well, what can i say?

I’ve been accumulating little bits of stories here and there for my blog, some which I’ve actually written and others that are just memory scraps filed under “bloggable”. It’s just hard to get it all on line, or all into words, or in a frame that reflects the mica-like layering of all the meaning. But then, of course, it’s still just mica.

I could tell you about the day I got really dehydrated, the cows that stare me down on my running route, my experience of working in an all-male kitchen revue, or my flirtation with my neighbor who’s head is the size of my torso. But, hell, I don’t know what you want to hear about, I don’t know how to choose.

I sometimes find myself wondering how it is I got here, to this funny little town in the middle of the southwest, surrounded by pine nut trees and barberries, rattlesnakes and white weasels, cliff dwellings and horse farms. I eat dinner with my housemates as if I’ve been doing it for years, and then remember that I’ve lived here only a month. I can’t tell if I’m in the right place, or if I’m just in shock.

I have a job, I suppose that’s useful. I’m a cook, at the local health food store. I make all those lovely dishes that you take to picnics or potlucks or your place of work when your body asks for something a little more nutritious than traditional fast food. I chop a lot of carrots, and even more celery, and I wait for the day that I’ve been there long enough to make new suggestions. I’m learning, though, how not to cut off my thumb after 5 hours of standing over a cutting board, and how to speak kitchen with aspiring young sous chefs. I hear a lot of French, for sure.

I’m discovering the joys of being at home. This is very new for me. For instance, it’s a Saturday night as I write this, and I’m alone, on the floor in front of the wood stove, soaking up the warmth and watching the snow fall outside. This very morning, I went for a run and then had a long, leisurely breakfast of french toast, eggs and kale with two kind houseguests, and then read a book for a few hours. I can’t tell you about the last time I did this. I so rarely ever hang out at my house.

But my experiences, I suppose, are not me. They inform me, but they don’t define me. They contribute to me, but they don’t create me. I have them, but I am not them. And I may not choose them, but I choose what they mean, and ultimately how they impact me.

And still, in the face of all this creative freedom, I find that I want some sort of consistency, a routine, a predictable outcome here and there, both in what I see and in what I feel. I want to know something about the world around me, and my relationship to it all. I want it to be certain. And I want someone to tell me that, indeed, it is the way I see it.

Perhaps that someone can just be me. What do you think?