social un-norm.

A well read friend recommended "Walden" to me a few months back. She said Thoreau and I were kindred spirits. I measured the weight of that statement through the many glasses of wine we had all consumed by the time she uttered it, but also made a mental note to seek out this piece of literature. My roommate found it for me at Goodwill. I tore into it, and devoured the contents as if my life's worth was measured by the number of pages turned each day.

Shorty before opening the book, I'd stumbled upon some important life truths dealing with creativity and purpose. Mostly, that we should spend our time doing the things we love, even if they are things that don't fit nicely into societies packaging. I have been dancing with that philosophy for a while now, shedding layers of expectation here and there without ever really letting its music fully move me.


I've held hands with simplicity for quite a while, in the physical sense. Have less stuff, mostly. Dear Thorough and life epiphanies have pushed me from mere hand holding to a full on embrace. This simplicity stretches much further than the contents of my modest closet. It's meant to reach into the crevices of life, and the wells of what we spend our time on, too. This simplicity doesn't always translate easily into cultural success, but the tenets of its truth propel me into tasks that truly fill my soul. Working with my hands is a must. Writing is a necessary creative outlet that I should always be attempting, refining, pursuing. My relationships and the people in my life are paramount to fulfillment, and I must invest in them with intention.


I've been fully diving into those things as of late, which left me pretty exhausted last Saturday evening. One of the few things that could drag me from rest was ethnic food. I crashed married couple date night to have My Thai Kitchen for dinner, which happened to be exactly what all of my insides needed. The food was everything I was hoping for, the inside of the space was painted vibrant colors of red and yellow and orange like a baby's nursery, and the owner was the embodiment of hospitality and graciousness; His presence the equivalent of ease, which balanced nicely with married couple banter. Though I devoured my meal as I'd devoured "Walden", there were left overs to be had, and so I didn't leave the restaurant solo.


I met the following Monday morning early, and drove to my work, a place where I make coffee and work my hands raw with espresso and bleach. I was hungry for breakfast, Thai left-overs in hand. And that's what I wanted to eat. It was seven-thirty in the morning, and I was craving rice, vegetables, and the curry both of those things were resting in. Something inside deterred me. "That's not breakfast food," this expectant voice whispered in my ear. "Eat your granola", it said, "and save your left-overs for lunch, where they belong."


I recognized the tone. It's the same voice that's been pushing me for years to figure out what I want to be, as if what I am isn't enough already. "You can do this for a while, but eventually you're going to have to start acting like a grown-up, Meredith."


And this is the response I am attempting to cultivate: Have granola for lunch! Do the things you LOVE to spend your time doing. Breathe, and damn-it, eat left-over Thai food for breakfast.