Kitchen Experiments and Remebering Who I Am

Tonight I am finding my people pleasing attitude exhausting, as I'm rather tired of always trying to figure out the geometry of what people want, straining my body and brain and spirit and soul to make myself into that shape, and fit perfectly. I'm realizing that though it is exhausting, while it's happening, I almost want to perpetuate it. As long as I'm not quite the person yet, there's work to be done. I can avoid my life: my art, my writing, my heart, my soul, the time to stand in my body and be still there, the time to know that this is alright and okay and even nice. It is difficult to stop and do what I should do, and what, deep down, I most want to. It is difficult to give up on the game, to trust that some people see through your bullshit and shape-shifting, and just like you. They don't care. They just want to sit with you. Get comfortable. Get cozy. Be.

So, tonight, driving home from the coffee shop, I began playing Deb Talan, my usual favorite when these thoughts come on, when I begin thinking about loving myself, as corny as that may sound. I begin playing her and Daisy May and Rosie Thomas whenever it's time to speak my words to no one but myself. To write the silly big hard truths as plain as they exist in my head. To not doctor everything up, not even tell the complex story of it all. It is the feeling I become interested in. The big worries. The hopes. The fears. What's rooted deep.

I'm sitting in the dark, now, typing this while listening to my little potato dish simmer on the stove. I soaked it in soy sauce, of course, and spices. I love the slicing vegetables. I miss that. I miss that about living in my duplex, having enough money, earlier this summer. I would buy produce, tons of it, and I'd slice everything up. I experiemented, mostly. I learned that I love red peppers. And I love onions. A lot.

I love how calming simple acts can be. I love the slower motion my brain moves in when I'm doing something like slicing a potato, turning it on its side, slicing it again. I love using my palm to slide the whole mess of cubes and odd shapes into the pan. I love pouring olive oil, and the careful sprinkling of garlic.

I soften when I'm cooking. I get quiet. I remember who I am, and that nobody can hear my thoughts. Nobody's watching. I can be unsexy. I can be uncool. I can be boring and rather unintelligent. But I do develop a sense that I am good. I am worthy and once again, I like myself. I can enjoy my own company. Time cooking by myself, time making art, time writing out the truths as messy and simple as they may be, is time very well spent.

Tonight I remember after quite some time of forgetting that I like this place. I can forgive myself for getting caught up in the taxing acrobatics of trying to be what he or she or they might want. I am myself as ridiculous and soft and delicate as I sometimes am. I stand in my skin and enjoy being here.