Philosophy

Grounding vs. Grievance

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“[…]and I have filled him with the spirit of God, in wisdom, and in understanding, and in knowledge, and in all manner of workmanship […]”

– Exodus 31:3

Despite all my writing about The Way of the Floured Hand, the happy moments in the bakeshop, and how fulfilling it is to work with my hands (I’m pretty sure I would self-mummify at a full-time desk job), the fact is this shit is WORK.

As much as I may like the work, and as good as I am at it, at a certain point in especially busy weeks I find myself saying “I wanted to be a pastry chef… and for my sins, they let me become one.” Whether it’s persnickety chefs, crowded kitchens, or cooks that regularly seem too dazed and bewildered to understand what “hustle” means and manage to be underfoot even while I’m standing still, this calling of mine is good at reminding me that I’m doing it for pay, and they’re gonna make me earn that pay.

Picture of an old tree with large, sprawling above-ground roots.
“Deep roots are not touched by the frost.” – J. R. R. Tolkein.
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Greasing the “#Grindset”

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The ups-and-downs of the hospitality industry are no joke. Bosses and owners use words like “feast or famine” to describe the activity between the “busy seasons” and “slow seasons.”

I came from a beach town, where “slow season” meant quiet time. It meant half the local, non-chain ice cream stands and places on the boardwalk simply shuttered from Labor Day to Easter. Kids who wanted/needed summer jobs near their parents summer homes knew they needed to have their applications and resumes in shortly after Valentines Day if they wanted an apron waiting for them by the time Mom and Dad aired out the “life’s a beach” and “Island state of mind” decor.

The winery’s busy season starts around Easter- our “dress rehearsal” for Mother’s Day Brunch- and lasts the entirety of Wedding Season (May- September) with possibly a small lull before the Holiday Party. After New Years Day, however, business goes off a cliff. Hours get cut, and employees cash out reserved PTO to fluff up their checks and pay bills. They find gig work, pursue side hustles, or even pick up per diem jobs at places with skeleton crews and sick time policies.

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“Lord of Yourself I Crown and Mitre You”

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“It’s goddamned exhausting. I’m so tired all the time.”

I’m in one of my favorite coffeehouses in Southeast, having just had a light lunch after my workout. A woman sitting across from me is generously sharing her table and its electric plug ins until a friend of hers is meant to arrive. We’re not talking, but I gather she’s a teacher- she’s in a hoodie in a coffee shop on a Sunday afternoon, flipping through resumes, books on pedagogy, and Classroom Safety manuals. I can only imagine what’s going on in her world at this moment, but I recognize the beleaguered groan as she clicks through her laptop.

When school children learn about this moment in American history, I wonder what the textbooks will call it. I personally vote for The Great Exhaustion- a moment in history where the only things there were plenty of were arrogance and opinions.

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We Just Want to Bloom

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There’s an older woman who lives in my neighborhood that I see on my walks. We’re not friends really- just familiar NPCs in each others lives. Walking home the other day, she was coming towards me up the sidewalk when she stopped and noticed a small stand of daffodils at the edge of a lawn. The bright yellow flowers were craned down as usual, baring the green shoulders of their stems against the rain beating on our hoods. Fat wet drops of water rain down from behind the petals before making their own small puddles on the sidewalk.

“Look at that” she said, gesturing to the flowers. “Blooming already. The daffodils don’t know it’s cold!”
Without thinking, I said “They know, ma’am- they just don’t care. They never do.”
My elderly NPC made her way up the sidewalk shaking her head, and I turned up the walk to my house. “They just wanna bloom.”

Daffodils bloom very early in the spring, often while it’s still cold and there’s snow on the ground. They also tend to grow near water but in Portland, any sidewalk can be a river if the weather is right. Their heavy craning heads look down over the water, as though they were admiring their reflection. This, along with their audacity of blooming when it’s cold, and a little myth-making merit their family the scientific name of Narcissus.

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The Sabbath Day

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What smells do you associate with holiness?

If not “holiness,” then let’s call it “sanctity.” “Austerity” could also work, I think. Whatever word you want to use, it’s the idea of being in a very large place where a lot of people do a lot of generally serious things in the name of something arguably intangible, and it has a unique smell. The government buildings I have been in don’t have that kind of smell (“why” is something others can argue), but synagogues, the right kind of churches, and museums definitely do.

Somewhere a while back, I read that the reason people love the smell of “old books” is because lignen- the fibrous matter in plants and trees that paper is made of- has compounds that decompose over time into a yellowish color and is related to vanillin, the compound that (you may have guessed) gives vanilla its smell and flavor. Synagogues and churches inevitably have a LOT of old books in them unless they are brand new. Hymnals, prayer books, and holy texts to service a whole congregation don’t come cheap, and there aren’t “new editions” of ancient vows and praise that require refreshing the stock. The same prayer books (ideally) serve generations. The next time you walk into a place of worship, it might be interesting to wonder who held your hymnal before you. What were they going through? What were they thinking, if anything? What did they pray for if they could? Were they praying for you?

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