Last night, the television sat mute.  I curled up with steaming Earl Grey and handcrafted cookies, reading until my eyes drooped closed.

I’ve joined a book club.  We’re reading Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.  The first few pages brought to mind ersatz Thoreau, but as I ventured a little further, I realized that Dillard isn’t copying Walden, but using the Walden experience to make it her own. Her writing is both lush and raw – describing the beautiful and the horrific.

Twinges of doubt (perhaps even more than twinges) have been making themselves felt when I contemplate my culinary future.  I’m in the steakhouse once a week and the chefs, who are half my age with ten times the experience and twice the energy, make me feel ill equipped to be entering the culinary world at this point in my life. 

 I give myself the apropos pep talk:  “Julia Childs was 40 when she graduated culinary school!” or the hackneyed “Grandma Moses didn’t start painting until her seventies”.  Yet my internal critic chides me with a “what are you thinking trying to be a chef at your age!”

 I’m tired of discussing my age.  It’s been said a million times – age is but a number.  I’ve always thought that quote was just an excuse for the middle-aged to cling to youth.   As I drove to work this morning, I realized that  age IS just a number (of course, perhaps I’m just one of those middle-aged youth clingers).  Each of us has a certain allocation of years in which to create a life.  It may be less than 20 – or it may be as long as a hundred.  We don’t know how long – if lucky, perhaps around 70 or 80.  We’d be fools spending only part of those years living, learning and exploring – and saving the remainder of our time waiting for the end.   If we’re slotted to die at 40, then should we stop living at 20?  Of course not!  What if the end comes much later than we’ve expected – what a waste of good years in waiting. 

 If I’m dead tomorrow, was culinary school a waste?  No – I will have died having done it.

…and had all the answers.

Do you ever have those dreams that impart so much truth, wisdom and clarity that you commit to remembering every bit upon waking? 

I had one of those dreams the other night – the message was so relevant and important.  The key to my happiness was locked in its meaning.  If I could remember, my life would change. As I stirred from sleep, the details scattered from my mind like raindrops flung from my opening eyelashes.  Oh, the horror!  Of course, it cannot be that easy.

I’ve been talking with a friend lately about metamorphosis and transformation.  Why do we confine ourselves to be the person we have scripted?  I’ve spoken before about our personal “story” - the story that we’ve concocted to describe ourselves…something to put behind the “I”.  “I am this”, “I do that” and “I like those”. We conscribe our own possibilities.

So, what did my dream have to tell me?  Alas, the details are gone, but snippets are still fluttering in my mind.  My dream was about things that hold us back from true transformation – from radically changing our story. 

• Fear of failure
• Fear of success – “who am I to deserve this?”
• Idleness – why bother, I’m content where I am
• Comfort in the known – transformation is inherently uncomfortable
• Morals, values and laws that may no longer apply, serve a purpose, or be correct – society’s and our own personal beliefs
• The opinion of others
• The energy to make it happen – with barely the strength to get through the week, how do we find the strength to transform?

If we can overcome these obstacles,  then true, lasting, profound change can be ours, but that, my friend,  is a difficult road.

…And the radio is in the hands of such a lot of fools tryin’ to anaesthetize the way that you feel…

                                                – Elvis Costello  

Do you have a radio station that entirely meets your needs; one that holds you beguiled such that other stations are unnecessary? 

Driving to work this morning, I resigned myself to my radio’s “seek” button when nothing piqued my interest on any of my five pre-programmed stations. There’s only five because no other station is worth the bother of programming.  While the dial churned, my mind began to percolate as well, pondering the parallels between the finite number of desirable partners in my town and the dearth of good radio stations.  Strange how my mind works sometimes. 

There must be hundreds of stations, so why is it difficult to find a good one?  The first choice I’m faced with – AM vs. FM.  Is there anything on AM besides Republicans, sportscasters and oldies?  AM is out.  Of the remaining FM stations, I’m eliminating any that aren’t in English.  Communication is essential. Cross out boot and bolo-tie wearing Country, Long-haired rockers and hip-hop rap gangsters with the belts below their ass. Disregard Christian and religious stations (If you’re a frequent reader of this blog, you know why). Forget about smooth jazz and all of it’s impotence, but other jazz can stay.  College stations – love them, but do they love me?  I’m not their target audience.  I DO enjoy a good dose of NPR, classical and jazz…but not every day and not all the time.  So what’s left?  Those generalized, insipid mainstream radio stations that play an occasional good song amid the drivel of commercials, Kings of Leon, Dave Mathews and other such slop. 

And so, I remain single and listen to CD’s because I can’t stay content for long with insipid mainstream slop. Change the station, please.

It’s going on 8 pm and my ass is sore from sitting on this plastic chair.  I’m cold and tired – and I have another hour to go before my plane departs, if it departs.  We’ve been delayed ninety minutes.  I’m headed home tonight.  The original plan was to come home late tomorrow, but I just want to leave this place.  It’s been a strange trip; eye opening and depressing.  It’s usually my favorite place, but not this time.  I was traveling here for work and, since I have friends in this town, I thought I would stay a few extra days– enjoy the city and socialize.

 N sent me an email earlier this week.  It said something like “I’m getting old. I’ve hurt myself.  I don’t want to talk about it and I can’t see you.” N’s known for his drama and I didn’t want to play into it.  I didn’t send him a response. One less person to visit. 

 Besides, the plan was for me to spend a few days with my dear friend, S.  Well, yesterday I called S from my car.  The conversation went something like this:

 Me:      Hey, I’m on my way into the city.  I should be there in about 90 minutes, around 3:30.

 Her:     OK.  Um, well, can you come a little later, like around 7?  I have to take the kids to swim class and J (her husband) is getting his haircut.

 Me:      Well, not really.  I’ve got a car and a driver.  We’re already on our way. I don’t mind going to swim class with you guys.  What time do you leave?

 Her:     Around 5:30.

 Me:      That’s perfect.  I’ll be there around 3:30

 Her:     The wrench is that I’ll have to work until 5:00 so you will be just sitting here.

 Me:      That’s fine.  I have some work to do, too.

 Her:     Well, the kids are going to be loud, but we’ll try to keep them out of your hair. 

Anyway, this went on for a while and I felt like I was imposing to the point where we agreed that I would spend the night in a hotel and come to her house today.  I was tired and didn’t want to deal with a harried mom and two rambunctious kids.  The hotel was depressing.  I spoke with S this morning – she wasn’t going to be free until after 3 pm.  I spent the day at the mall – it was raining so I didn’t have many choices.  I realized I could spend the day at the mall at home.  I changed my flight this afternoon.

 I had a couple of hours to spend with S this afternoon.  Even THAT was stressful – she had to pick up one kid from school, then pick me up, and then arrange J to pick up the other kid.  It was difficult for her to leave the house to drive me to the airport.  The younger kid was having a meltdown.  We didn’t have much to talk about.  She’s stressed – it’s not that she doesn’t want to spend time with me, but, as always seems to happen with my friends, she has subjugated self for the family.  We have little to discuss anymore.  Motherhood rules her.  She told me she had a breakdown on the phone with her husband the other day.  She seems on the verge of a breakdown every day.  She seems depressed.  Or, perhaps I’m the one depressed – losing another friend to parenthood.

A snake stopped my leaf-crunching progression along the footpath this afternoon. A flame-colored necklace adorned his nine-inch black body, a hint at his similarly tinted underbelly. He was no bigger around than a haricot vert, his head smaller than my pinky nail.

At first inspection, I thought him to be some sort of worm and was surprised to find he possessed the much more imposing nomenclature of “snake”. I softly prodded him on his tail and off he scuttled into the surrounding oak leaves.

Our encounter led me into a contemplation of our language’s inability to describe our world properly. “Snake” is used to describe a 10 ft python, a well-camouflaged yet easily distinguishable rattler as well as my little companion today. How can we expect relationships to flourish when my “love” may be of the python variety and yours may be along the lines of a little black haricot vert?

I worked my first night as a kitchen slave on Sunday – almost seven hours, no break.  It felt good.  I thought I did/learned/saw much, but was also very aware of how much I have left to learn.  There’s nothing more humbling than being taught how to make desserts by a high-school student.

I made a cilantro-lime aioli, fabricated lemon “snail” garnishes, made doughnuts, sliced about ten onions, made mashed potatoes (that a customer complained were under-seasoned), shucked and removed the kernels from corn, learned how to make pizza, learned how to plate a few desserts, inventoried red meat and helped close.  Overall, it was a good day and a bit of an adventure.

I need to bring more confidence with me into the restaurant.  I’m working with cocky young guys half my age – and I need to be able to stand toe-to-toe with them.

Lemon "Snail" Garnishes

I spent the morning chopping assorted vegetables for a rustic minestrone soup.  This afternoon is my first shift at the steakhouse and my chopping skills have become rusty.  A little practice never hurts. 

Merriam-Webster defines integrity as “the adherence to moral and ethical principles, soundness of moral character and honesty”.  My definition of integrity is keeping promises, following through on commitments, being dependable and “walking the talk”.

When it comes to integrity, I hold myself to high standards.  I consider my level of integrity to be a leading character strength for me.  I believe I know right from wrong and I am committed to doing the right thing, even if it’s not always pleasant.  I try to be honest and straightforward. 

Yesterday, I came to the realization that my integrity is not as high as I would convince myself it is – at least, not when it comes to one particular person.  My actions are rarely in this person’s best interest, I break commitments consistently, I’m not dependable when it comes to my promises; I lie. 

If you haven’t already guessed, that person is me.  I don’t have self-loathing and I don’t place all others above me, but I’ve realized that I allow myself leniencies in commitments that I would never abide in a relationship with someone else. 

I commit to doing something beneficial for myself, get lazy and let it slide.  I put things off, I procrastinate and I make excuses.  Should a friend treat me thus, I would be quick to distance myself, but, in this instance, I allow it.

It disturbs me to acknowledge this weakness of character.  Can I remedy it?  Will it make a difference?  I truly don’t know.

The mood here has been grey this week.  My disappointment in myself for canceling the catering weighs heavy on me.  I also broke off with the guy earlier this week.  It was an inevitable outcome and kinder to do it now rather than wait until things got too muddled.  Still, he was a good man and I take no pleasure in hurting him.  I also miss him.  Daily emails and phone calls have given way to silence.  Midweek adventures have been replaced by quiet nights at home once again. 

A year ago, if asked, I would tell you my daily happiness rank a 7.5 or an 8 on a scale to 10.  Today, I feel like I’m struggling for a 4.