Wow, it's been a while. Let's see if I still remember how this works...
If you're like me, there's a room in your apartment [house, mansion, shanty] that's constantly in a state of flux. A new decoration here or there, some moved furniture, new color scheme, more this, less of that, whatever it is. For me, that room is the kitchen. It seems like every time I clean my kitchen, it ends up looking different from when I started. The addition of some new appliance, or an idea I have about how to improve efficiency when the mad scientist is at work in his lab, or whatever the catalyst, fuels this urge to make some change.
Now, this change may not always be a positive thing. It may not be negative. Maybe the only difference is that instant of hesistation when I need to get, say, a knife from the block and my brain isn't quite trained to the new configuration. Maybe that's enough sometimes. Maybe it isn't. Maybe if I move it 6 inches to the left.... no, to the right. There. Perfect.
Except there is no "perfect" in the kitchen. It's organic,
alive, constantly evolving. Sure, it might meet a Darwinian dead end or three along the way, so we just take a step back and try again.
I don't have this problem with other rooms in my place. The living room is easy: HDTV front and center, flanked from all directions by speakers. The couch and recliner merely serve as an altar to pray to the gods of High Definition and Dolby. The bedroom: a bed, some clothes and way too many shoes for a hetero male. The bathroom: well, you get the picture.
Now this is not to say that these other rooms have reached their highest form of evolution. Merely that their growth is driven by, shall we say, more apocalyptic events. The housing equivalents of floods, earthquakes (knock on wood), meteors. That type of thing. At some point you just decide you've had enough and *boom*, an afternoon spent straining to move that dresser to the other side of the room (for the record, it's much easier if you take the drawers out first). And a day nursing your shin or toe after you forget where your bed is in the dark. But I digress.
So I dug a little deeper, convinced there must be some metaphor lurking to shed some insight into life or what's it means to live. At least, what it means for me. Your mileage may vary.
In any event, I have concluded that my life lacks a kitchen. The living room, bedroom, dining room, bathroom? All systems go. Moving 3000 miles to take a new job in California?
Check. Tired of the same workout routine?
Hey, I know, I'll start Tae Kwon Do and a Crossfit regimen. Bored in a relationship?
We need to talk...Anyone in my family will tell you I've never had a problem coming up with crazy new ideas and seeing them through. But, alas, the kitchen. Where's my work-in-progress? Some might say "Well, hey, your whole life should be a work-in-progress." And to that, I say, true. But that seems pretty obvious. Who are are is the aggregate
result of our chipping away at imperfections. We are the
result of starting down new paths, and then deciding when we want to keep walking, and when we want to go back to the fork in the road and try again. And sometimes (though increasingly more rare) we're the result of veering off into the wilderness and seeing where we end up. I
get that.
So I come back to the kitchen.
I remember reading somewhere that Michelangelo was once asked how he created such masterful pieces of art. And he replied simply that there is a statue hidden inside of every piece of stone and it was simply his job to free it. What should I be chipping away at? At what point am I going to step back, cock my head to the side and say, "Ah,
there it is?" I need a project. A work-in-progress. I need a kitchen.
Because, dammit, I'm hungry.
