incense burner with a tiny cone of sage incense inside. Em and I had received it years ago as part of one of an “itty bitty boxes” of whatever that are sold in bookstores and gift shops. This one was a sage space cleansing kit- a cone of incense, a burner, a fake leather cord to bind some actual sage if you got it, and a book about how to smudge. I didn’t want to appropriate Native American practice, and Judaism has plenty of notions of cleansing, sanctification, and the use of incense. I realized that with this nice new desk, a storm outside, a quiet mood, and a little whiskey on hand, this was the perfect time to “cleanse” the desk and workspace and dedicate it to the craft of writing.
The incense didn’t last terribly long and smelled cheap, but I lit it, said a prayer in Hebrew I half-made up, and here I am writing a blog post. The smell of incense, ozone, whiskey, and my wife making cashew chicken wafts through the room, and everything feels calm and right.
Back when I first moved to Portland, I was really only familiar with the West side. It’s where my work was, it was the bustling metropolis half where I figured all in the interesting and cool stuff was, and I never really need to cross the Willamette until I got a job in Southeast. Soon after we moved nearby chasing better rent and livability than the suburban hell of Beaverton could offer.
Back then, I was confused and disappointed by the lack of bars with late hours and wondered where Portlands reputation as a drinking town came from. Unless that was limited to beer geeks with thick glasses, beards and flannel, I hadn’t seen a single bar open past 10pm in marked contrast to the local watering holes I was used to even in the suburbs of Atlantic City.
I’m bellied-up to the bar at Holman’s, a recent revived institution of the Laurelhurst neighborhood in Southeast. Posters proudly proclaim their new operating hours- Noon to 2:30am, Monday through Friday. Saturday and Sunday they open at 8 to snag the weekend brunch crowd, but still stay open till 2:30 in the morning to welcome the folks that don’t need a special meal to justify day drinking (or night, for that matter.)
What am I having? A martini. The classic. The eternal. The classy. The basic. Dry and dirty, stirred, served in a coupe glass with a vermouth wash (I should have specified that I like the vermouth left in. If I want vermouth-scented gin, I’ll ask for it- but I’m not gonna be That Guy who causes problems in local bars.)
I had a martini yesterday too, in another bar across town. This bar, an upscaled dive bar trying to take in the 5pm “drinks and party” crowd, apologized for not serving my martini with a big ice cube and prepared it in a rocks/lowball glass.
The cocktail was fine, but because of the glass I had to drink it quickly. Accident? Intent? Gender politics? The Blood of the Lamb? Who knows why a bartender would serve a martini unasked for in an unorthodox glass?
What has me wondering today, in a filling bar that I may soon abandon for home (where the booze is paid for and pants are optional) is cocktails themselves and why I enjoy (as my sister called it) “classical drinking.”
The Black Hat Baker 