Coals are on, steaks prepared. Our kitchen welcomes the sound of raw potatoes being chopped. I never get tired of home-made fries. It’s part of my Irish roots maybe.
Grill is hot and ready, but I am not. Still chopping. Still preparing. Coals turn chalky white, and finally I drop the sticky, raw meat on the grated grill.
It sizzles. I wait. This is why I don’t cook much food at home; it’s the waiting I can’t stand.
Somewhere, a neighborhood dog barks — I’m not sure where. The sound is above and beyond right now. It is an icon, that bark, a reminder of a simpler life.
Meat is done — sooner than I expect, unfortunately. Frantically, I crank up heat on stove. The corn cob water boils over, and froth hits the burner, sizzling and snapping.
I step outside again. Flip steaks. Wait. Stare into space. Flip again. I’m in a daze, unaware of what (if anything) is happening in my own back yard.
Stopping, I look around. I finally breathe and listen. I don’t do this enough, I think. I never have. I’m always waiting and wishing for the next thing.
But in this moment, I feel perfect. Not me, of course. But this — this space, these smells, this perfection. Something about the blip in time feels sacred. Maybe because I am still, detached from email and smart phones and meetings.Those things still exist, but they’re inside. Somewhere I can’t see — buried beneath a mountain of paperwork. But I am out here, and here I am myself. Quietly, I whisper a prayer of thanks, hoping Someone is listening.
Dinner is served.
Green enveloped me as a continued down the trail in the middle of the Redwood Forest. The ferns continued to draw ever closer as I went down a unused trail. As I surveyed my surroundings, I felt ever smaller as the monstrous trees loomed above me. The sun was barley shining because of all of the dense fog, which was just above the tree tops. What sun did come through made the light seem almost as if you were in a dream.As I continued down the...