This life.

Man.  This life.

I was listening to an interview yesterday and the person being interviewed was talking about his father.  He described how his dad survived the holocaust in a hole for two years and that when the Russians liberated him his legs were so atrophied he had to be carried.  He also described his fathers battle cancer and his last days.  He said that the holocaust had made his father a gentler man.  That after making it through that, that the rest of his life was a gift.

I think life is a gift that we never give any thanks for.  I am not talking about thanking a god, or whatever you do.  I am just talking about stopping and realizing you are alive.  You are alive in a huge universe.  You get to listen to music.  You get to have a family and laugh with friends.  Look up at night and see the stars spinning silently up there.  Do some research and see where we sit in this universe and marvel at the mystery of it.  It doesn't matter your beliefs, it is still a gift and a mystery.

We don't just exist for a single minded purpose.

How many faces over the millennia have looked up at those same stars and wondered?  How many have had hopes and dreams?  Countless.  The same people that left their hand prints on cave walls tens of thousands of years ago looked at those same stars.  They held their children close and hoped and fought for their future.  They grieved and felt loss.
This last weekend I got to go camping with my boy.  On the second night we just sat by the campfire and looked up and talked about those stars.  We marveled at how many there were.  We talked about where the earth is in this universe and how small and insignificant we are, and therefore, special.  We were gifted that moment in time.  Out there alone with him I felt we were on our own little platform and nothing else existed at the time.

Your place.

Everyone needs a spot.  A place.  It doesn't matter what it is; a corner, room, blog, guitar, potters wheel, motorcycle, horse, trail, your own fucking head, or God forbid your work.  Everyone needs that one spot in their lives that is theirs alone and no one elses and you need to defend it without giving in.  Fight for it with extreme prejudice.  It doesn't matter if the love of your life wants in to that spot; no one can be let in.  If you give in and let anyone in; you are lost. 
In that spot is you.  Your core that your soul emanates from.  You are saying right now that you don't need that spot.  Whatever.  You go on believing that and you will see.  You will need that place and it will be full of someone else's idea of who you are.  They will look through your soul and pick you apart. 
Don't let yourself give in.  Even if you have done something wrong, or even unforgivable; keep that spot.  Hell, I am sure the root of your wrong-doing; for those of us that normally wouldn't do whatever wrong it is; is the fact that you surrendered your ground somewhere. You gave up that one spot you can retreat to and recharge your soul.    Don't let yourself be guilted into giving up your spot. 
If you are unsure of who you are; you may find yourself in that place.  The things you discover in that place may save your life.  I gave up my place.  I gave it up a long time ago, and have never recovered.  I have been searching ever since. 

Its been awhile. Long lost people and food. No grammar rules were observed.

 I used to love to watch my Dad eat toast.  Weird I know but it was so interesting watching him take so long to prepare something he was just going to eat.  He would carefully butter the toast, then with severe attention to detail, cover the entire piece of toast, usually with orange marmalade (yuck!).  After all of that, he would sink his teeth into it with such pleasure.  I never understood it.  It was better to watch him eat his toast than actually make my own and eat it.

This was the same with my Uncle George but with him it was watching him eat fresh fruit.  Uncle George and Aunt Katie would come up from Indiana about the time the harvest in Wenatchee was taking place.  They would go get boxes of peaches, and whatever else.  Sometimes we would go get the fruit because we would visit my other grandparents there.

So Uncle George would eat this fruit with such pleasure.  He would pull out his pocket knife and carve right into the fruit and eat it like he was experiencing Nirvana.  It was awesome and I miss it.

Strange how many memories are attached to food.  Something that happened at the dinner table of my youth, and actually into my adult years was Mom stating the obvious.  As we sat down and started to dish up, Mom would start pointing out all the things to eat that were in front of me.  It used to irritate the hell out of me.  She did it every time.

Then there was my Grandma Pearson.  She could peel a tomato so well that I have never seen anyone do it again.  She was so damn slow, too.  She chewed each bite for an hour!  But she made the best pickled beets!  So I guess it was worth it.  All those hours watching her eat. 

This I suppose is kind of gross but a memory none-the-less.  I used to play basketball with the neighbor kids, very intense games, in the evenings.  Their Dad, Bob, would come down to our dirt court and start playing, too.  As the games got faster and it was summer, so it was a bit warm, he would of course start sweating.   He smelled like ham.

At those times in my life I didn't realize how much I would miss the things I described above.

I would love to sit at a table again with my Grandma peeling her tomatoes, eating slower than hell, Dad eating his toast, Uncle George taking great pleasure eating his fruit, and Mom telling me there is salad, meat loaf, ranch dressing for my salad, green beans...