If you’ve been reading this blog for any amount of time, you can guess what my state of mind has been like this last week and why I wound up skipping a blog post.
I’m not going to go over the recent election here except to say that while I’m frustrated and disappointed, I’m not wholly surprised. That can also be said for the anti-Jewish pogroms that seem to be all the rage in Europe again. Clearly going “vintage” doesn’t just mean aesthetics anymore- it also covers racial violence, and several groups appear to be giving 1939.
The Outrage and Angst Machines are running full tilt and their product remains what it always has been- Fear and Exhaustion, getting dumped into our lives faster than ever.
The idea is not to drown us, but to make it so we drown ourselves. To make us isolate ourselves in fear of everyone and everything and burn out all our energy over The Next Big Bummer so we’ll throw up our hands, sit down, shut up, and get on with dying quietly.
“Engage with the world around you at your own risk,” it all yells at us from the TV, from our phones, from stickers and posters and placards and screaming strangers. “Better and safer to Trust Us, give us your money and voices, and let us tell you who to hate today while we swaddle you in little luxuries. You can even choose which ones.”
“Experience is the hardest teacher there is- it gives the test first and teaches the lesson after.”
I’m still plugging away at my book at mentorship and training. It’s slow going, partially because of lack of metaphorical spoons on a given day and partially because going back over some parts involves frankly unpleasant memories. What I tell myself about why this particular book has taken so damn long compared to my last two is because I’ve been in a position of Actual Documented and Titled Leadership- first as the kitchen manager of the pie shop and now as the pastry lead of a winery.
I’ve told myself that these experiences were effectively ongoing research material and proof of concept for the book and that that’s why I effectively put the book on ice for a bit. “This is good advice? Ok, how’d it work when YOU tried it?”
On an interpersonal level, not badly. Plenty of folks left their jobs, a few stayed, those who stayed were happy. Not everything is for everyone, and that’s just how life goes.
On a professional level, though, and especially as a middle manager, there is a lot that went wrong no matter what I said or did. There is only ever so much one person can control, and the role of a leader, in my mind, is to lead, communicate, serve, and protect their team. Eventually people have to look after themselves- as a leader, I can only ever advocate and look out of them as much as I can.
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.
“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.
The Black Hat Baker 