Chapter 51: The Tchaikovsky between us

I know I lead a charmed life.  I have never grieved for anything except the death of my dog Jack, a Pembroke Welsh Corgi, who lived like a king for 13 years and one week.  I put Jack down because he stopped eating.  And Jack did virtually nothing but eat.  So clearly, he told me it was time. 

Now, suffice to say, I have no idea what "greets" me from day to day.  Now, I am forced to face the rawest emotions and the biggest grief that turns my charmed life into something entirely not charming.  Something so foreign that I even find it repulsive.  

I find grieving for the death of my husband exceedingly exhausting.  Deeply personal. Heart-breaking.  Suffocating. All consuming.  

I also find that the strength I muster up everyday, piece by piece, morsel by morsel, can all turn into dust with no warning. With seemingly no reasons. Sunny days or stormy nights.  Sometimes, when the tears come, I feel like I am drowning.  

Then I try to apply that "cup half full" thing.  At times, even that sounds annoying and repulsive to a perpetually positive and optimistic person like myself.  Tomorrow is only one night away, I would remind myself.  Tomorrow is not "better." Tomorrow is just that, tomorrow.  But tomorrow *CAN* be better.  That is to say, I won't know, until tomorrow.  

I still have the power to create a brave new day - tomorrow.  I dare say, I still lead a charmed life; although I admit, it is a vortex in pure hell.  I don't recommend it. 

More than just a new page, I call my each new day a new chapter.  At least in the book that I am now writing.  I am the author; the creator; the editor.  Heck, I am even the customer; I have to buy my own book.  I write it however I want to.  I can have as many chapters as I want in just one day.  Who is going to stop me?  I dare anyone saying "no" to a widow!  That's another thing.  The word widow.  Not exactly charming either.  Whether I call myself a widow is not the point.  The fact is, I am a widow.  No difference than I am a woman.  Yet, the word elicits such automatic sorrow and sympathy and "ooohhhhh" and silence.      

And so I wrote Chapter 51 today.  It was downright an exhaustingly tearful chapter.  There was no plot that made today extra sad, but there was the Russian composer Peter Tchaikovsky.  Our last text conversation would involve Tchaikovsky's masterpiece, his one and only Violin Concerto.  And it was vivid.  

"It would bring me tears if I close my eyes while listening to this piece."
"I know.  Me too..."
"He's not human!"  (Followed by a few "LOL") 
"The third movement feels like thousands of horses galloping, crossing a huge plain!  I want to jump up for the finish!  Somebody just interrupted me.  I hate being interrupted when I listen to music."
"My favorite is the first movement." 
"Masterpiece!" 

I debated whether to post this blog entry.  I was always reminded that whatever you post in the internet stays with you forever.  Like a brand on your body.  Too late.  I am now branded.  

May my ability to hear and appreciate music be the very last thing to go, until you hold my hands ever, ever so tightly next to you again.  

Daisy's Bread 'n Barter - Finale

It is not everyday I hear the universe speaks directly to me.  That's probably because I don't listen most of the time.  The rare moments I think I hear something, I pretend she is not speaking to me.  I think because I am afraid.  I am constantly afraid of something.  Perhaps it's why I like my life status quo:  Predictable. Comfortable.  Secure.  Adult-like.  Mature.   

#     #     #

The universe spoke loudly at me today.  She told me in my face - again - that I could not possibly fail if I do things out of love.  And then she showed me Rumi's teaching that I was born with wings, and that I am to learn to use them, and fly.  It all sounds really New Age-y, very ethereal.  But it is not like that.  Let me tell you today's story.  

I baked a loaf of cinnamon swirl bread for my good friend Mo this weekend.  What I didn't know was that Mo's older boy is constantly on medication for certain conditions.  As a result and a side effect, the boy is very particular about his food. In Mo's words, getting the boy to approve a food item is harder than winning an Oscar.  It is a constant challenge.

The boy absolutely loved my bread.  Gobbled it all up.  Asked for more, only to face disappointment that they have finished the whole loaf overnight.   

My bread won the People's Choice compared to the "super premium" cinnamon bread that costs $7 a loaf at the upscale Metropolitan Market.  I saw in my head the thrill and joy on my friend's - a caring mother's - face, watching her boy devoured a wholesome plate of food with glee. 

Now, I don't know why my bread tastes so good.  I REALLY don't.  I am not professionally trained.  These are not recipes I developed.  These are recipes I found on the internet; anybody who is able to follow instructions carefully can replicate.  I am not a specially skilled baker.  I am a novice home-baker.  No more and no less.  There is nothing self-deprecating about these facts. 

But today, more than any day, I get it.  The magic has always been my heart.  The healing powers have always been love, care, and passion.  The bread is just a vessel that carries the magic.  We cannot possibly fail when we do things out of love, care, and passion.  

When we care deeply about something, yet doing it with no attachment to the outcome, that's where magic happens. 

A million reasons to turn to my deaf ears, and pretend not to listen.  A million reasons to stay predictable, comfortable, adult.  A million reasons to be afraid. What would be the one reason to say "yes"?  When do I use my wings?  And fly? 

This is where a chapter's finale becomes another's beginning.  

  

Daisy's Bread 'n Barter - Chapter 2

I never considered myself an artist.  And I refuse to call myself one.  I am adamant that it would cheapen the suffering and the talents of an artist if I do.  

That said, I secretly pride myself for possessing some of their stereotypical personalities.  For one, I can be very eccentric when it comes to the value of my "art."  I refuse to put a price tag on anything I create.  I would get philosophical and proclaim that my art is not for sale in exchange for money.  Not my paintings. Not my drawings.  Not my music. Not my bread.  That is, assuming anyone would even pay any money for any of it, but that's not the point.  If I never put a price tag on it, I never have to say "nobody bought it..."   

I adored and safe-guarded my imaginary CSA bread delivery service, Flour Petals by Daisy, since the idea was born in my head three years ago.  Too many times at the dinner table, I forced Eric and Katie, my niece, listen to me pontificating about my virtual bakery.  I would bake in the weekends, I rationalize.  I had details down to the kind of plastic bags I would use for my bread - the kind that breaths, with hundreds of tiny pin-size holes.  Summertime came, I got addicted to making the old fashioned jellyrolls - classic jellyrolls, chocolate rolls, coffee rolls, real vanilla whipped cream, coffee whipped cream, and all flavors of jam and preserves.  Countless combinations and possibilities.  I took the imaginary FPBD to an imaginary Jellyroll Stand at the West Seattle Farmers Market. "Roll While You Wait!  Customize Your Flavors!"  I was full of sparks and enthusiasm. "Cupcakes sell because they're nostalgic; they remind people of their happy and easy childhood." I would emote to my poor husband and niece, still, at the dinner table.  "Jellyrolls are filled with nostalgia.  Jellyrolls ARE nostalgia." How many jellyroll shops have you seen down the street?  NONE!  My point precisely!    

A therapist would likely trace my addiction to my upbringing, so it seems fitting and convenient to blame my parents for my madness:  I never operated a street-side lemonade stand as a child.  If I did, like most peers of my generation, I would've gotten that "running my own business" nonsense out of my system.  And as a result, I most certainly would not be so enamored with my jellyrolls...  

Deep down, I fully accept that I am not in any physical, emotional, or mental strength to hold a 50+ hours full time job and run FPBD in the weekend.  FPBD is not a weekend gig.  It deserves my full attention.  It is a full time commitment.  It is working out of a commissary kitchen.  It is dealing with the bureaucrats and the health department.  It is book-keeping.  It is crawling out of bed at obscene hours of the morning.  It is appealing to the public that wants a lot but pays a little, so called "value."  It is kissing Coffee with Eric good-bye, forever.  It is putting a monetary value on my bread.  It is against everything I want to do.  It is...selling my soul!

Drama queen.  Still. 

FPBD continues living rent-free in my head, tapping my limbic system whenever I need a jolt of emotional high.  Until this week.  A perfect solution has dawned on me, thanks to my favorite coffee from Guatemala called Casi Cielo, a limited offering at Starbucks.  

As such, Daisy's Bread 'N Barter is born!  
(to be continued)

  

Daisy's Bread 'n Barter - Chapter 1

Flour Petals by Daisy is my virtual bakery.  It's a "CSA-type" bread basket home delivery service.  It has existed in my head for three years now, before I even knew how to bake simple bread.  My vision is to start a fresh bread delivery service that features my very own homemade bread baked from scratch.  Made with nothing but the finest ingredients, organic when available.  Always fresh.  Always delicious. Always baked with love and care.  

Artisan loaves, brioche french toast, cinnamon challah with seeds, wholesome whole wheat, classic white, coconut milk buns studded with my homemade candied orange rind, cream-cheese braids, homemade crackers, garlic-basil-sun dried tomato-pane bianco.  Sweet ones, savory ones, crusty top... I hyperventilate a little just typing this.  

My vision is to feed my fans with the best bread I can bake.  Not a traditional bakery, I don't keep inventory, and I don't bake everyday.  Like a CSA produce box, the customer receives the good fruits of my labor, with items at my discretion.  I envision myself wearing a clean but well worn apron, lovingly kneading and shaping balls of dough, skillfully scoring them with a razor blade (instead of a French-made authentic lame - beginning bakers, like poor artists, do not have the luxury of overspending on gadgets!)   

Few people have time to sit down and eat these days, let alone waiting for dough to rise.  Virtually every friend I know LOVES fresh bread.  Few have time to make bread with a bread machine, fewer know how to make bread by hand.  Even fewer know how to make  a variety of EXCELLENT bread from scratch, by hand.  And love doing so, purely for the creativity and fun of it.  I can do that.  I fill that void.  One loaf at a time.  My vision has merit, I am so sure of it.  And so I keep nurturing it in my head.  With experiment and practice, my repertoire grows.  

The idea must be so filled with promises that I started finding professional bakers with fresh bread and baked goods delivery services.  The first time my friend directed me to a website for it, I was so excited - yet upset - and I started tearing up.  What a strange bird.  I was excited for good reasons - "even the professionals are doing it!  See??"  I would declare to Eric.  "It's the real deal!"  At the same breath, I would feel so cheated and violated that "they" would steal "MY" idea.   And that "they" who know how to bake (really really well) would need to take my idea and profit from it.  Uggghhh!  I, one of the "little people," a home baker, who just want to bake and feed children fresh wholesome bread, was robbed and wronged! They plagiarized my idea! I was inconsolable. 

Drama queen. 

(to be continued)

Work of Humanity

It was just a summer job, thank god, during college. It was probably the most dreadful thing I have done as far as a job goes, but as they say, it beats digging ditches.  I don't recall how long I lasted but it couldn't have been very long.  

In this small office were small partitions.  The room was decorated with white walls and illuminated by white florescent lights.  There may be a poster or two with inspirational quotes, taped on the wall.  But really, what would be the point.  In my partition was a hard-back metal chair one can purchase at a Walmart rollback for $7.98.  Maybe cheaper.  

I was given a beige ITT touch tone phone - one you would still expect to find in a cheap hotel these days.  Pages of local phone numbers with 916 area code, printed on the far left and far right margin of each page; several large paper clips, and a thick manual with convenient tabs that called out a rebuttal to every "no" response known to mankind.  


The "best practice" was to position the paperclip on each phone number, marked it, and moved down the list from top to bottom; first left, then right.  

I was making cold calls to sell the Entertainment Coupon Book.  You know, the Book that has "Buy 1 Get 1 Free" coupons for everything you can imagine; more coupons for meals you can ever eat; more auto shop repairs you wish your car would break down.  It was the king of all coupon books.  I was helping people save money. I was doing the Work of Humanity! 

Some would politely say "no" to me in mid-sentence.  Some would wait until I finish my initial introduction "hello!  My name is..."  Occasionally, a potential customer would actually want to know what I'm selling, and so we would engage in a "meaningful sales conversation." 

It was minimum wage plus commission.  $10 or whatever commission per book was really good then, decades ago, for a self-supporting college student.  It would mean whether dinner for the week was beef-flavored ramen, or real beef.  To motivate us, the pit boss would ring some kind of clanging gong when one of us made a sale, causing the rest of us to temporarily pause our Work of Humanity until the deafening vibration subsided.  

I flipped through the manual and searched for the perfect come back phrase when I sensed the hesitation on the other end.   I remembered vividly, that one old man yelled at me at the peak of my exciting sales pitch, "What the hell are you talking about?  I can't understand a word you're saying!"  "...but...it's only $40 for the king of the coupon books..."  I was deflated. 

I have never been in sales, not before and not after my Work of Humanity in that white-walled office. Making cold calls is one of those humbling experiences that everyone shall take the time to soak in, early in life.  To get hung up on the phone.  To face rejections head-on.  To taste the fact that you cannot always get what you want, and mommy and daddy cannot fix it for you.  To be considered one thin line above politicians and two levels beyond used car salesmen.  To prepare ourselves for thick skin so we can actually survive in the "real" world, maybe even dapple in some real work of humanity.

I still don't have enough thick skin.  The more I become my own, though, the more I am comfortable in my own skin.  I will never return to that Work of Humanity, but I am ever so grateful for the old man who admonished me over the phone.  

A million reasons to say 'no'

My musician/song writer/poet friend Linda developed a discipline to write a poem a day, everyday, for the entire year in 2012.  She even wrote a poem about my baking.  That was way cool.  My friend Bill does the same.  15 minutes a day, everyday, he practices his writing.  Bill starts his day by exercising his brain.  I wonder if he does that before or after coffee.

And then there's my good friend's young teenage daughter, who is practically a fish. She gets up before god does, and goes to her swimming practices; I think sometimes they practice in sub-zero temperature water.  Mornings, after school, weekends, I don't know all the details.  They are not important.  

Discipline. 

Sixty-five-thousand excuses and twenty-eight-hundred justifications later, I have given forgotten about my discipline.  I became weak.  

My piano teacher would not be proud of my lack of discipline.  

What would be the one reason to say 'yes?'    


   

(Edited on January 19, 2013)

It's your birthday, Jack!  

You would have been 16 today.  

You were such a sweet dog.  

Not entirely useful, but I wasn't hiring a secretary.

Nor a personal assistant.

Nor an accountant.

You were my dog, and the best dog for me.  

xoxoxo