grief and life
There's a certain hierarchy in the culinary community. Bigger hats, bigger knives, etc. equal higher status. There's a new cook at my work whom is not a chef. She is a cook. She is trying to weasel her way into management, which is where I am. Though she is nothing but a cook (and I am her boss), she makes more money than me. I begin culinary school in May. I want to be a pastry chef. She wears a chef coat with her name embroidered on it in a kitchen that doesn't require this uniform. I'm ticked off that while I am spending money and time and ridiculous resources on culinary school, she is swooping into a rank that she doesn't deserve. I, like a close friend and coworker, am very territorial about my job. Both my friend and I have worked at this job for a long time. She has been there since they opened. She helped build the place from the ground up, including making their drink menu. She hired me. She was my boss for over a year before I was promoted to be basically on the same level as she is. I have worked there for over 2 years. I feel painted into a corner.
I almost forgot that I had a blog out there. It's been busy. I switched my major and will be starting culinary school in the spring. I'll write an update when I have more time...
But...
I'm back...
I'm beginning the long road to healing. In these past extremely busy weeks, I had a sort of break through. I have not grieved. I have been floating around, forever pushing behind this need to sit alone and feel sad. So, I begin. I am reading a very good book called "Losing a Parent" written by a psychotherapist who is also a Buddhist. It was one of the only books I could find that didn't tell me that my dad was in heaven. I don't much believe in any of the hooie (sp?). Crap. I gotta pick up a friend and take her to the airport. More later.
Umm...new Tool cd makes me wet...
He picked up a picture of my dad the other day. The picture was taking the day after my son was born. It was the first time my dad had ever held my son. They are sitting near a window in the hospital room and the sunlight is shining in a way that illuminates my dad. My son didn't like the light the first few days (as I'm sure most newborns don't). But his eyes are open in this picture, gazing into space. My son pointed to himself and said, "Who's that?" I said, "That's you, honey. That's Maksen." He pointed to my dad and said, "Who's that?" I said, "That's your gampa. That's my daddy. That's a man you won't remember, but he's with you always." I got teary. My son pointed to himself and again asked, "Who's that?" And we began the conversation over again. And over. And over. Then, we put the picture down. He picked up another picture of me, my brother, and my dad. I must have been six in the picture. My brother and I are wearing funny sunglasses. We are all grinning widely. He pointed to my brother and said, "Who's that?" I said, "That's your uncle, Noah. When he was a little boy." My son said, "Noah" and put the picture down. He wandered to the next room, looking for my brother.
"It makes sense that it should happen this way, that my heart should break, and my hands would shake, as if to say it surely don't matter except in the most important way, as if to say, fly away, sweet bird of prey, fly, fly away, I won't stand in your way, sweet bird..." ~Poe
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