Still Pond Creek and Jacks Cove and the big Bay and the Sassafras and Lloyd Creek and Turner Creek. I live within these few square miles and do better when I don’t leave them. Not that I don’t leave. But I don’t like to leave.

     I have much to do this week if I’m to capture it. There are new vegetables and new fish and new… and someone asked me how nature influences me how it impacts the work and I’m unsure how to answer the question. I’m unsure how to answer most questions. I think what I most enjoy about nature are the quiet parts. The ocean is too loud. And powerful and destructive and when I visited it over the weekend it made me uncomfortable my babies playing in it they were nervous but exhilarated. And after an hour or so I understood it better than I had but the waves ceaselessly crash and crash and crash and I returned to Still Pond and the sun sets twice once in the sky once in still water and the only sounds are laughing children. Well I don’t know how nature inspires me but the quiet parts there are no people other than them whom I’ve brought along and I choose them carefully. And they also ask what my favorite season is and they are surprised when I don’t answer summer but summer can overwhelm me. Winter the work has been done and there are a few months of quiet introspection quiet contemplation and this summer—it has yet to even fully arrive—is busy and busy and busy with business. I think there’s not enough time but I know there is enough time if I’m careful with it…

9:33PM

Nature… how can I be so present in this ever-changing growing season… yet I’m not here at all. I see the ospreys taking turns in the nest. I see them fishing over Still Pond Creek. I help the turtle along across the road. Thousands of tadpoles in the still pools at high tide. And I’ve got blueberries ripening I’ve been picking mulberries and wild black raspberries. I’m grilling zephyr squash and Chinese broccoli and garlic scapes. Puntarelle pesto. Smokey fava beans. Snow peas. The last of the rhubarb made into sorbet with over-ripe strawberry juice. Lump crab meat fried in squash blossoms. Tempura soft shell crab. Green tomatoes hang from the vines in the garden cilantro and dill are bolting the roses are dropping petals. Sitting here and writing it all down it seems I haven’t been missing too much. But I missed the turn for St. James Road… and I drove and I drove and I drove until I came to but I couldn’t figure out where I was I couldn’t remember where I was going. A few long seconds passed. Enough to cause me concern why don’t I know where I am why don’t I know where I’m going? A teenage boy was mowing the roadside in a big green tractor. I passed him and turned off into the gravel just up the way and got going back to where I’d come from and I thought is this what it will be like? Then they’ll take it all away from me but I won’t really know… and I made a right onto St. James destined for crab meat. And the corn in the fields there was over knee-high and I’ve got too much going on and…

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

(Lost, 1999, David Wagoner)

     No it doesn’t seem like I’ve missed many things this season I’ve followed the osprey and corn and soy and I’ve spoken with the garden and I’ve been pricked by the wild raspberry thorns… but I haven’t felt it lift my soul. If what a tree or bush does is lost on you | You are surely lost… I’m tired now. There’s a long weekend ahead… goodnight. Goodnight. Goodnight.

I buttered stale focaccia and added a touch of cream to my tea. Butter and cream are strong in flavor. Unmistakably from an animal. Unmistakably late spring. Many people would find the flavor disagreeable. Many people are unaccustomed to strong flavor.

     We have all these things technologies: pictures of our children ice skating indoors in the wintertime that pop-up on our phone-screen in summer digitized memories an alarm clock of memories… and a voice in grey on the white email screen suggesting to us what we should write and we accept it without writing a word… weight loss pills… silver iodide released into the skies to promote rain…

     We are so impressed with ourselves. We are so impressed with ourselves. We are so impressed with ourselves. And there’s the issue of our morality… It’s bizarre to watch people walk their dogs. Leashed are the animals on a stroll. Sniff sniff. Pee pee. I watched an owner hold a bag to the dogs rear to catch the shit. Responsible dog ownership.

     Responsibility is the state or quality of being accountable, dependable, and capable of rational decisions. It broadly means owning your actions, fulfilling obligations, and answering for the consequences of your choices.

     A rational decision is a choice made through an objective, logical, and data-driven process that maximizes benefits while minimizing costs. It relies on facts and evidence to select the option most likely to achieve your specific goals, rather than relying on emotions, biases, or intuition…

     Logical describes something that relies on clear, sound, reasoning rather than emotion, bias, or guesswork. A logical decision or argument follows a predictable structured pattern where the outcome makes sense based on available facts and established rules.

     Tender ground. Tender ground. We, the weak, walk on tender ground. False ground. The false ground laid by the usurpers. Usurpers of our morality. Yes there is the issue of our morality. With all Their rights and wrongs.

I’m distracted. Unfocused. Annoyed. How trivial. I’m angry and I shouldn’t be. The outside world is knocking knocking. But what’s in it for me? I don’t have to answer the door and I don’t want to I won’t and I owe no explanation so I give none. I’m polite but today I’m saying no there is a deep and angry voice calling me and I’m now wondering over Abraham:

     Now the Lord had said unto Abram, Get thee out of thy country, and from thy kindred, and from thy father’s house, unto a land that I will shew thee: And I will make of the a great nation, and I will bless thee, and make thy name great; and thou shalt be a blessing: And I will bless them that bless thee, and curse the, that curseth thee: and in the shall all families of the earth be blessed. (KJV Genesis 12:1-3)

     My anger is walking with me today. I go to retrieve the cooked rice. I crack an egg into the pan. Anger beast swelling inside of me. I quiver inside. Look at the shaking hand. Like I’ve drunk too much coffee. I need to walk over a threshold and close the door on the beast. Where is my home? Where is my home? I must go there…

     …infer the totality of my thoughts and beliefs because of a few words I’ve said or written. As if many things cannot be true at once. Many things are always true at once. For such an adaptable species we have great trouble thinking non-linear thoughts. Considering this I wonder why our morality is controlled by mind and not body—consciousness: complicated predator and prey. The mind has not evolved to face these current mass manipulations. There is no right or wrong way of seeing the world. Our capacity to choose… usurper… tender ground… yes there is the issue of our morality. With all Their rights and wrongs. Fire does not ask metal if it is comfortable.

     What you are seeing (Sassafras) is not the final destination. There are no roads that will take me so I build my own. To wherever they may lead.

		The sun is shining
		The corn is rising
		The Reverend Robert Jones is
		Playing in my ears
		“Precious Lord, take my hand
		Lead me on
		Let me stand
		I am tired, I’m weak, I’m worn
		Through the storm, through the night
		Lead me on to the light
		Take my hand, precious Lord
		Lead me home.”

     I’m grateful for this anger. It means something. Something is talking to me. Presenting me an opportunity to heal what is inside of me. There is nothing outside of me that will take it away. A heavy price is paid for dreams that come true.

I’ve been thinking a lot about food. Though it’s better to say I’ve been contemplating new dishes the changing season vegetables vegetables tuna and softshell crab. Better techniques. How to better my offering… but I’ve been thinking about Art and I wonder what within me in a given moment is drawn to the pen or knife? There was a quiet group of guests and as I was plating in the hush a muted chuckle rang from the end of the counter. Not at me no but I allowed it to permeate my gestures… as I took great care in placing the chicken and crab and scallions onto the lemon verbena crab sauce just so… no they were not laughing at me (they’d come for this show) though I laughed at myself I was thinking I don’t do all of what I do for this careful moment no no this careful plating is not the culmination of my work this garnish this presentation I was overwhelmed with silliness. Vacuous. Fatuous. Meaningless. Inane… as I went plate to plate with my carefully cut garnishes…

     Simple plating is best. I want almost nothing on the plate. The beauty is inherent. I shouldn’t need to make it beautiful. Yes I was thinking that I’ve got the chicken and crab dish all wrong. I haven’t gotten to the heart of it. I haven’t peeled back the layers.

     And the next day there was a lovely group a lovely group and they were telling me about how passionate I was in my craft that cooking is my dream and such a dream led me to this place and I was able to fulfill this dream because I must have followed my passion etcetera… I smiled and nodded and allowed them their easy story no I didn’t correct them I didn’t tell them that I have no passion for this that I have no passion for anything. I have no passion. I am only devotion. And I wish the devotion was to a God that I believe in. But no there is no God quite like that some deity who will accept my surrender. No the true and unifying God accepts no surrender I cannot forfeit I cannot turn my back on Him because he is inside of me and I’m tired and there is no flame of passion no it is a churning churning churning devotion that I do not think I could begin to describe a devotion without speakable reasons a devotion that is tight within me like a secret yes like a secret it is locked within me beneath all the layers I wish the words of my kind and gentle admirers were true. But passionate I am not.

     Food. Writing. Art. Everything I do is devotion to God. Not the Christian God or Muslim God or Jewish God no I don’t believe in a God like that I only believe in the God that connects us all the one God that is inside of us and all around us. And once the dogma is stripped away from religion once the centuries of religious evolution are removed it becomes clear that all religions are the same… that we are individuals seeking to return to the whole.

     And anything that doesn’t serve this purpose the small bureaucracies the small questions they stand in the way of my devotion to God. And that knowledge took decades to rise into my consciousness. Amidst the people who have judged me or made claims against what is called my “personality”… calling me contrary or judgmental and perhaps in a linear way I am these things but why am I these things? My sole purpose is devotion to God and the forms and taxes and deadlines and permits… our capitalistic addiction to consumerism to conveniences they detract from the Christian Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment (KJV Matthew 22:37-38). And the Jewish Shema: Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God is one Lord: And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thine heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy might. And these words, which I command thee this day, shall be in thine heart (KJV Deuteronomy 6:4-6). And Muslim: Say, “Surely my prayer, my sacrifice, my life, and my death are all for Allah—Lord of all worlds. He has no partner. So I am commanded, and so I am the first to submit.” (Quran Al-An‘am 6:162-163)

     Yes when it is all stripped away there is one over-soul that unites us all man and nature alike and for it I brine my chickens for it I pick the crab for it I clean the fish for it I blanche the asparagus gently gently for it I submit these words. And I do not see devotion in them who surround me. As they do not see devotion within me. Devotion hidden inside the body like a secret. If I have a passion it is in my refusal to climb nor help build this modern tower of babel. No I will not reach for the false god tricky the serpent slithers. There is one God. And when babel falls you will not find him amongst the rubble.  

Post Script:

     Most days I do not choose between the pen or the knife I choose both. I’m always writing tap tapping my notes quickly into my phone between knife strokes… I return to the notebook all day and I do my best to finish with it at night. A guest once asked me when I write. I said I am always writing. She thought I meant metaphorically. But no, in between courses I may disappear to the back kitchen… I pull off onto the side of the road… I don’t know why the pen and the knife. But I’m no longer asking.

Heart of Spring. I’ve gotten ahold of asparagus, strawberries, rhubarb, mulberries, morels, lambs quarters, cress, brassicas, bamboo shoots, soft shell crab…

     I’ve paused here. Closed my eyes. Slowly rub my palm and fingers down my forehead and face and beard. I’ve been yearning for gentleness and I think yes it is difficult to achieve in my regular hours going to and fro—I wish to achieve it there above all—but there is quiet and softness in the gestures behind the counter. And I’m always trying to achieve that more deeply. The growing season brings a gentleness… there is violence in our survival that I do not enjoy…

     What a pleasure it may have been sometime in 1846 sitting on a tree stump next to Thoreau as he baked bread in the coals of the campfire and said:

     “I have no doubt that it is a part of the destiny of the human race in its gradual improvement, to leave off the eating of animals.”

     I feel the wonderful fruits of the earth talking with me. Though there is no need to reconcile this with my serving of meat… in any sort of ideological way… I think my cuisine is my pursuit of spiritual harmony. And Sassafras… a place of quiet and humble control… there are few surprises in my environment there. The world beyond it is filled with surprises. They test me. They judge me. They find me wanting. I am at my best in my little restaurant on the hill… with a cup of tea and pen… gentle knife strokes against stone.

Post Script:

Who Is Called...
I’m imploding suffering gasping clawing
Forced separation from the temple
What temple? O my soul!
That which preceded me.
I don’t believe in “God”
But I’ll say my Our Fathers
I’ll pray the Nicene Creed
I’ll Hail my Marys
I’ll enshroud myself with rosary beads
Surround myself in saints
I am also reaching
Reaching suffering gasping clawing
Grasping
So I give in: This then is how you should pray:
Our Father in heaven
Hallowed be your name
Your Kingdom come
Your will be done
On earth as it is in heaven
Give us today our daily bread
And forgive us our debts
As we also have forgiven our debtors
And lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from the evil one*

I’m not telling her what is beautiful.
I’m telling her what I think is beautiful.
She should know who her father is.

The idea of floating floating like prayer
Or poetry, abstraction never touching the ground
Why should life make sense,
When it doesn’t?
Through swaying loblolly pines: Scent of salt and
Honey Suckle

What does it mean to be avant garde?
Most people say it means to shock
But I don’t think so.
You just fill it with spirituality
That is the way…
It ends with them shocked more

That cruel, ancient serpent, who is called the
Devil or Satan who seduces the world
Was cast into the abyss with his angels**

*(Matthew 6:9-13 New International Version)

**(The Raccolta, Prayer to St. Michael)