Look in a one-way mirror, like the ones in the play therapy rooms of a psychiatric clinic. You’ll see nothing but yourself and all the germtastic toys piled on top of each other like sinful pancakes. (There better be a hand sanitizer pump in here, otherwise I’m going to kiss this doorknob). On the other side of the mirror looking in is probably your shrink and whoever brought you into therapy. Your family, your partner, and your alter-ego, for example.
My greatest internet weakness is food blogs. See, boredom used to propel me to go on my WordPress reader and RSS feed to check out the latest dishes random people had made in their kitchens, and then proceeded to devour. This was me trying to be rational, trying to counter my consumer impulse to buy by eating with my eyes.
Is it possible to be addicted to food porn ? Yes, yes it is. At my last job, I would send my boss links of food porn weekly until he said I had an obsession. He wasn’t half-wrong; I would look at pictures of dishes and discover new recipes until lunchtime. Don’t worry, I still got my work done. Instead of schmoozing on Facebook, though, I would look at creative concoctions and send them to people, hoping they got the hint and that some fresh pumpkin tiramisu would be waiting for me when I came over at the end of the week.
So eventually, I realized that my boss had a point. This was an odd hang-up. It would be a better use of my time to find things that contribute to my well-being instead of leaving me disappointed with the lack of gourmet goodies in front of me. The technological addiction had a deeper root, as well.
Victor Frankl says that we are driven by our most basic desires when our lives are lacking meaning and purpose. I pondered my situation and realized that outside of my 9-5 existence, I was not helping anyone or working towards a larger goal. I vowed to dedicate my time spent staring at aioli casserole and cayenne chorizo to making some kind of difference in my community. I was arrested in development, too focused on my own little bubble and not enough on the world around me. Once I got home, I enrolled in a volunteer program and started tutoring people. Ever since, I’ve been enjoying my food more and salivating in front of screens less. That, in my book, is progress.
Home is unknown and vague, like crashing waves after a rain. The power is enough to make me remember all of the houses in which I grew up, all of the towns and cities I’ve called home, and all of the people I left behind when I moved somewhere new. Movement, change, reinvention. These seem to be the themes of my life. I have no place to call home anymore, because the domicile in which I currently reside is strange to me. I’m physically here, but my post-graduate existence is feeding in to my ‘anywhere but here’ mentality.
Soil – to make dirty. Worms crawl through the dirt we fall in as children, happy to make contact with earth and its mineral substance. Back when we were tabulas rasas, our lives revolved around catching butterflies, snack time, and make-believe. The only difference between now and then is that we walk on concrete. I’m a true believer in the effects of the mediums on which we walk. Those who walk on soil are more in tune with nature, while those who walk through the concrete jungle are pawns of that masterful steel chess board.
Rain, the most cleansing of all weather combinations. In a storm, you can embrace the sheer monstrosity of the currents, or you can sit inside dry and never experience the tempest. Nothing is as raw as feeling the thunder in the marrow of your oft-forgotten bones. It’s detox for the non-believers, rain is. Stand outside and soak it in, run through it, feel the icy pricks on your skin and know that you are alive. For the first time in a long time, flow with the gales of wind and be free, even if it’s only for a split-second.
This is your prerogative. Even with gravity and physics acting upon your body, you are exercising your free will, and no one is stopping you from rolling in the wet soil when you reach an attractive field. We’re only human, so why not indulge our animal side every once in a while ?
“You won’t arrive. It is an endless search.” – Sherwood Anderson
Searching for a career path in 2013 seems like a never-ending battle for recognition and responsiveness. For those lucky few that have a gig set up immediately after graduation, the post-graduate situation is a non-issue. Living at home and commuting, making enough to cover living expenses, and enjoying life are just bonuses to doing what you truly love. For others, the road to independence is bumpy, winding, and filled with pit stops. I write to you in balmy silence from a green oasis. A Little India, if you will. While it is not my first career choice, helping a new mother with household duties has taught me more about life than any book or office job ever could. I don’t plan on popping one out any time soon, but who knows when this could all come in handy ? Instead of searching for an endpoint, I’m learning to enjoy the search itself.
Feedings are every three hours. Instead of eating all their calories in one sitting, babies ingest calories periodically throughout the day.
Diaper rash is a given. You wear one, you get it.
As I sharpen my previously non-existent housewife skills, I apply for jobs, study for group exercise certification, and keep up with the news. A friend of mine recently told me that if someone says they have it all figured out, they’re just faking it. That may be so, but as I keep searching (for a job, for an answer, for good people,) I’ll think of this as a pit-stop on the highway of life. After all, the more you look, the more you’ll find.
Quote via Literary Jukebox at http://literaryjukebox.brainpickings.org