A boy and a beetle.

Tags

death, life, perspective

This past weekend at one of my hotel gigs, I had an interesting interaction with a kid named Alexander, a boy of about 6 or 7 years of age, with thick curly red hair, dazzling green eyes, and an insatiable urge to ham it up. He was seated at the table next to the piano with his parents and what I guessed to be his maternal grandparents. His back was to me, and upon my arrival, his father, seated across from him, remarked, “Oh look, we are going to have some nice relaxing piano music” to which the boy replied, after a quick glance in my direction, “I don’t want relaxing piano music.” He quickly changed his tune, so to speak, and as my first set progressed, I noticed him moving his arms and fingers as if he were the one playing the songs, in hyperbolic gestures that young kids can pull off in such a comedic and endearing way.  

Towards the end of that set, he stepped up beside me, put a tip from his father in my jar, and we struck up a conversation. We introduced ourselves and, after complimenting him on his very fashionable train conductor’s hat and the snazzy toy train he had at his place at the table, I asked him if he had been on the Conway Scenic Railroad that day. He said he had not, but then told me that he had been to the top of what he called “George Washington” and that he could “see this hotel and your piano from up there”. His mother turned around to tell me that they had taken the auto road up to the top of Mount Washington and what a picture perfect day it had been. I joked to Alexander that he must’ve had some pretty powerful binoculars to have been able to see the piano! He blushed with excitement and slight embarrassment that I had seen through his fib. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two friends entering the tavern. They waved and I waved back.  

“Is that your mom and dad?” Alexander asked.  

I smiled and said, “No. Those are my friends Steve and Roberta.”

“Well, where is your mom and dad?”

I paused, not knowing how most people talk to their kids about death, and chose my words of reply carefully: “They’re not around anymore.”

Alexander took this in for a moment and then said, “They died.” It was a statement of fact and not a question. He understood. “Yes,” I said softly.  

“Oh,” he mumbled, shifting his weight and looking at his feet. Then he pointed towards his grandparents behind him and said, “They’re probably going to be dead. Soon.”

I brought my hand up to my mouth to suppress what would have been a howl of laughter and then said, “That could very well be.”   

On a hike that Shawn and I took on Monday afternoon, we found on the ledges a large beetle that was on its back, its many legs flailing in frantic motion. At once I grabbed a nearby twig, held it gently against the beetle’s legs, and it latched on. I placed the twig back on the ground and away we all went. A few paces later, Shawn wondered aloud if the bug felt any gratitude to “the giant who saved him.” I chuckled and said, “Maybe a bird has already swooped down and eaten it.” 

Maybe so.

Maybe Alexander’s grandparents will die soon. Or maybe I will. Maybe my parents died too soon. Maybe that beetle is hiding under a rock on top of that mountain, or maybe it’s already in the belly of some bird that would’ve died otherwise.   

Like Joni Mitchell once sang:

We can’t return

We can only look behind from where we came

And go round and round and round in the circle game

And, as George Carlin once put it: “Oh, by the way, you’re all going to die. I didn’t mean to remind you of it but it is on your schedule.”

So, with all of that in mind, I intend to keep on, for as long as I’m able, playing music and writing songs and hiking mountains and having interesting conversations and waiting for the hummingbirds to visit my petunias. 

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A few thoughts on Father’s Day.

Tags

father, Father's Day, fathers, life, parenthood, parents, perspective

One of my father’s favorite sayings was, “If I can’t make you happy, I can damn sure piss you off.”

He was a man of few words, but boy, did they pack a punch when they needed to.  He wasn’t, as the saying above suggests, a neutral guy.  No, he wasn’t chatty or even all that sociable, but he had strong opinions and, given the right circumstances, he let those winds blow.

And oh, how he made me happy: bringing the love of music into my life, into my tiny little five-year-old hands as he guided them across the keys of the first piano that he’d brought home; that surge of excitement that first time when I realized he’d let go after pushing me on my bike after taking off the training wheels; the sweets and treats he brought home to me and Mom every Friday afternoon after he got his paycheck; those incredible steaks he used to cook on the grill in the summertime; his unending litany of jokes and one-liners.

So many precious memories.

And yes, there were times when he pissed me off, too — most memorably (and humorously) when I was in fourth grade and, after getting into a raging alcohol-fueled argument with my mother about the state of his beard, he went into the bathroom to trim it with a pair of dull scissors.  She was always after him to keep it short, while he preferred it a little more unkempt.  I escaped most of the drama and went to bed.  When he showed up at my school the next morning to chaperone my class’s trip to the Portland Symphony, his beard had vanished.  Though he later explained that he’d “screwed it all up” and had needed to shave it off, I refused to speak to him for a couple of days and even wouldn’t sit next to him at the symphony.   I really liked his beard.  (And I can still recall the deeply apologetic glances he gave me over his shoulder from the row in front of me and just a few seats to the right.)

But then, there were more moments of genuine pissed-offed-ness: his stage fright — how could a man with that much musical talent get stage fright?!

Then there were all those times when he took my mother’s side in everything, no matter what crazy thing she said.   Those really hurt.

And I was really pissed off after he died.  Pissed at him for not taking better care of himself, for not ever exercising or eating better or drinking less or giving up those damned Camel straights that he loved so much, all of which certainly set him up for the terminal cancer that beat him just a few weeks after his fifty-first birthday.

But I’m not angry so much anymore.  It doesn’t feel good to hang on to the anger, to any anger, really.  A dear friend said that sort of thing is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.

I’m lucky that I get to complain about missing my dad.  I’m lucky that I got to help the girls upstairs today in getting their Father’s Day cards and gifts ready for tomorrow’s celebration.  I’m lucky to have all those traits of my dad’s that always frustrated me: the stubbornness, the tendency towards shyness, the propensity for unhealthy choices.  But I’m also lucky that I got a sliver of his sense of humor, and his undying love of music.  We’re all lucky to be here, to have a chance at anything.  Happy Father’s Day, everyone.

 

A very special five year anniversary.

Tags

abusive relationship, domestic abuse, emotional abuse, gratitude, life, love, perspective

Five years ago today, I finally summoned the courage to leave an abusive relationship.  I’d been with him for seven years.

“Why don’t they just leave?” I used to say of women who stayed with abusive partners. I thought I was too smart to fall into that trap.

I learned the hard way how wrong I was.

He was older and seemingly wiser.   His charms slowly tarnished over time, until words that I’d once used to describe him – like smart, quick-witted, observant, attentive – became what they really were: sarcastic, harsh, cynical, obsessive.   Throughout our relationship, I felt my identity slowly slip away from me, until I was merely a means to his end.  I was not as important.  He made that clear.  I stopped caring about myself sufficiently and considered only him and his opinions, his feelings, his plans.  I believed that he was the most important person in my world, and that I was secondary.

There were no telltale bruises, marks, or scars.  All of my wounds were on the inside.  Words were his weapon of choice, and he was a master of manipulation.

Even with my two closest friends beseeching me to leave him, I stayed. “I can’t leave him — it would devastate him,” I would say, giving very little consideration to how terribly depressed and unfulfilled I was.

One day — five years ago today — with the help of a friend in whom I’d confided my fear, I did finally leave, knowing that it was necessary to preserve my sanity, but feeling terrified that I was making a mistake.

It was no mistake — it was the wisest choice I’ve ever made in my life.

Since February 26, 2010, I’ve accomplished some pretty awesome things.  It’s a long list, but here are some highlights:

I’ve recorded and released 4 CDs of my music.  I’ve toured all over the US in a Winnebago with my bandmates and closest friends.  I’ve learned to how to ride a motorcycle.  I’ve hiked the Grand Canyon.  I’ve been brought to tears by the wonders of the American Museum of Natural History in New York City.  I’ve watched the sun set on the Pacific Ocean.  I’ve played jazz on Bourbon Street.  And I fell in love and built an amazing life with my best friend, someone who encourages me everyday to be me.

Every single one of these things was a lifelong dream of mine, and every single one was unthinkable in my old life.

Take it from someone who usually learns things the hard way – don’t ever let anyone tell you that your dreams aren’t worth following or that you are selfish for even wanting to do so.  Such sentiment is a poison.  Those admonitions still occasionally haunt me, and yet I wake up every morning feeling grateful for another opportunity to continue living life in full pursuit of such dreams.

Life is beautiful and tragic and, most strikingly of all, it’s far too short.  Get out there and live your life! — because when you do, you smile, and then everyone around you will start smiling too.

Halloween 2014

Tags

Halloween, Heather Pierson, life, perspective

Regular hotel night tonight.  A quiet Halloween night, which has its own eerie quality.  I overheard a man, who had been applauding me all through dinner, say as he and his wife walked away from tipping me:

“What is she doing playing here?”

I know what they mean when folks say things like this.  They were both very sweet.

I kinda wish he’d asked me that question directly.  I would’ve said, “Playing for folks like you who listen and appreciate it.”

That man and his wife only want what’s best for me, of this I’m sure.  And once I figure out what that is, I’ll go after it, too.

And even though I’m quickly approaching forty, I still feel like my life is brand new.  In a lot of ways, at least in the last five years, it is brand new.  A whole new set of circumstances and goals.  Sure, I’m happy, and things are moving onward and upward, and sure, I get sad and blue as hell sometimes, and I’m working on that stuff.  Trying, anyway.   And sure, everything feels uncertain and downright scary sometimes, even when things are going well.

I’m finding that both the bitter and the sweet stuff is in the searching.  That old saw about the journey, and not the destination, blah blah.

And all the while, the clock is ticking, and friends and strangers alike are cheering me on.

Who knows how and why we end up where we do, doing the things we do.  Some people have strong convictions about that sort of thing.  Some have faith, others don’t.  Everything from “It’s all pre-determined” to “It’s all a crap shoot.”

Me?  I don’t really know a damn thing, except that I intend to get up tomorrow morning and keep trying to figure it out.  Of that, I’m as certain as I can be.

So, on this spookiest of nights, when it’s okay to be scared and uncertain about what’s lurking behind the corner, I admit that I am – and I’m smiling about it.  Happy Halloween.

Saturday Morning Musings – Forever returning.

Tags

happiness, Heather Pierson, here and now, life, music, perspective, present moment

Hello!  I’m back.  It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

Where to begin?  I’ll be very brief.  A successful SERFA conference in May with Shawn and Davy.  Six wonderful weeks in New Orleans.  Four years and counting with my sweetheart.  More traveling to more shows all over the country.  A new record in the works.  So much excitement and joy!

It’s incredible to think of how unhappy I used to be a lot of the time and how, unfortunately, the residue of those unhappy times had indelibly stained much of the rest of my life.

But that stain is slowly fading — I see it in photos, in the mirror, in my improving posture.

I’m smiling more than I ever used to.  I’m growing more confident.

Wynton Marsalis once said, “In jazz, every moment is a crisis and you bring all your skill to bear on the crisis.”  Life can be a crisis too, can’t it?  Hard work for sure.

I feel like I’m forever returning — to the piano, to melody and harmony, to the blank page, to here and now — and when I arrive, all I can do is just try to figure out what needs to be done next.

In the meantime — which is also here and now — I hope to continue to hone my skills and bring them to bear as wisely as I can.

And keep smiling!  🙂

Saturday Morning Musings – An unexpected thaw.

Tags

friendship, hindsight, life, perspective

Memories are quite puzzling things.  Think of it – in the time it takes to blink an eye, a memory can arise into consciousness from its hibernation – quite often unbidden – and carry with it all of the attendant emotions.  Encapsulated within that memory, one can find a range of time from moments to years: a first kiss; a concert; a friendship.

The brain is amazing!  And yes, I do believe that everything about our conscious experience can — and will someday — be entirely understood at the level of the brain, the most incredible supercomputer on offer.

“We are a way for the cosmos to know itself,” said Carl Sagan.

Sometimes, though, a memory can take hold and not let go.  That inability to let go can turn ugly — sadness, despair, anger, resentment — or it can be transcendent — love, joy, peace, contentment.

Sometimes… it’s hard to tell.

Like, thinking about an old flame.  Sure, that might be fun, even inspiring, but ultimately it’s a frustration that cannot — and likely should not — lead anywhere.

Or when gazing into the photographed eyes of a long-deceased parent — what an alien mixture of joyful longing and heartbreaking acceptance of fact.

What about pondering the demise of a friendship that ended abruptly in unexpectedly bitter words and anger?

When is it time to forgive?

In that moment — when cheeks are flushed, earlobes are hot, heart is throbbing with adrenaline and sadness, throat is raw from forcing out the vitriol — it seems that nothing could ever repair that ashen bridge.

But perhaps all is not lost.

There is nothing left here for me
Nothing for as far as my crying eyes can see
There is nothing left for me here
Nothing that’s worth me shedding another tear

Those lyrics were written while adrift in an emotional cyclone, mourning the loss of a friendship that gone painfully awry.  Every time I sing them, I still feel the sting of their genesis.

A phone call and email this week from the friend for whom the song was written reminded me: ice hasn’t always been so.  It was once water, flowing freely, refreshing and clear.  Sure, that water might be damned cold at times and not at all inviting, but as long as it’s moving, there is an opportunity to move along with it.

So, spring has finally sprung here in the White Mountains — and the thaw feels good.  I still have an eye on the snow that still persists at the shady end of the lawn, but it, too, will eventually have no choice but to succumb to the warmth.

My heart, I am sure, will do likewise.

Saturday Morning Musings – One jelly bean at a time.

Tags

hindsight, life, looking back, Malala Yousafzai, perspective, school, worry, worrying

This week, I read an astonishing book – I Am Malala – about (and by) the young Pakistani girl who spoke up for the right of girls to go to school – and was shot for it.  She and her father (an educator himself) had received numerous threats, and still they raised their voices from the Swat Valley against the misogyny of the Taliban, nearly paying the dearest price for their convictions.  The story of the attack on her life in the fall of 2012 captivated the entire world.

For what would I be willing to risk my life?

It’s a hell of a question.

In her book, Malala speaks with such passion about her studies, her competitive nature come exam time, about her love of science, her voracious appetite for reading.

She also expresses her sadness about how many young girls and women in her country – and, indeed, around the world – are uneducated and illiterate, regarded as unequal to men and boys and not deserving of the same access to education and information.

It’s amazing what one takes for granted.

As much as I also loved (and still love) learning and reading, I really didn’t like school much beyond third grade.  I was always shy, awkward, probably seemed aloof a lot of the time.  I was so uncomfortable at school, more so as I got older.  Naturally introverted, I shied away from most things social.  I didn’t have a lot of confidence.  I didn’t really like myself too much.  I couldn’t wait to graduate and get the hell out of there.

On the heels of all this, there was a very moving video on wimp.com the other day, in which each day of one’s life is represented by jelly beans:

http://www.wimp.com/timebeans/

As the original pile of 28,835 jelly beans (representing an average lifespan) is whittled away to account for school, work, sleep, eating, commuting, watching TV, chores, errands, bathing and grooming, down to an unthinkable 2,740, the narrator asks a few stirring questions, including this one:

How much time have you already spent worrying instead of doing something that you love?

Boy, I do have a worry wart streak in me.  I get it from my mother.  I even worry sometimes that I worry too much.

Davy said something to me a while back that rings true.  He observed that I wear the world as a tight garment.

I know what he means, and he’s right.  I get up into my head a lot.  I do hold the world close.  It’s miraculous and maddening, inspiring and infuriating.

I think of all that time I spent worrying as a kid, too.  Didn’t we all?  Worrying about where I stood, how I seemed, what kind of mood Mom would be in when I got home, about doing okay in school.

About feeling safe and okay.

Nowadays, I worry that I might miss out on something, that some opportunity might pass me by because I’m not prepared for it, that I’ll have a dream about the most amazing song that would be a smash hit and then forget the whole damn thing as soon as I wake up.

Then, I read Malala’s book and I think, “What the hell do I have to complain about?”

In the grand scheme of things?  Nothing at all.  She is a champion, a hero – and I’m a hobbyist, living a charmed life.

Time to let all that tension out of my shoulders, contemplate and appreciate that finite supply of jelly beans, and savor their sweetness.

Saturday Morning Musings – Where is spring?

Tags

life, patience, perspective, spring, weather

It seems like everyone in this neck of the woods is asking the same question: “Where is spring?”

A year ago at this time, yes, there was still snow on the ground (as seen in this photo that I took at that time at Arethusa Falls) but this year we didn’t even attempt our-first-day-of-spring hike to the falls.  We’re waiting until some of this stuff melts – whenever that may be.

On the day of the vernal equinox this year, we awoke not to chirping birds, dazzling sun and balmy breezes, but instead to a heavy, gray sky and a fresh foot of snow in the yard.  We went snowshoeing in the woods behind the house instead.

So, yeah – where is spring?

It’s been an exciting week.  I’ve been selected as an official showcase artist at SERFA, taking place in North Carolina in May.   This is an awesome opportunity to share my work with venues, presenters, fellow performers, and to make new friends.  I’ll be traveling down and sharing this opportunity with Shawn and Davy, bandmates extraordinaire.

Just six weeks from now, we’ll be loading up the Winnie and headed south.  First to the conference, then Shawn and I continue on for a few-weeks-long adventure in the Big Easy.

This week I also received an email from a woman in Utah who wants to cover one of my songs – “We All Have A Song” – on her upcoming CD.  What an honor!

Dave said, “This has been a great week for you!  You should buy a lottery ticket!”  Ha!  The last time I bought a lottery ticket was about 20 years ago, and I won $250 on a scratch ticket.  I figured I was ahead – why push my luck?  So I stopped buying them.

With all of this snow still on the ground and all these exciting developments, I’ve been having a hard time staying focused on what’s in front of me.  I keep thinking about six weeks from now, all the things that need to be done and tended to.  I keep daydreaming about New Orleans, about green grass, about opening my bedroom window and letting a cool, sun-kissed breeze bring in some desperately needed fresh air.

“When is spring?”  As weary as I am of the endless winter, I’m equally fed up with this feeling of wanting it to be over with.

It’s time, at least for now, to shed that impatience.  Normally, I think that patience is an overrated virtue, that it gets in the way of living a full and passionate life.

When did I get in such a rush, anyway?

What is wrong with this moment?

Or this one?

My life is unfolding, petal by petal, from the tightly twisted promise of the bud.  The sun is already shining on my face.  The water is already flowing under the ice, against the rock.

It’s already beautiful.  I just have to take the time to notice it.

Spring is here!  It is always here.

 

Saturday Morning Musings – Firewater.

Tags

breakup, Firewater, letting go, life, moving on, perspective, relationships, The Wood Brothers

Writing from the road this week.

This will not be the follow-up to last week’s post about food in the fridge.  Sorry to disappoint you if that’s what you were after.

A friend of mine is going through a rough break-up, and his struggles have been on my mind.  

I’ve been there.   We probably all have.   Grappling with the idea of going it alone, outside of the safety of what is otherwise not at all where you should be.

“Should I stay or should I go?” goes the classic Clash lyric.  It’s a hell of a question.  Here are a few more zingers:

How do you know when the going is getting too tough?

Where is the line between self-preservation and preserving one’s relationships?

How can you truly know whether the other person is poison to you – or if you’re the poison?

I went to see The Wood Brothers last Sunday night in Portland.  Amazing band, one of my favorites.  Fantastic show.  When they did their “old-timey” portion of the evening around “Big Mike“, they performed a song called “Firewater” from their latest album.

Her hair and her clothes
Were smellin’ of smoke
And her lips well they tasted like firewater
First kiss I was buzzed
Second I was in love I was high

Maybe it was someone you met in a smoky bar.. maybe it was someone who was bad news for you.  Close your eyes and remember that first kiss.  Intoxicating.  You feel like a sugar cube dissolving into a cup of coffee.  The feeling just grabs ahold of you and it doesn’t let you go.

You think I’da learned
All the times I was burned
Deservin’ the blues and I sure got ’em
The drinkin’ and pills
The head shrinkin’ bills they got high

You KNEW that person was nothing but trouble, nothing but a one-way ticket to heartache.   And yet you couldn’t resist – and got exactly what was coming to you.

So if you taste lips of firewater
Better make like a tree
It’s a kiss you want no part of
Better not wait and see

You can’t see it when you’re in it.  You have to go through hell and back to know where you should and shouldn’t be.  The only way to know is to live it.

Her stockings were torn
Before she was born
Her mother said she was a hard daughter
No father around
She’d just get down and get high

Some people just get dealt a terrible hand in life.   It’s not their fault.  You know and accept that the other person is flawed.  Who isn’t?  So you try to stick it out, try to be compassionate.  And yet…

So if you taste lips of firewater
Better make like a tree
That’s a kiss you want no part of
Better not wait and see

… that voice of reason screams, “NO!”  Finally, it sinks in and you have to get out.

If you taste lips of firewater
Get ready to bleed
It’s a kiss you want no part of
If you’re anything like me

Take it from someone who knows.

And we’ve all been there.  Maybe not with a lover, but perhaps with a friendship, or a substance, or a terrible job, or anything that is used to fill the void, to comfort you and shelter you from the whirlwind.

I think the short answer to those questions I listed above is: trust your gut.

When I was with my abusive ex, I ignored my gut feeling – the one that told me to get the hell out of there – for so long.  Too long.  I was scared to leave what was physically safe, while paying the price with my emotional safety.   I felt like leaving would ruin him, but staying was ruining me.

That’s not a mistake I ever intend to make again.

As I mentioned, I’m on the road this week.  Last night, Providence.  Tonight, Darlington, Maryland.  Tomorrow, NYC.  Got my sweetheart, got my music, my health, my freedom.  Life is good.

Go listen to “Firewater”.   Maybe you’ve been there and back.  Maybe you’re there now.  Good songs always speak the truth.

Saturday Morning Musings – Food (habits) for thought.

Tags

diet, food, health, Heather Pierson, life, looking back, perspective, vegan, veganism, vegetarian, vegetarianism

Unlike a lot of folks, I didn’t buy or even demand any chocolate for Valentine’s Day.  I gave it up years ago (as I briefly mentioned in an earlier post) in my effort to cut caffeine entirely out of my diet – and, eleven years later, I’m still completely caffeine free.

My diet has long been a thing of fascination to my friends and acquaintances over the years – and to myself as well as it continues to evolve.

There was a single moment that changed my relationship to food that resonates to this day, nearly twenty years on.  I’ll never forget it.

It was a warm spring day in Auburn, Maine, and I was first in line waiting at a red light to cross over Center Street.  I was twenty years old, and I was working in and had just recently started renting an apartment in Lewiston.   In that moment, life was good.  I had the music up, and the windows down for the first time that spring.

The vehicle that happened to come to a stop in front of me at the intersection changed my life.

Rolling down Route 4 from the north in Turner came an open-sided truck from DeCoster Egg Farm, not carrying eggs, but the hens that produce them.  Hundreds of them, crammed thickly into cages.  Their movements were a terrible struggle.  Their cries of discomfort were unmistakable.   Feathers drifted free and were carried by a breeze over the long line of busy, mid-day traffic.

I turned off my radio as tears burned down my cheeks.

“That’s it!” I declared out loud to myself.  I was done being a meat-eater.

The seeds for this epiphany had been planted when I was a young girl.  I’d been a staunch supporter of animal rights as a youngster (following my mother’s footsteps) and used to bring to school all of the shocking literature that my mom received from organizations like International Fund for Animal Welfare, World Wildlife Fund and Greenpeace (just to name a few of the organizations of which she was a pledging member) and display it off the front of my school desk.  These mailings often included glossy, color images of baby harp seals being clubbed to death; household pets being sold in Asian meat markets; wolves shot by snipers from Alaskan helicopters; majestic humpback whales beached and bloodied by harpooning.  My teacher would often despair of my campaigns and would ask me to remove the photos; my classmates never tired of teasing me about it.  I didn’t care – in my mind, I was bringing attention to serious matters.

“We need to speak for the animals because they can’t speak for themselves,” I was often fond of saying.

“Well, why do you still eat meat then?” my classmates would sneer.  And I never had an answer.  I would simply stammer and blush with embarrassment.

During these same years, I was taking piano lessons from Helen Davidson who, along with her husband, owned and operated a farm in Hebron.   Sometimes after my weekly lesson I would go out to the barn with Helen to visit the cows.   She introduced me to one particular little calf, saying, “This is Malcolm.”

For the following months, I would look forward to the occasional visit to the barn to see Malcolm and to feeding him from my tiny hands.

Then, there came a day when Malcolm was no longer in the barn, and I wondered to myself where he had gone.

At the dinner table one evening, as I was a few bites into my dinner, my father looked at me and said, “How do you like your Malcolm burger?”  A sharp pang of sadness and outrage sliced through me.   I don’t remember what happened after that – I was only in fourth or fifth grade – but I’ve not yet forgotten that terrible feeling.

As a child, of course, you eat what your parents serve you, and so the memory of this incident slowly faded and I continued on the omnivore’s path, right up until the day I saw that truckload of chickens.

Red meat was easy to give up (I didn’t eat that much of it anyway).  Pork, seafood and turkey, not a huge deal either.  Chicken was a bit more difficult, as I had relied upon it as a staple.

Slowly, I learned to replace my proteins, learned how to do more with beans and nuts.  I fell in love with cooking, with experimenting with flavors and colors and aromas.

My detoxification didn’t end there.  The following year, I quit drinking – a huge hurdle to clear.  Eventually, I gave up dairy, too – I had become increasingly less tolerant to it, both physically and philosophically.  Soda was long gone, as were preservatives, food colorings, fillers.  Gone, too, were most simple sugars.   It would take me hours to go food shopping, carefully reading labels, researching ingredients.

Little shifts here and there have taken place over the years – rice milk instead of soy; hemp protein in my morning smoothies replaced spirulina; various vitamin supplements have come and gone; maple syrup and honey have made comebacks, as did eggs two years ago.

For me, all of these choices have been wise and good.  However, I wouldn’t necessarily recommend this diet for everyone.  Being a damn-near-vegan can be hard work sometimes.  When you cut out meat, dairy, refined sugars, caffeine, food colorings, preservatives and additives, one fact is abundantly clear – you’re gonna be spending a whole lot of time in the kitchen, which I’m lucky that I do love to do.  Cooking is a creative process for me and, like any other creative activity, there are moments of… I guess you could call it “cooking block.”

“What the hell am I going to make tonight?”

One of these weeks – maybe next week – I’ll talk a bit about what I think should be included in a well-stocked pantry.   Stay tuned.  🙂

And for the record, I’m not one of those “meat-is-murder” vegetarians.  I believe that the Davidsons were absolutely right to raise their own beef.  Better that than to buy it in the supermarket, coming from some hideous factory farm in who-knows-where.

I couldn’t do it.  Raise a calf and then butcher it?  Or raise a rifle to a deer in the woods?  I admire and respect anyone who can and does.  Certainly in a matter of life or death, I imagine I could.  I figure, though, that if I can live without doing these things, or without asking others to do it on my behalf, then I will try for as long as I am able.