I love my Sundays.
I love my early morning rituals and the preparation for the meals I make for the week. I share, which I think is a good thing. I think sharing a meal is one of the kindest things we can do for each other. And I understand that not all people share the same taste.
We don’t all like the same foods. But, I am a fan of the discipline that says I will try anything, three times, once, which makes sense to me.
I might have gone about something wrong, the first few times, and today — well, today I stepped out of my comfort zone. I tried something different from my usual arsenal of weekly recipes, which is not to say that it’s bad or good, — it’s just different.
I never made goat stew before. I’ve tried it. I’ve liked it, but this was a dish I had to try more than once. In other words, I had to go to my discipline and I had to try this, three times, once, because it wasn’t cooked very well the first two times. and so, I’m giving this a shot.
I am a low and slow cooker, which means that my apartment will smell from garlic and pepper and all the other ingredients throughout the day. I am never light on flavor, especially today, starting from red curry to onions, to pimento pepper, and some chives, onions, red, yellow and green peppers, and some other secrets to my sauce, which I hope I pull of well enough to be enjoyable.
But like I said, I’ll try anything three times, once.
So, this is my first time with a dish like this —whereas I cooked the curry or burned it as they say in the Caribbean kitchens. I did follow at least some directions, but to be fair to me and my chef skill, I am someone who says make your own path and do your own thing and if it doesn’t work, then try another way next time.
Either way, this is part of my Sunday morning and today is different from other Sundays.
Today is Mother’s Day.
So, this one is for you, Mom — wherever you are.
I miss you.
I wish I could come and visit but there are no airports where you live now, and the mailman tells me there are no ways to forward your mail anymore. It’s been this way for a while. But I keep trying and I keep sending my letters out to the universe with hopes that they find their way to your mailbox, wherever it may be.
I always assume you are somewhere, hopefully with Pop and finally, the two of you are enjoying the retirement that you both dreamed about together.
I see this as valuable, more so now as I move closer to my retirement age because I understand the value of love and companionship and the need to hold hands or sit close to someone until the last day.
I see this as spiritually hopeful to me; however, I admit to my fears that I will walk the beach alone for a while.
And by the way —
I don’t go to the cemetery because, well, that’s where dead people are. I would rather believe that you are alive, in spirit, and that Albert Einstein was right when he talked about energy, or how energy can neither be created nor destroyed. It can only change forms, and to me, there is nothing as strong as the energy that comes from a Mother’s love, which means Moms can never die.
Right?
I could use your help, Mom.
If anything, I could at least use a trip to your dinner table and some of your chicken cutlets and your mashed potatoes — those always made me feel better. And you knew that.
It is springtime, here on Earth, and our side of the world is about to warm up. This means that summer will be here before we know it. However, in fairness and in all honesty, I am weeping now, or frowning, perhaps like a child would because who else would understand the sorrow of their child, like their Mother?
I am not sad nor dying nor am I in bad health or in trouble by any means. I am told that I am a good egg and I’ve been told that I am well-liked by some of the people at work. I am told that I am good to have on their team by the people I work with, which is nice because it’s good to reach this level of professionalism after all of these years.
I have been asked to chair certain professional groups and meetings, but time and the work I do is not something that leaves me enough room to make this happen.
I suppose the invitation is compliment enough, or at least I think this is what you would tell me.
I am doing what I can to stay in shape. I’m taking my vitamins and taking my meds. I’m eating and I’m doing all that I can to keep it together.
One of the kids at my gym told me “I didn’t know you were that old,” he told me this after he found out about my age from someone else.
I was never much of a gym person or a social butterfly, but people smile and say hello, and I’m doing what I can to come out of my shell.
Social fears are still real to me. So is my insecurity.
But I do something each day to push myself towards improvement.
Like it or not, I do what I can.
I don’t have to bring home my report card anymore, which means that I don’t need to seek approval.
This is something that I need to remember.
I don’t have to please people. I don’t need to piss off the world either, but I don’t have to polish an apple for the teacher or kiss more ass than a man who works for a living and plays political politics in the corporate structure.
Everyone has to kiss a little ass, at some point.
At least I think so.
But —
I don’t say things that I don’t mean when it comes to compliments; however, I admit to my mistakes when I say things out of anger. Often enough, or immediately after, I know that words can hurt, if not kill us inside. In the end, this hurts me worse because the aftermath of venom is poisonous —and like my favorite author and hero Robert Fulghum once wrote, “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can break my heart.”
I need to remember that.
Hold on, Mom . . .
. . . I have to check the pot and see if my stew is ready for the next step.
I’m back.
Sorry about that.
(It smells good!)
I am trying to rework my special trick and see what I can come up with. I suppose what I’m trying to say is I’m looking to build that so-called golden parachute for when I start to plan my retirement
But for now, I’ll finish my Sunday ritual, get to the gym, and I’ll make some time to enjoy the sun.
I am not afraid of being alone, Mom — but feeling alone can be tough sometimes.
Either way, and once again, I am learning.
I think you would tell me that we are all learning, and that learning never stops. Not now, not here and even in the afterlife, we learn each day.
I wish you could try some of my dishes. I’m told that I use too much heat or hot peppers. And maybe I do, but I like it . . . and nothing really that tastes hot to me, at least not really.
Just tell me I’m a good boy, Mom.
It’d mean a lot to hear it from you.
I hate saying this out loud because everyone who hears or sees feels the need to come along and tell me, “oh your Mom would be so proud,” when the problem is they don’t get that it’s an insult and it hurts when it comes from someone else.
I don’t want to hear this from someone else.
I want to hear it from you.
Tell me I’m a good person, Mom.
Please, I’d like to hear it from you.
I know, I know . . .
Energy can neither be created nor destroyed and like you taught me, nothing is so strong as a Mother’s love, right?
This means a Mother’s love can never die.
And somehow, you’re with me.
I know you speak to me, just, not with words . . .
I need to learn how look for this and to listen better.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!
Wherever you are.
Tell Pop, I’m okay.
Tell him they have me downtown and work is good. Tell him they seem to think that I know what I’m doing.
Let him know that I think he was right.
I do understand, now that I’m older . . .
I’ll see him next time I go fishing, I hope.
I always look to the sky when I go and say “hey, Pop!”
Maybe I’ll be at the beach soon and maybe we can all be there, somehow, me in the flesh and you two in spirit.
I’ll write again soon, Mom.
Love always,
Your son
B—
The Written Addiction 