Some days, we’re ruled by the head, and some days, it’s all the heart. Other days, though, I think there’s some special place where the two dance together. It only happens when I a) don’t try to make it happen, and b) don’t think about it. It’s like Fight Club, except you sound crazier than Tyler Durden/Narrator to talk about this Fight Club.
I am Jack’s existential crisis, or is it a mid life crisis? Is this some checkpoint, warning bell, or some such that my time is finite? Except that’s always been a given, I just had to do the Ikea thing first?
I am Jack’s burning house, tastefully appointed with all the finest mustards.
How would anyone know what color the sky is if we didn’t have the word blue?
What if the ego is nothing more than a dirty window of the soul? And what if the soul is nothing more than being authentic? I’ve been thinking about this forever now. If I followed her recipe to the letter, it still wouldn’t be my grandmom’s cooking. I’ve only made her apple crisp half right by using my memories and splashing amounts. Nobody measures exactly. So there’s something to her, through her cooking, that isn’t me, but it’s kind of me, since I can kind of get close. Whatever it is that makes her cooking hers, or makes me who I am, it seems like it’s always the thing we hide the most. Maybe it comes out in cooking, or [insert activity here]. But it seems to me a lot of people get pretty crazy when they can’t be authentic at least sometimes. As Watts said, we must go out of our minds to come back to our senses, and sometimes, I think maybe that head rules just too often. Then that space where the heart and head meet is just like trying to make my grandmom’s food.
Sometimes, I feel like cooking can get me closer to God, or at least closer to my grandmoms, and wouldn’t the world be a better place if more people thought of god like a grandmom? The kind of grandmom that gives you cakes and snacks and card games? Maybe people wouldn’t kill themselves and each other if it was for Meemaw.
If God Was a Grandmom, would we fight about masks, viruses, politics, whatever? Or would we just be fat and happy? Sugared and Kissed up? Everything is a Fight Club, but I propose knitting. Except I really suck at it and I’d rather cook you something.
Sometimes, I feel like writing is the easiest way to clean the window. I can’t write if I don’t at least have some kind of light shining through. The best things I can write are when I’m not trying. It’s that whole Fight Club thing again, but with less references this time.
If I got diagnosed as happy, would my writing be less analyzed? Couldn’t it be possible that staring out a window, seeing bright blue skies and desert can cure what ails you? Or maybe, just clear away the dirty windows so life can be contemplation, living, loving?
It’s all these things that dance through my head and I wonder if it’s inspiration or a curse, because I swear if I stopped thinking it wouldn’t matter much.
Then, I had to start to wonder just today, what if I just trusted? It’s been harder than I thought. I’m kinda digging this God is a Grandmom thing though. Makes me smile way bigger than the whole judgement and whatnot, and I prolly talk to her more than I pray, though I hardly see the difference.
Two Cups of Coffee and 3 different breakfast orders from the bosses
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