In the mistycrisp early morning hours yesterday, as I stood on the back stoop surveying the puppy playpen and breathing in that luscious summerhorizon air, replete with strains of freshly cut grass, moist soil, vegetal undertones, and diesel, I stared down at my somewhat ill-maintained cherry red transportable Coleman grill, and realized I couldn’t remember the last time I had used it.
Last summer is such a blur, still trying to find some semblance of biochemical balance, reeling from the final death throes of my last foray into romantic partnership, disconnected and uninspired to care for myself, cook for myself, nurture myself. I think I might have used the grill the summer before, but again, I have no receipts.
So I went about preparing it for this season. After thoroughly cleaning it and scrubbing the grill plates, I ran it for a little while to burn off any dust and cobwebs I couldn’t reach, then pulled some sockeye salmon from the freezer.
I left my marriage in February 2022 with a giant box of frozen salmon filets in the deep freeze, which I slowly worked my way through over the past few years. The final filets were a bit freezer-burned, so they ended up as yummy toppings for my canine companions, and I decided it was time to connect with the fishery again and order more. Sadly, in the intervening years, the small collective I had been purchasing from since living in Seattle had been sold, and it appeared it was not going well, so I opted for another group that I had purchased from before. One glorious change they made was to pack everything into portion-sized, vacuum-sealed packages, perfect for a solo eater like me!
In the late afternoon, I turned the grill back on and let it warm up. I prepped some asparagus for the grill, boiled a couple of potatoes to make a mash, and doused the salmon with olive oil, yuzu salt, garlic powder, brown sugar, and black pepper.
One of the tricks my mind plays on me while I’m navigating the various nooks and crannies of depression and despair is related to time and effort. Time lasts forever and disappears in a snap; the level of effort required to cook a meal for myself is astronomical and not worth it — obviously, others need to make that effort and deliver it to my doorstep. But when I’m in a more balanced place, my relationship to time changes — things slow down a bit, and it’s easier for me to move through it. So while it may not be a surprise to many that my crafting of grilled salmon, asparagus, and mashed potatoes took roughly 30 minutes total, including prep, it gave me a rather happy jolt. See how easy this is, Kat? See how easy it is to care for yourself?
I keep trying to connect to these little moments, these nuggets and reminders, these moments of minor revelations that may seem pedestrian to some, but which are gilding my current perspective with a deeper understanding of myself, my choices, and my connection to the world around me. Sure, I cooked the fish a minute too long, but the asparagus and mash were amazing, and it felt good to eat outside in the sun.
I keep trying to connect to these methods of reframing, of reforming. Of being here now, embodying the moments here in Detroit, with Max and Ruby and the sun shining while sipping a delicious brew, with a measure of peace and curiosity and excitement in my vocation, of being okay with the unknown cyclical paths that lie ahead — of being excited for them, truly.
So these simple bits, these actions that billions of people around the world do without a second thought, these are incredibly life-affirming for me. I am no longer reframing my life as waiting for someone, or looking for “my person” before I can inhabit, explore, and enjoy each moment. I am no longer struggling with a measure of self-doubt that tries to convince me I am fooling myself into believing everything is okay. I look around this house and see all these areas of clutter and disorganization, with a lack of care showing up in the cobwebs in the corners and the pile of old batteries and light bulbs waiting to be taken to the recycling center. Dusty shelves and piles of notebooks. And while it might have felt oppressive even just a few months ago, now it feels like an opportunity for excavation and cleansing and renewal.
When I was 18 and first moved to Seattle, I worked as a busser at a 24-hour Italian restaurant. In the chaotic weekend dinner shifts as well as the doldrums of 3 a.m., I used to naturally re-center myself from overwhelm and distraction by thinking to myself, This is your life, be here now. To be in that moment, feeling the smooth coolness of water glasses as I cleared a family’s table, the notch of the tray hooked against my hip as I balanced a pile of plates, wipe the tabletops and re-set the silver and smile at the guests and slice the chocolate mousse pie in perfect sections and breath in deeply in the catacombs of the back bathrooms the rich scents of Simple Green mixed with the ever present smell of garlic — be here now. For all of this. I took that sentiment with me to Ireland, focusing on weeding, watering, and caring for livestock, being in the sun, and breathing the smells endemic to that plot of land deeply.
I took it with me through the various chapters of my life thereafter, even connecting to it while shut up in a Thai hospital room, the timelessness creating a bubble of fantastical existence, or every massage I gave — be here now, be present, be in this right now. Do not wander.
But I lost it for a while there; so much confusion and overwhelm and sadness — so many competing emotions standing in line, waiting for their turn to take center stage. My ability to be present was hampered by a drive for survival, as scarcity arrived in many forms in the mid-2000s and took up residence in my heart for a couple of decades. I remember reading once that depression was indicative of living in the past, while anxiety was focusing too much on the future, and I spent a fair amount of time bopping back and forth between these two states of pseudo-control.
So while it may seem so simple, to clean a grill at 5 a.m. and pull a salmon filet from the freezer, so effortless as such to be meaningless, being in those moments yesterday felt like coming home to a sense of myself that has been locked away. Minor movements that bring major joy.
And today? I’m grilling romaine for a salad.
