Honey, we have a lot of catching up to do...

That's an understatement. My job as executive Pastry Chef has kept me beyond busy and all-out exhausted. I would like to give a laundry list of excuses as to why I haven't updated, even just a little tiny bit, over the past 4 or so months...

... But to be honest with you, I have learned over the past 4 or so months that "excuses are the nails that build the house of failure." Or so I've been told. Failure and I are not on speaking terms at the moment, luckily, so I will take it from someone else. So how can I wrap up my Summer of 2010 in a few short sentences?

Busy.

Hectic.

Stressful.

Crazy.

Long.

Confusing.

Frustrating.

Heart-breaking.

Almost done...

Within a few short months, this whole experience will be behind me, and I will have a whole new journey to look forward to. Before that, however, I have a few very hard questions to answer: where will my journey start? Do I return to the Wentworth for a few months and continue to scrape and save and pay my bills? Do I head West with my beautiful and loving Goddess-sister and her new man and spend a few blissful weeks in Wine Country, California? Do I start the whole "hotel bakeshop" process over by moving to Woodstock, VT? Do I return to The Sagamore for the Summer of 2011 and see if it is more successful than this past one has been?

Just when I think I can give myself a well-deserved pat on the back for surviving the toughest 6 months of my life, I pause mid-pat and wonder, "Should I come back next season? Will it be better? Will it be easier? Will I have more control and power?" Then the memories and horrors of this summer flood my mind, I shake my head vigorously and determinedly. No, I can't come back to this. Why would I want to? Shouldn't I be preparing to open my own bakeshop somewhere? Shouldn't I be preparing to spend several, heavenly weeks drunk in a vineyard in northern California?

And then.... What would my co-workers think of me? What would my bakeshop staff think of me? What kind of pastry chef am I to give it all up, just like that, after one season of struggle? I know it is a legitimate struggle and everyone goes through it, but shouldn't I just be tough? Wouldn't people respect me more, as a chef, if I persevere and prove that I can do it?

*sigh* My brain hurts. And it's hot out. And my laundry basket is overflowing, as is my kitchen sink. Despite all of this, all I want to do is curl up outside on a blanket in the grass, with a book and a bowl of strawberry chardonnay sorbet that I made this morning... Yum...

"Liminality"

Liminality is my new favorite word. It is my (not-so-new) existence. As quoted from my deity-sister, who quoted from her mother (my Other Mother, if you will), liminality is "the middle stage of change, the threshold between what was, and what is yet to be." I feel it in my bones, in my being, and in my decision to pack up my life and move to a state where I know next to nobody. I don't know where I will work, or where I will live. But I know that I will live. And I am not frightened. I am excited! I am anxious! I am a little nervous, I will admit. But all of the good feelings take up all the space and leave little room for fear. I'm learning that this is a good way to live one's life: leave very little space for fear. And don't let fear over-stay its welcome.

Reflection: Valentine's Day at the Wentworth went very well! Everyone enjoyed everything, the menu was fantastic, brunch went smoothly, and we didn't run out of anything! I even got a second-wind at about 8 o'clock Sunday night (hour 12 of my shift), and was bouncy and excited. Probably because 9 o'clock was the end of my shift and I was excited to get home to my warm, comfortable cloud of a bed!

And then... Monday... I had a day off! Finally! It was so nice to sleep in until 10am. I spent the morning in bed, reading, relaxing. Then my roommate came home in the afternoon and we made mimosas to celebrate the return of "our house" to being Our House! (Our other two roommates, who were more like squatters than actual roommates, moved out on Sunday). We rearranged furniture, bought new pillows and a new rug, and rearranged our collection of wall clocks (15 and counting!) Tuesday brought with it a wedding cake tasting for a friend of mine, almost a foot of snow, and just a pleasant day. I love the way the seacoast looks under a blanket of freshly fallen snow, especially when it is the light and fluffy stuff. You know, the way it sparkles in the soft light of the street lights or porch lights. The way it creates almost a canopy in the trees, blanketing the branches and bowing them down, almost like nature bowing to your royalty as you cautiously creep your way along the freshly plowed roads towards your destination. Something about the freshness of the snow, before it is salted, sanded, and slushed by the hands of man, is so peaceful and beautiful. Ironically, it is quite heart-warming.

I am off to try and travel a good road in Dreamland. I was rewarded for my patience this evening with getting to spend time with my goddess-sister and my (Sleepy) Bear, who have journeyed from the Frozen Northland to spend a few days here before one heads back North, and one heads to the extreme South. Viva la Mexico! (... I don't think that's what I meant to say, but it's all I could conjure). Tomorrow brings work, wedding cake preparation, and a delightful dinner with my Other Family, whom I've missed terribly but am extremely grateful that they take me under their loving wings whenever I need. And then a quiet night with the Bear. Life is good :-)

Ponderings...

I have always wanted to create a dream journal, something I could tuck away next to my bed with a pen so that when I wake up in the morning (or whenever I stumble back into consciousness), I could instantly write down what I remember of my dream before it slips away into the abyss. I have been saying this for nine years now, since one of my sophomore English classes back in high school. I have yet to do it.

Until now, I suppose. I was never a fan of this "new-age" blogging trend. It took me a while to understand what people meant when they were talking about their blogs, and frankly, it never posed much interest to me. My life, sadly to say, is busy enough as it is. When do I have time to sit down to use precious minutes to read other people's thoughts (minutes that could be used for anything else... Sleeping... umm, sleeping... Cleaning the apartment... Who am I kidding?) Then a couple of days ago, my best friend/deity/goddess-sister introduced me to her blog... and instantly I was hooked! I sat at my computer, fighting a raging headache for reading without my out-of-prescription glasses, for an hour and read through most of her posts. I have always been a fan of her writing; she puts thoughts and dreams and ideas and just life down on paper (er.... computer...) in a way that, simply put, catches my breath. She is, without a doubt, one of my favorite authors, feminists, maybe just women in general; up there with Maya Angelou, Emily Dickinson, Rachel Carson, Alice Walker, Naomi Wolf, Virginia Woolf... (well, maybe not completely Virginia Woolf... her style of writing perhaps. That's it). Seriously. Check out her beautiful blog here.

I just turned my dream journal into a "shrine" for my best friend... and most of last night's dream has slipped away. Oops! What I can remember is this:

• There was a talent show, I was in it, and singing. "On My Own" from Les Mis, I think.

• I was frantic, because come show time, I didn't know what order the show was in. I didn't know when I was going on. And each playbill that I looked at had a different order listed.

• I was surrounded by people from schools of the past: elementary, middle school, high school, even college. Three people I distinctly remember are my childhood friends Lydia and Stephanie, and a friend from college Joshua.

• The hall we were waiting in to go on stage looked just like the banquet hall from the Wentworth by the Sea.

• My mom and my Uncle Ron from Germany were there to see me perform.

• Whoever was organizing the show stopped the show halfway through because there were so many acts, they didn't realize that there wasn't enough time to get through them all.

• I never got to perform.

I think the purpose of me recording my thoughts is not necessarily to analyze them individually and figure out what they mean, by try to analyze trends and find patterns. I know that when I'm sick with fever, I have crazy f*cked up dreams, but that's probably because my brain is slowly frying itself with sickness. On normal days, when I'm not sick, what do I dream of? No necessarily why, but what?