Carpe Diem This!

A funny thing happened around the time I turned fifty; and by funny I mean maddening and "not funny." Suddenly, the most ubiquitous piece of self-help advice was carpe diem, the admonition to live life to the fullest today because, Lord knows, our tomorrows are numbered.  This is very much like the time I decided I liked crumbled-up cookies in my ice cream and caused a revolution in the dairy industry, only with the added reminder that death is unavoidable thrown in.  Maybe I have the causality screwy -- I do seem to recall a popular musician of my youth inviting me to imagine all the people living for today -- but you have to admit that everywhere you look these days someone with a name like Shaktari Doprah is promoting a blog extolling the virtues of living in the moment.

They are right, of course.  The philosophy makes perfect sense, seeing as how we are completely powerless to change the past, and mostly unable to predict the future.  (I qualified that last statement because I think we all know Donald Trump is not going to be the 45th President of the United States.) So any amount of time, a limited resource, spent fretting over either the past or the future is wasted.  Personally, the aphorism that always resonated with me on this topic is "If you have one foot in yesterday and the other in tomorrow, then you're pissing on today."  There's just one problem with this whole carpe diem movement: it's literally not possible.

No, you can't seize the day any more than you can squash that drop of mercury or describe Lady Gaga's features.  How exactly are you supposed to do that?  In fact, every time I hear the phrase carpe diem it feels like I have a drill sergeant standing over my shoulder, commanding me to do it better, harder, faster.  "See that sunset?  ENJOY IT!  See your daughters?  HUG THEM!  TIGHTER!  Did you just waste that minute?  Well, did you, maggot?  I CAN'T HEAR YOU!  Drop and give me ten.  Speaking of which, did you work out today?"

I would like to take a moment here to clarify that I am not talking about the equally ubiquitous trend of mindfulness.  Mindfulness is not a drill sergeant pointing out your failings.  Mindfulness is your mother gently reminding you to "Pay attention, dear."  Mindfulness is what enables me to actually leave the house on a daily basis, confident that yes, I have remembered to turn off the burners on the stove and made sure that none of the cats is locked in the closet.

But I believe I may have found the real secret to living in the moment.  Ironically it came to me in a moment when I wasn't.

My husband and I were exploring a campsite on a day trip in Northern California.  Absolutely everything about the place caused a flood of sense memories from fifty, thirty... even ten years ago.  Sense memories are not to be confused with regular memories.  Regular memories are like looking through a picture album where images are familiar, but static and removed.  Sense memories are like spontaneous hallucinations where you not only recall the visuals of a time and place, but also your state of mind when you were there.  It's almost like reliving an experience.  Actors are trained to use personal sense memories to more realistically create the characters they portray; which kind of makes you wonder about Al Pacino.

As I wandered through the campsite, I indulged every sensation that washed over me.  I didn't only remember what it was like to be eight, eighteen, twenty-eight, I was eight, eighteen, twenty-eight.  And to my utter amazement, I felt... happy.  Contented.  This wasn't melancholy nostalgia.  This was unmitigated gratitude to be standing in the sunlight, surrounded by redwoods, listening to the rush of the river nearby.

And then the drill sergeant woke up.

"There you go again, scumbag!  Thinkin' about the past and pissin' all over the present." he commanded, dropping every 'g' he could.  "Be HERE!  Be here NOW!"

And before all those warm fuzzies evaporated completely, I had a flash of understanding.  I had been carpe-ing my diem quite well, thank you.  And the only thing that made that effort suddenly inadequate was forcing myself to acknowledge that I might never pass this way again (boy, maybe this trend has been around longer than I thought).  Only moments before I had been in a near state of bliss precisely because I was recalling an iteration of myself that either couldn't conceive of or never thought about my own mortality.

In other words, maybe the way to fully appreciate today is to take tomorrow for granted... like we used to yesterday.

Fearlessness: What's It Like?

If I could change one thing about myself, I would like to be more fearless.  If I could change two things, I'd like to be a fearless person with really great hair.

The truth is, I am a World-Class Worrier.  As far as I'm concerned the question "What's the worst that can happen?" is never, ever rhetorical.

My husband (pictured, left, in an artist's rendering) is one of those types that never doubts that the Universe has only good things in store for him. He is constantly pointing out to me that things generally work out okay; that occasional rough periods and the usual loss that comes with living and loving aside, to date my life has been primarily filled with good fortune.  What I hear when he says that: I'm long overdue for for catastrophe to strike!

Not only that, but who's to say that the relative lack of disaster in my life isn't due to my impressive ability to anticipate and avoid it?  Here is my checklist for keeping myself and my family out of harm's way:

1) Ask self if something bad could happen,
2) Don't do whatever I was thinking of doing.

I'm sure there are many others who would challenge me for the title of Champion of Caution, after all there are whole industries built around helping people overcome anxiety.  And those of you who know me probably think I project a certain degree of strength and self-confidence.  Let me just say that being a smartass can cover up a shitpile of cowardice.  And in case you don't believe me, let me tell you a little story about myself that will erase all doubt that I am, indeed, the Mayor of Scaredy-Cat Town.

We all know what a flying dream is, it's where the dreamer soars high above cities and oceans, literally on top of the world.  According to people who study this sort of thing, flying dreams symbolize a person's sense that he/she is undefeatable and the ability to control his/her flight represents the dreamer's personal sense of power.  Supposedly these dreams are quite common, and most people experience them at some time in their lives.

I never had a flying dream.

Well, that's not quite true.  I had one flying dream.  And no, that's not the end of my story.

My one flying dream didn't happen until I was in my mid-thirties.  It came not long after I had watched a TV special -- 20/20 or 48 Hours, or one of those evening "news" programs -- about dreams.  In the special, the host -- let's call him "John Stossel" -- talked about something called lucid dreams, where you are aware you are dreaming and can often control what happens without waking up.  "John Stossel" went on to suggest that it would be spectacular to be having a lucid dream where you flew.  You could go anywhere!  That sounded cool to me.

So you can imagine how thrilled I was when only a short time later I rolled over in my bed and saw a wall where a window should be.  I realized I was dreaming!  This was it, my big chance to finally have my flying dream!  All that I needed to do was actually start flying.  So I very tentatively lifted my right foot off the floor and then lifted my left foot.  I was airborn!  Granted, I was only two feet above ground, but it was a start.  I had successfully broken the laws of gravity.  The next step was to take advantage of my newfound powers, to embark on some spectacular adventure previously unavailable to me in my Earthbound reality.

Did I swoop over the majestic vistas of Yosemite?  Did I climb above the clouds to explore the vastness of the Universe?  Did I even take a quick trip across town to visit friends? No, no and no.  I hovered around my apartment, floating from room to room inches off the floor like a seahorse.  Then I woke up, probably out of sheer boredom.

So you see, even in my dreams I'm too afraid to take risks!

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I want to be Evel Knievel (pictured, right, in an artist's rendering).  But I would very much like to be a lot more like one of my biggest heroes of fiction, Maude from the movie Harold and Maude, and not only because at 79 she bagged a 20 year-old.  I firmly believe every word in her philosophy of living:  "L-I-V-E, live!  Otherwise you've got nothing to talk about in the locker room."  The problem is, it seems that the older I get the further away I am from that ideal.

And so I hereby resolve to start moving in a more Maude-ly direction.  One tiny baby step at a time -- because apparently, that's the way I need to do things.  And maybe one day, if I live long enough, I'll have plenty to talk about in the locker room.

I realize that the image of a 100 year-old in a locker room -- free spirit or not -- is hardly a pleasant one.  But maybe if I had a glorious head of hair...?

I Can't Cook, Don't Ask Me

Remember how it felt that morning you showed up to school and everyone was talking about the Brady Bunch episode where Marcia got Davy Jones to appear at a school dance, and you kind of stood off to the side, laughing and nodding in feigned agreement, trying to seem "in the know," but it was all an act because you hadn't actually watched the show due to the fact that it aired on your birthday and your parents had selfishly monopolized the whole evening with dinner and cake and presents?  Remember that?

Well, that's exactly how I feel today when my friends post online about their latest adventures in cooking.  They share photos of homemade concoctions that would impress Wolfgang Puck.  They describe exotic entrees casually assembled from whatever is lying around in their pantries for no special occasion other than "it's Thursday."  They drop terms like "confit" and "par-boiled" as effortlessly as if they were reading from a Dick and Jane book.  "See Dick, flambe.  Flambe, Dick, flambe!"  And timidly I click "like" and add comments, hoping no one will discover that when it comes to cooking, I'm more of a Jan than a Marcia.

Sad, but true.  Somehow, I lack the gene that gives some other humans the instinctive knowledge of what spices work best with which cuts of meat, or how to caramelize onions without burning them to a crisp.  Oh, I can follow a recipe just fine.  But I can also read sheet music; that doesn't make me Van Cliburn when I sit down at a piano. (See Fig. 1, "The extent of my culinary abilities.")

Fig. 1

"So, who cares?" you might well ask.  "There are plenty of other things you can do," you might well say.  And you might well be right.  As a matter of fact, I can sew pretty darn well.  I can't design a pattern from scratch -- but given the right tools I am confident in my ability to create just about any garment or accessory you can dream up.  And that is precisely why it bothers me that I can't cook; the tools.  I love the tools of the trade.  As a seamstress, I know what it's like to walk through a fabric store and touch every bolt and remnant, picturing any number of viable projects I could undertake for each textile.  I get a visceral thrill when I find a new gadget that makes quick work out of an otherwise tedious task, such as a cording foot, or a rotary cutter.  I think I actually screamed out loud the time I was in Jo-Ann Fabrics and found a device specially designed to retrieve lost drawstrings.

So it drives me crazy everytime I walk through a Williams-Sonoma, or browse the Dean and Deluca website.  I covet every pot and utensil with the same greed as if you set me loose in a Bernina factory.  Every condiment jar fills me with the same sense of potential as 5 yards of shantung (see, I can throw around jargon with the best of 'em).  But it is usually a supreme act of self-delusion for me to purchase anything from these stores because I haven't got one fucking clue how to use most of it.  My brain goes into some sort of fantasy mode whereby it seems perfectly logical that simply owning, for example, a Le Creuset braiser will awaken all my latent braising skills, whereupon the floodgates will open and the next thing I know, I'll be a great chef.  I imagine that's the same reason Taylor Swift buys guitars.

Of course, I exaggerate.  The photos my culinarily gifted friends post on Facebook don't really send me down the inferiority complex rabbit hole.  And while it would be nice to own all those shiny objects in the window at Sur Le Table, I am often able to summon the wisdom behind the Zen philosophy of "want not" and resist temptation.  But I cannot overstate the fact that cooking, for me, is a chore.  Making meals for my family on a daily basis is a source of constant stress that can only be overcome by meticulous advance planning and intense concentration.  My family can count on one hand the number of dishes I know how to prepare.  They've been in rotation in our weekly menu for years, and yet if you asked me how to make any of them I'd have to look it up on my smartphone (side note: I recommend downloading the app BigOven).  My best days are the ones where I know at 8am what I'm making for dinner at 6pm.  And once I'm actually in the kitchen, do not expect any multi-tasking, or I'm likely to forget to put the cheese in my lasagna.  I truly am deeply jealous of those people who can cook and chew gum at the same time.

My husband's family once had a reunion in a beach house in South Carolina.  His sister was hosting us, and had rented a house big enough to accommodate all three siblings, their families, and Grandpa.  We were 14 people under one roof.  We swam in the ocean, went on hikes, played charades and watched crocodiles float down the stream that ran behind the house.  But the first memory I have when I recall that week is of my sister-in-law making breakfast.  As I sat at the table drinking my morning coffee I watched her assemble some sort of baked french toast casserole -- for 14 people! -- while other family members swirled in an out of the kitchen.  Conversation never stopped, fresh pots of coffee were brewed, toddlers were entertained and she never once needed to call time-out to consult a recipe.  Preparing this dish was something so natural to her, that she didn't even require a measuring spoon or cup when it came time to add the sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, butter or milk -- for 14 people!  The whole process was so damn sociable... and delicious.

Yes, I can sew.  So what?  When it's my turn to host the Falkenstein Family Reunion what am I going to do, stage a fashion show?  "Hey everyone, let's all sit around and chat while I whip each of you up a camp shirt!"

Not the same, but thanks for trying.

However, if you'd care to talk about that Brady Bunch episode, you can now count me in!