I think I found the point between working too much and meditation. I found the zen. It involves eating a lot of bananas and making jokes, swear words, installing 1 inch square tiles by hand, sanding hard wood flooring. It’s taking two hour lunch breaks to buy local artwork with your boss. A boss who happens to be your friend, who happens to be rough as all hell, gentle as fuck and who cares a lot about the people he lets in.
Talking about hard times, heart ache, broken dreams. Talking about crazy memories, beautiful people and hopes for the future.
Bruised knees and raw finger tips. Measure once, cut twice and caulk everything. If these houses burn down, the people who own them will know that their floors looked beautiful in their deaths.
These floors will die knowing the secrets of a job well done. The secrets of swearing too much and trying to find the most ridiculous thing to say.
Now that I’ve settled into finding the meditative rhythm of working every day, I wonder how I’ll re-adjust to going back to working two days a week in a kitchen I can’t stand anymore.
And then, soon, I won’t be working at all. I’d quit the kitchen, but I don’t have to, I’m getting laid off. I’ll be free from it all and off to adventure into the cold of winter with big dreams filling my mind and my heart. A freedom I’ve more than earned with dreams I don’t want to see dissipate and a heart I’ve stitched back together so many times. Misfit freedom and the perpetual search for a horizon. The art of impermanence.
Seriously though, right now I’m terrified I’ll die boring. I can’t let that happen. Not this year.
100 days sober, another night of pals drinking in the living room. I’ll feel stronger soon. I am stronger every day.