The Race

I feel like I'm the person training for a marathon. I want to run in the marathon because I enjoy the act of running and I feel like that is where I should focus my energy. So I train and I sprint and I practice. I feel good. I feel like this is something I can do. My body welcomes the routine. I notice myself getting stronger and faster and a confidence is beginning to bloom within me. The runs are longer and I am building stamina. I'm going farther than I ever have before. 

Then the morning of the marathon comes and I feel ready. It's time to start and I run...

...but I quickly fall behind. Everyone is faster than me. Everyone is younger and stronger. They've been training longer. I forget about all I've achieved. I'm going at my full speed and my muscles ache and my lungs burn and I feel useless. I'm slowing down and finally I give up half way. What's the point? I'm not going to win anyway. I'm in last place. 

I can't remember what I'm doing this for. I can't remember how good this used to feel. Right now everything is pain and I feel lost. There are needles poking my sides and so I catch my breath. In the act of breathing I remember that all I wanted to do was enjoy the run, see the places it took me. I never once thought about the finish line. But that's simply because I always felt I would finish. In my own time. At my own pace. It was the journey that mattered and the beauty of getting to where I wanted to go. Who am I competing with? This path is one of solitude. I'm doing this for me. 

So I take a deep breath and I let it go. I begin to run. I look at the sights around me. I savor the sound of my feet hitting the pavement. My heart is pounding and its rhythm sings in my ears. Time is moving but I'm not counting down. I'm not tracking each mile. I keep going and someway, somehow I find myself at the finish line. I feel like I've won first place. 

Breakfast and a Book Festival

This past Sunday was a wonderful day. The weather was comfortable and sunny, holding on to the last few bits of summer before Autumn takes hold. I had the day off to sleep in and not worry about waking up early for work. Most importantly, the Brooklyn Book Festival was going on so that made the day that much better. But first, breakfast.

I decided to cook breakfast this morning since my bf is usually the one who wakes up early and makes it (he's such a sweetheart). I didn't want a traditional breakfast of bacon, eggs and pancakes. That gets to be a bit tiring after awhile. I settled on making something a bit fancier, and more challenging. Recently my bf showed me a video recipe of scotch eggs as a not so subtle hint that we should try it. As an egg lover this intrigued me. I needed those eggs in my life. And in my belly. I decided to try the recipe. I also decided that a bit of greens and potatoes as a side dish would be a wonderful accompaniment to the scotch eggs so I prepared that as well. I took pictures of my process (and progress) to post on this blog. I'm thinking that if anyone would like to make a delicious breakfast for someone they care about (even if that someone is themselves) then this would be a good recipe to try. Now I'm not Rachel Ray or Giada or anything. I don't have specific measurements. But if anything just add a pinch of everything and pray for the best. Ok here goes!

Ingredients you'll need for the scotch eggs:
Eggs (1 per person unless you're really hungry)
1 Egg to beat in a bowl
Salt
Pepper
Italian Season
Cayenne Pepper
Breadcrumbs
Flour
Frying Oil (If you choose to fry this)

Ingredients you'll need for swiss chard and potatoes:
Bunch of swiss chard
1 Shallot
1 Tomato
1 Bell pepper
3 Cloves of garlic
2-3 Yukon gold potatoes
Salt
Pepper

Olive oil (I choose extra virgin)


I started by putting a pot of water on the stove to boil. Then I begin chopping up the potatoes into quarters (or eighths depending on how big the potatoes are).  Once chopped I add the potatoes to the boiling water. Then I put the eggs into another pot of water to boil. Side note: I boiled 4 eggs here which was a HUGE mistake. Unless you have a mammoth sized hunger, an egg per person should be fine instead of two eggs per person. I ended up saving the rest of my meal to eat the next day.

Next I laid out my ingredients to make the scotch eggs: salt, pepper, Italian seasoning, cayenne pepper (nothing wrong with adding a little heat to the mix). I didn't end up using the adobo but you can if you want to. Some breadcrumbs would be ideal but the supermarket didn't have any so I got panko instead. I also got a package of ground beef (I would have preferred pork but there was none available at the supermarket. What's up with this supermarket??). If you've a vegetarian you can substitute the meat here for ground tempeh or a falafel mixture (you'll be frying/baking this later). 

In a bowl I added the ground beef (or tempeh or falafel mixture) into a bowl. I add the Italian seasoning, the salt, pepper and cayenne powder. Then I mix it all up into this giant meaty (or meatless) lump.

I separated the lump into smaller ball shaped lumps and got the breadcrumbs ready in another bowl.

The eggs should be done at this point. Take them off the stove and cool them down. It will be easier to peel the shells that way. In two smaller bowls add flour in one and beat an egg in the other.

Take a ball and flatten it out in your palm. Now take the egg and wrap your meat(less) lump around it. Think of the mixture as a cocoon and the egg as a caterpillar. If that helps. I dunno. Wrap each egg in this fashion.

Soon you should have giant meat(less) lumps with an egg safely hidden inside. Now here comes the fun part.

Take a frying pan and heat on a medium flame. When the pan is hot, add oil (canola, may be best though olive oil is ok). Now take your lump and dip it into the flour and roll it around until every part of it is coated. Then dunk it in the egg mixture and do the same. Dip your lump into the breadcrumbs and roll it around. Lastly add it to the pan of hot oil and let it fry. (You can also set your oven to 350 and let it bake if you prefer. Either way is fine, I'm not judging you).

Let the breaded lumps fry for around 8 minutes until browned all around (or bake for about 10-15 minutes).

Take the potatoes off the stove. By now they should be tender but not falling apart. Drain the water and let them cool.

Meanwhile on a cutting board, proceed to chop the shallot, garlic cloves, tomato, bell pepper, and swiss chard. To chop swiss chard just cut out the stem and then pile the leaves one on top of the other and chop away! Make sure to wash it once you're done chopping to get rid of the debris that may have been stuck to the leaves.

(My cooled down potatoes are here as well)

When the scotch eggs are done, set them on a plate covered with a paper towel and allow it to cool down a bit.

Take another skillet and put it on the stove on medium heat. Add oil (I use extra virgin olive for this part but the choice is yours). Allow the oil to heat up and then add the chopped up bell pepper, shallot and garlic. Cook for 5-7 minutes or until the onion looks translucent. Take out the onion, pepper and garlic from the skillet and put in a bowl. Now add the potatoes to the skillet and cook until browned. At this point I add back in the onion, pepper and garlic as well as the chopped tomato and swiss chard. I add salt and pepper and mix it all together.

When the swiss chard is wilted I turn off the stove. I take a plate and add the potatoes and swiss chard. Then I cut the scotch egg down the middle and place the two halves on top. Voila! Breakfast!!

(Scotch eggs on a bed of Yukon gold potatoes and Swiss chard). 

It ended up being really delicious and really filling. I was proud of myself for attempting this meal and succeeding. My bf approved and that only made me feel even better. Yay me!

I had mentioned to him that I'd like to go to the book festival. He volunteered to come with me (he had accompanied me to the New York Poetry Festival some weeks before and ended up having a nice time). 

It was literary heaven, with stalls set up offering books and graphic novels and magazines to satisfy many different tastes. I gravitated towards the discount book sections, poetry sections and graphic novel sections. I saw beautiful artwork and talked to authors of different age groups and backgrounds. I bought way more than I should have. My bf bought me a graphic novel collection which surprised and pleased me. Thanks babe! I ate Pad Siew while browsing the different stalls, taking in the pleasant weather and cute bookmobile from Penguin. It was overall a wonderful day. I hope I have many more like this. 

Remembrance.

This morning, I woke up expecting a gray kind of day. My body and heart were ready for it. I expected to be awake this morning and dressed in all black. I expected to spend the hours in a state of despair and mourning. I anticipated eyes red from crying and a voice husky from the sobs that would spill ceaselessly from my lips. Today is my father's birthday. He would have been 70 today. I expected pain to shroud my soul in its cold, comforting embrace.

But as I opened my eyes this morning, the calm blue quiet of the early dawn sky washed over the bed and no tears came. I waited for a while but nothing happened. I thought at first that my heart had betrayed me, that I had forgotten how to remember my father. That was not so. The memories that came forth were soft and gentle. They were of my father's voice. His nicknames for me bubbling from his throat. His laugh, pure thunder and sea; loud and calming. I remember him, tall as a tree, uprooting himself from where he was sitting and towering over us, smiling down at us. Dancing. I remember him in gentle waves. Like the ocean. Like the sea that has guided those remembrances into my heart and have sheltered them there. The tears are only falling now as I write this, but at that moment, as I lay in bed I felt only peace. I spoke to him and told him that I missed him. I wished him peace where he was. I imagined a reincarnated version of this man I loved, now over a decade gone from this world, as an 11 year old boy running and jumping in long strides like a mirror of the soul of his past life.

I imagined my father as a flower or a tree; as a bird or a lion. I imagined him living lives that freed him from the pain of his past. And I wished him once more, a gentle goodbye.

I'm tempted to envision him as he would have been now if he had lived. A tall 70 year old man with a vibrant laugh and a playful spark in his eyes. Would he have walked with a cane? Somehow I couldn't imagine that. I'd see him in dress shoes and dress pants (He never wore jeans) quick to dance to the songs of his country that played endlessly in the house. I imagined him still, after all this time, inviting me to dance with him. As a teen I always declined, embarrassed of  my own body and awkwardness. But in this fantasy, I would accept. And we would dance. And we would laugh. 

But thoughts like those always lead to longing. And then to grief. So I store them away, perhaps for another day when I feel stronger. Or perhaps just to keep with me. I note his absence and I listen to the beat of my heart. I hear his voice speaking in my ear and I choose, for another day to get up. This morning is beautiful. I will not mourn by his graveside. I will not wear black. I will live this day in remembrance and laugh without guilt. I love you dad. And as always, I miss you. Today, for you, I'll smile. Happy birthday. 

The Calm by the Ocean

Lately, I've been spending most of my free time by the ocean. I go right after work and I stay until the sun has set. I listen to music or read or walk along the shore, staring at the clouds slowly turn a warm pink and gold until finally they transform into a cool, deep bluish gray.  I do this alone. I think that this is my form of meditation. At night I tend to worry about tomorrow. But when I'm at the beach, the water captivates me. I have no room to think of anything else except for the waves crashing and the seagulls crying and the wind blowing its song into my ear. 

The best moment for me is always when the sky becomes alive. The pink and blue and orange clouds coat the world above me like pieces of cotton candy. The sun becomes this dark amber half circle submerging behind the black outlines of tall buildings closest to the beach. The water is a reflection of above, so that when it crashes along the shore and withdraws back into the sea, it leaves a glistening film of silver and color so vivid you feel as if you are walking on they sky. 

I love to stroll barefoot on this sky water. I walk towards the jetty and I climb the rocks and I hear the crash of waves and taste the salt of the sea on my tongue and there's no other moment but the moment I'm living right then. There's no fear. There's no worry. My mind is clear and formless. I take out my iPhone and try to capture the soul of the sea in images. I only get a glimpse of its secret heart, something dark and powerful and pulsing with the energy of countless years of being. I don't flinch when the gulls fly nearby. I don't panic as night pulls its shroud across the world and the beach becomes this silent shadowed place. I feel harmony here. 

When I know I must leave and I turn my back from the water, I feel its pull tugging the strings of my heart. I feel the depth of its existence cradle some worried section of my heart. It will be here tomorrow. This I can be certain of. The moon is at my back. My soul is shrouded in salt and the weightless brilliance of sunset clouds. I feel beauty all around me. And it is a gentle, happy feeling. 

A Rainy Day Memory

I used to love rainy days as a kid. When the sky became covered in those ominous gray clouds and thunder rumbled from the heavens, I'd hear my heart pounding in my chest. The sound the sky made grumbled in my bones. It reminded me of manic drumbeats or even the crashing of buildings in a world above the sky. I didn't want to spend those times being afraid, so my little sister and I used to pretend that we were adventurers out in the storm and that we needed protection. We would make our own cheap little forts by tying our bedsheets to the end of the bed posts. We would ask dad to buy us some snacks (and he always did) and we would gather them into the fort as if preparing ourselves for hibernation. We took our favorite toys and they became our trusty sidekicks, mapping out new terrain as we waited out the dangerous lightning storm that was threatening to ruin our entire expedition. 

We were scared. But it was the fear that could only be conjured during make-believe. The real world couldn't hurt us. We knew we were safe. It was exhilarating watching the rain tear from the sky with fascination and awe. Our windows, covered in raindrops, resembled stained glass. We were in our own world, stars in our personal movie. The patter of the storm became our symphony. The thunder became our plot thickening sound effects. The crackle of lightning was our stage light. We were the performers in a story only we would appreciate. As I got older, I would replay those happy moments and marvel at how simple and beautiful they were. 

Sometimes, a member of our travel party would get lost in the wilderness. Huddled together under our sheet, we would stare off into the wide expanse which was our carpet and silently search for the courage within ourselves to brave our imaginary world and search for our missing friends. We knew that we were needed. We knew we were their only hope. And this realization spurred us into action. Slowly, we stepped out of our protection, and into the great unknown. 

It never occurred to us that this would be a precursor to the strength we'd develop in later years, as we faced struggle after struggle while tapping into that hidden reserve of bravery within us and pushing on. It never occurred to us to ponder the juxtaposition that we were children prone to dreams of exploration while confined to the  small rooms in our cozy home. We saw the world as much bigger than ourselves, much bigger than reality could ever close in on us. We were not bothered by the lack of space or tools. We gathered our snacks and our will and we crawled through the blue shaggy "jungle", relying on the fact that we were together and that even though the storm was raging, we were sure our of success. 

Along the way, always we would run out of food. We seemed to relish those dark moments as we stared wide-eyed and mock afraid into each other's faces and shared a single nod. Food or no food, we were pressing on. Lightning blazed from above and we would cling to each other, momentarily shocked and then giggling out of surprise. We'd use a flashlight (if working batteries were actually in the flashlight then we had hit the jackpot) and sweep it across the "jungle" floor. There. Right there in the shadows. We'd spot a fluffy arm or a chubby face with cheerful eyes staring off into the distance. Probably pondering its demise. 

We'd hold in a great big breath and then charge in, fighting what needed to be fought, ducking under the branches our minds had set up for us, jumping over streams filled with lava or crocodiles or mud. We'd roll and crawl and cling to the short shrub lining hills we had imagined until finally, finally we reached our goal. And there our journey would end. The walk back to base camp would be quick and painless. We'd climb back into our makeshift tent with our missing party safely within reach. We'd ask for more snacks (an unsuccessful attempt) and we'd transform ourselves from adventurers back to young girls hiding under a sheet tied to the bedposts, saving our adventures for another rainy day. 

Past Midnight.

I don't know if I believe in magic in the sense of rabbits being pulled from hats, but I believe in the mysticism of life. I believe in the power of coincidences and the sharp and potent shock that can come by way of fate. I believe in chances lost and regained. I believe in redemption and the gathering of spirit. I believe in the truth within my heart. I believe in the divinity of nature; that the stars above me sing a brilliant chorus of heaven's song and that I as a witness am truly blessed. 

I believe in love. Fragile, temporal, ethereal love. I believe in the kind of love that transcends. I believe in the kind of love that heals and breaks the walls within us. I believe this love is the greatest thing of all. I believe we are all worthy of this love. 

I believe in silence. I believe that in the quiet places within us, God speaks. I believe His voice is both our heart beating and our soul shining. I believe that God is within all of us. And I believe he transcends all of us. 

I believe in the night. I believe that as we close our eyes when midnight passes before us unseen, we mend the little pieces of us still broken. I believe that we all have cracks that needs mending. I believe we all have the told to mend them. I believe that this life is a miracle and a pain and a tragedy and a beautiful song. And somewhere, voices sing that match our own and we know those voices as our ancestors and descendants. And we part our lips and sing with them, because this life is a cycle and the cycle is both large and small, quick and slow. And we are living in a world of magic. 

Thoughts at 11:13am

Wondering. Dreaming. I'm sighing turbulent clouds of change. They are settling on my shoulders, ruffling my hair. Forcing me to move. I want to. I need to. These feet are not stuck. They are sprinting along a path I'm trying to reach the end of. There's a light there. I can feel it. It's warm and then blazing. My shoulders ache. My soul hurts. I'm free falling and spinning and dancing with the chaos. This is not frightening, but beautiful. I feel free, even as I stumble. I feel graceful even as I trip over my own feet. This life, oh god this life. What is my purpose in it? It's a mystery. Twine and ribbons that I'm unravelling from my body. I'm trying to reach the present within. This present. And I'll keep stripping myself down until I find it. I am unafraid. Unafraid. Unafraid.