You can absolutely love what you do and still be fucking tired.
Compared to a lot of folks, I’m lucky. I have a wonderful wife. I live in a decent town, and between the two of us we manage to make enough to live comfortably working in fields we love and trained for.
I’m going to go ahead and toot my own horn a bit here (my therapist said I need to improve my self-talk) and share that I am objectively very good at my job. The work of being a pastry chef, running and training a small team, and developing recipes is not an unmanageable burden for me. My team and I deliver excellent work for our employers and our customers.
Just because someone carries a burden well doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy, and even people who perform well at work they enjoy feel the need to put down their tools, scream into the void for a bit, and then take a nap.
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.
Ifyou would not be forgotten, as soon as you are dead and rotten, either write things worth reading, or do things worth writing.’
– Ben Franklin
You don’t get to decide whether or not you are a mentor. Your apprentices decide that when they determine whether or not they can learn from you- and the absolute greatest feeling on Earth is when your apprentices succeed.
The winery where I work has an excellent view. It’s a major selling point as far as our clientele goes- people can look down on the valley over vineyards and woodland while sipping a glass of wine and take it easy. It’s a magnet for photos and set dressing when weddings and celebrations buy out some space.
When I arrive to work early in the morning, that view is usually all mine- but I don’t take advantage of it at all. I have work to do.
That’s no one’s fault but mine, of course. I get in early because that’s when The Baker shows up. I get the most space and most access to the ovens for a limited time before the rest of the kitchen rolls in mid-morning to afternoon, and I need to get to work.
So I show up early, knowing I have work to do, but I always want to walk out on the patio where the guests sit- where I absolutely don’t belong during business hours (and in fact would prefer not to be)- and just soak up that view for a moment. The stillness. The vastness. My smallness. The soothing balm of scale and insignificance to start the day, and keep with me while I obsess over rolls, bites of cake, and bits of chocolate that manage to mean everything to me… and absolutely nothing at all.
I never do, though. I have work to do, and I don’t get paid- OR pay- to enjoy the view.
“The creation of the world did not occur at the beginning of time, it occurs every day.” –Marcel Proust
All you can do some days is keep going.
I come into the kitchen and assess the production list for the day, keenly aware of my struggles to lose weight again.
Next comes reviewing the banquets for the day and make sure I block out time to individually decorate and tray the desserts people paid for, knowing that people I called friends are agitating for my death (intentionally or not) because I’m a Jew.
I build out the list, grab ingredients, and start mixing the day’s breads, fully conscious that my government is a joke and that folks like me are continually convinced to focus their ire on each other than the higher-ups with every reason to keeps us all angry and hateful all the time.
I make my silly little pastries, bake my silly little breads, and carry on like none of it is disappointing and hurtful and frustrating and sad. I do it because I know someone out there IS disappointed, hurt, frustrated, and sad, and what I make can be the One Good Thing that they get to enjoy today.
I can grieve. I can rage and piss and moan and cry… but not when I’m baking. There’s someone else’s day at stake then, and it’s not mine to ruin.
The Black Hat Baker 