Keep A Day Dream Journal

Our last vacation was a nice treat, and it has made us hungry for another one. We are thinking more and more about managing “mini-vacations” inbetween our longer vacations. I think we both want to reach a point where taking off for a month would not be out of the question.

It is time to start casting around for a first of the year winter mini-vacation. In my business it is going to be very busy up until the end of December, then usually it drops off for a few weeks, so it would be a perfect time for me to cut out, unwind, and recharge. S. can use her flex-time to take a couple of days off around a weekend, so we can get up to four days off at a stretch with no real hardship.

With those limits, and with the prohibitive cost of trans-Atlantic airfare, we will do something in the states. Possibly Vermont or upstate New York. We want to do something wintery that involves snow.

There is almost a guilty reluctance to indulge this king of dream-planing. I’m going to squash that instinct, however. Time is already a factor but I do think that post-holiday travel deals might be in abundance in January. So I want to focus in on a locale and some activities and get the snowball rolling on this.

It is not often I recall my dreams. For a long time I thought I just wasn’t a very vivid dreamer or my dreams were so disjointed as to be unaccessable to my rational, waking mind. More and more I think that gulf is increasing. I often wish I had a more intimate relationship with my “dreaming mind” since I think a lot of instinctual and intuitive information is offered there.

One reason I created this goal was to have a place to imagine and contemplate the “what ifs” when my mind wanders unfettered. Of course the mind doesn’t just wander when we dream; it flies about like a cheetah on cocaine, and there’s no telling what it will get into. Yet there may be some value in contemplating what lies beneath the stones upturned in a dream’s rampant wake.

The last six days have been straight hell. Long hours, intruige, stress, fatigue, uncertainty, celibacy, suppressed angers and resentments, bad dietary practices, and relentless preparing and planning. Last night, after a 14 hour day of bust-ass labor, it caught up with me in an unusually vivid series of dreams.

In the first dream I was walking across a desert landscape. I remember the sky was deeply and intensely blue and the sand rich layers of brown. I came across man and a woman who’s vehicle was stuck in the sand and although I did not know them in real life I knew them in my dream. I helped push them out of the sand which turned into a city street so we walked across the street to a coffee shop that had a rhinocerous outside the front door. The animal was very placid, and we discussed if it was there to promote a movie premier. We went inside and began picking up office supplies because we were no longer in a coffee shop we were in an office supply store and I was no longer with the couple but two other men with whom I was going to school. Again, no one I knew in real life, only in my dreams.

After we got our paper supplies we sat down in a large amphitheater and watched our graduation on a jumbotron screen. I made an unkind comment about one of my classmates (true, but unkind) and realized they were sitting next to me. I tried to explain my comment, but was coldly rebuffed by my classmates. I then walked to the top of a hill and sat down in the grass and asked S. why I had bothered going back to school. Wasn’t it all just a waste of time and money at my age? She said something about taking karate classes next so we walked down the hill and across a busy highway where we were almost hit by a semi, into a small park where people were performing tai-chi. Then it wasn’t a park it was our backyard and it was a summer’s eve party and the woman with me wasn’t S. but someone else; a white woman not quite my age but I think we were married.

The party moved inside the house but not my house. It was a house in Louisianna I once lived in but it was in much better shape. I argued with one of the guests who was an old boss of mine in real life how bad the economy was and how I had just seen a rhinocerous tied up outside a coffee shop earlier in the day. He told me that as long as the “Communist in Chief” was in charge, things wouldn’t change. I then had a conversation with someone about what an asshole my father was but this didn’t take place in the house, it was on the roof of a skyscraper and it was very dark and there was no moon or stars and the person I was talking to turned into my sister who said it was all because of the bees.

We left the roof and walked across a rope bridge that connected our skyscraper to another and I thought how stupid it was to build a bridge between two buildings when there had been all those deaths in Canada over that lake and why didn’t people learn, or did they just not care? There was another cocktail party on the other roof and I was supposed to be working it but I had called in sick, however now that I was here I guessed I’d better get to work. So I took a woman’s coat to put on the rack but instead I threw it over my head and it turned into a blanket and under the blanket was a member of my real-life staff (a female) whom I fondled and had sex with. After sex we pulled down the blanket and we were lying on a futon in the woods and it was just dawn, bathing everything in gold light. We were naked and we lay under the blanket talking about what a bad idea it was to be having sex so often whenever we didn’t have any money and it still wasn’t making me happy. She told me it wasn’t about the unicorn, it was about love and we were very much in love. She said this in perfect Spanish and even though I don’t speak Spanish very well at all I understood her exactly and answered in perfect Spanish that we didn’t have a choice, the church wanted a unicorn. I took a drag off a cigarette that appeared in my hand then I rolled over to her and we had sex again and I hoped no one in the parade could hear us because we were in a doorway right off Bourbon Street and people were passing by left and right. A moment later she had on jeans, a t-shirt and flip flops, and I was wearing a shirt and boots but no pants. We went into a store to buy me some pants and I was trying to think about how I would explain not having pants. Then I walked into a cave that was outfitted as a kitchen and it was very dark and cold and I guessed it was early in the morning. I was trying to get everything done as quickly as possible because I was now totally naked, having over-slept and rushed to work without getting dressed. A man came into the cave/kitchen and told me I should take a shower and then I was in a shower room, one of those big, empty gym-type showers with the heads decending from pipes on the ceiling. The shower was cold and I remember that it wasn’t helping me to relax and that after the shower I should get a bourbon and a blow job and I didn’t care which came first. An alarm started blaring like an old fashioned klaxon. This caused me to awaken from my dream. I looked at the clock and it was just after 6am. It being my day off and there being no need for me to get up too early, I fluffed my pillow and went back to sleep. I tried to go back to the part of the dream where I was having sex but if I got there I don’t remember. I was surprised when I woke up later and got up that I could still remember so much of the dream, even though I could tell there was a lot more that I hadn’t remembered.

So I wonder if there are hidden messages to listen to in such dreams, if the characters mean anything specific, or is my mind just data-dumping a bunch of random images and thoughts?

There is a dark spot on my internal calendar. Like a broken cog on a turning gear, when this particular date comes around, it causes a skip or a slip or a clatter in my heart. This year on this special date I have been working like a crazy person, averaging 90 – 100 hours per week between four different employers. You’d think I’d be so buried in work I wouldn’t have time to recall this annual memory. But it is always there with a shovel and I never fully forget.

I thought at one time (and a friend convinced me as well) that recounting this story would help me deal with the webs of melancholy and sadness that still creep in. Maybe it has. It has allowed me a small window of perspective. For a long time I was fixed on how things ended but over time and via conversations with a friend I have been able to see a fuller and rounder story as well. Last year there was still a hollowness in my heart at this time, I still supped from a plate of grief and regret. This year is the same. My private, personal ceremony of recognition and remorse would have never been understood by the people I work with or most of my friends. Most likely they would have wanted to share their stories in some grade school contest of one-up-manship. My wife’s personal motto and creed amount to: “I’m gonna need you to move on, already” when it comes to hard or painful memories. There’s nothing that can be done by reconsidering the past or mistakes, so why dwell, she reasons. In many ways she’s right. But I haven’t figured out how to silence my spirit, or banish that shade with the shovel, or mend the broken tooth of that internal calendar’s wheel.

Maybe in truth what I want is to imagine how things might have happened if things had not happened as they did. There is no unwriting of the past, I know. To fantasize about “what ifs” is to indulge in wasteful nostalgia. I don’t care. I’d rather imagine things the way they should be for once vs. bemoaning how they are again. I’d rather have a daydream that doesn’t break my heart every year.

Sunday, September 25th

She’s late. She’s always late. I’m early, but that is because I am excited to see her. I’m always excited to see her. I’ve been at the café for twenty minutes but when she arrives we will hug and kiss and I will wave my hand and tell her I’ve been waiting less than five minutes. I’d wait an hour to see her. I’d wait a year. All I want is to see her stroll up the street and greet me and be happy to see me too.

I never stop thinking how lucky I am to still have her in my life. Not the center, not the core; I think even back then I knew we were not meant for one another in that way. Back then she was a ship on stormy seas and I was a protected harbor and she took shelter with me. When her waters calmed she sailed out again. “Ce la vie”, I guess. But you never, ever guess how much you are going to miss someone until they are irretrievably lost to you. I’m glad, on this warm and sunny afternoon, that is something I don’t have to know about her.

I’m glad she got away from that low-life-sonofabitch-bastard-motherfucker-shithead husband of hers all those years ago. I’m glad she chose not to live in fear or dread, or worse, in defeat and submission and danger. I’m glad the last time he hit her really was the last time and that she left and stayed left. I’m glad their marriage ended because to call that prison a marriage and that criminal a husband is to genuinely besmirch the concept of marriage. 25 years in prison wouldn’t be enough punishment for the hurt and pain he made her suffer. In my mind I secretly hope that somewhere he lost his temper and picked a fight with someone his own size and got his skull creased with a pool cue or a tire iron. Or that he stumbled out of a bar, drunk and high, and tripped down a manhole into the sewer where he was eaten by a family of C.H.U.D.s. I think that is the memory I’d most like to have; devoured by C.H.U.D.s.

That is all part of her past now. The person I’m meeting today is someone who emerged from that nightmare not as a victim, but as a survivor. I see her now, walking up the street with that easy gait that she learned only after she found her freedom. Head high, eyes looking up, arms swinging, a certainty in her step… She still wears a t-shirt and layered skirt (I think they are called “broom skirts”), her over-sized feet in leather sandals, simple hair, no makeup. She’s still slim but not scrawny the way she was back then, wasted and pale. When she sees me waiting she grins like a mega-watt lamp. I stand up and she wraps her arms around my neck and kisses my cheek. She smells like floral soap and warm skin. We step apart and I hold her hands. It’s been so long, so very fucking long. Seventeen years since I last saw her lifeless body lying in a casket. Seventeen years since I helped carry her to her grave. Seventeen years since I said goodbye to her for the very last time. How cruel is love, when it lingers on after the person you love has gone? It doesn’t feel like love, it doesn’t make the heart happy, and there is no longer any love returned. Still the love survives, and it hurts in spades.

But that is not the dream we are having today. Today my friend, whom I love, sits down at a café we frequent and tells me what is happening in her life. She orders an herbal tea and a lemon muffin. She slips off her shoes and props her bare feet on the chair next to her. She lolls her head around and enjoys the autumn sunshine and the gentle breeze. Since she got away from him her life has been an uphill journey, in that every step she took and every choice she made has brought her to a higher level of success, love, life and happiness. She quickly took her GED and passed because she was always a very bright young woman. She scraped and worked hard and went back to school and graduated. She chose to work counseling other battered and abused women and children because unfortunately there is never any shortage of people needing that kind of help. She had an opportunity to travel abroad like she always wanted and I remember taking her to the airport and watching her file to the gate, so nervous and excited. She would look over at me and grin and wave every five seconds. She had the time of her life. Her sweetness, compassion, curiosity and adventurous zest for life draw many good people to her. She found a man who is faultlessly kind and caring to her. He treats her with respect and understanding and he doesn’t care about the scars she carries on her flesh and in her heart. He is tender and gentle and they make love like a soul divided and rejoined. They’ve made babies together. She is the mother she always wanted to be; strong and kind and supportive of her children. She loves her family and they love her. She beams when we talk about her family. I’m a little melancholy and a little jealous. I know in my heart it was not in the design for us to be together. But it is so fulfilling to see so many of her dreams come true it makes me wish I had a larger role in her life these days. Once I thought I was everything to her. Maybe for a while I was. If I was a bridge that enabled her to escape her former life, that is more than enough for me.

Her oldest child (she always wanted a daughter so let’s make the child a daughter), born in a storm of transition and uncertainty and questions and accusations, is nearly a grown woman herself. My friend, who was always such a wisp of a girl and so childlike herself, has raised a daughter almost to adulthood. Where have the years gone? What have I done with my life since then that has been worthwhile? Plenty of time… time to raise a child. What have I done to make my life matter? When a person dies we lose everything they were and everything they would have been. Theirs is a truncated destiny and it seems important that we who remain here make better use of our time, appreciate the lives and opportunities we have.

She drinks her tea and won’t talk about regrets. Her focus is forward. Life for her is an unfolding gift of choices and opportunities. Her voice is light and fresh, not the cautious murmur of years ago. When I lean towards her she leans towards me, she doesn’t shrink away. She lives her life without fear now, in the light. Our lives have changed and our paths have diverged but we are still close in many ways. There’s a stillness when we are together that is very soothing. I realize it is because I am happy to be in her presence. It is a friend’s love, not a lover’s love. I have a woman who loves me, who yearns for me and who – God help her – even tolerates me and forgives me. I have my soul partner and I wouldn’t trade her away for anything but I wouldn’t trade away this stillness and peace, either. It’s the absence of that stillness and peace that has devilled me so many years. It is a balm to my ragged soul and I only feel it now because I know that my friend can finally have the life she wanted, the adventure she longed for, the security she sought, the love she craved. In this dream, nothing is denied to her.

She takes a bite of her muffin but it doesn’t agree with her and she makes a comical face and demurely spits the crumbs into a napkin. I smile and tell her I warned her; we don’t come here for the food, after all. In this dream she and I have a long history of laughter and love and friendship. We’ve gone to parks and beaches and museums together. We’ve watched sunsets and moonrises and car races. Movie dates and carnivals and Thanksgiving dinners. Easter egg hunts with waddling babies, first birthdays, weddings, graduations, holidays… I’ve been there for her, and she for me. We’ve shared fears and hopes and secrets and dreams. I am endlessly amazed how far her vision reaches. With each new achievement, she sets her sights higher. But I always knew that, given the chance, her soul would soar.

I’m able to watch all this through a different set of eyes, too. The pain and the guilt and the grief and the anger and the sorrow that I never experienced lets me see things differently now. Shoot, I even have some faith that God just might be on our side after all, and not some cruel, omnipotent sadist indiscriminately raining misfortune down on us, or some hack deity ready to take all the credit for the good things that happen but dodging all responsibility for the bad things that happen. Her being here helps me see things differently. We sit and drink tea and talk for hours. The sun glides across the sky and the shadows sundial their way around us. People come and go and it feels like one of those time-lapse scenes where everything around us moves at super-speed and we sit in a warm cocoon of peace and calm. We talk, we laugh, we share, we try to scandalize each other. I learn about her all the things I wanted most to know. She loves her job; it fulfills her and makes her feel valued and important in the community. She loves her house with the greenhouse out back and the wide yard with the rope swing dangling from a heavy oak limb. She loves her kids and her husband, finally having a family that knows how to trust, love, protect, and cherish one another. Mostly she loves her life and sucks up every breath with gratitude and joy. Maybe because I know what really happened, my dream friend knows what could have happened and appreciates the chances given to her all the more and is determined to never take one second for granted.

Our conversations wind down and we sit in easy silence. She lightly touches the back of my hand like she used to. She gazes off and I wonder what is going through her head. Finally she says, cryptically: “It was all worth it.” I don’t know what she means but it is in my dream so I add it in here. I feel a tinge of sorrow that we will be parting soon. How ironic that even having her here still means bittersweet goodbyes. She will go back to her life and I to mine and our journeys will continue until we swing into one another’s orbits again. It won’t be long. The advantage to having her with me in this life is that it is never long until I see her or speak to her again. Tenderly she tells me she has to go, but that she has enjoyed this afternoon with me. It has meant more to me than she can guess. Her life, her presence, her happiness, is beautiful to me. It erases the stupid, selfish, idiot decisions I made so long ago that helped cost my friend her life. Tragic mistakes backed out of without the terrible consequences that followed. Seeing her now, alive and well and complete, absolves me and leaves me forgiven, chastised and cautioned. It is the only course of forgiveness available to me.

She sits up and slides back into her shoes and leans forward with that space of silence that accompanies the reluctant endings of good conversations. She looks at me with happiness and hope and triumph and mercy and compassion. She will never see the parts of me that only evolved after she was gone because they never took root. She says she has to go and I know it is to a life that matters, a well-lived life. We stand and hug and kiss and trade “I love you’s” and she bids me give her love to everyone, and I wish her the same. I wish her all the best. The very, very best. We part by degrees, until our fingertips roll off each other’s. She smiles warm-heartedly and waves and turns to walk away, that confident spring in her step.

I won’t leave just yet. I will sit here and watch her walk away, watch her throw a glance and a grin and a wave over her shoulder every five seconds. I will sit here and watch until I cannot see her any longer and I will still sit here and know that she’s in the world, living, breathing, loving. I’ll sit here for an hour with that thought. I’ll sit here for a year.

Ever since we first moved into our subdivision, nearly two years ago, a small lot has stood vacant at the entrance, for sale. We wondered who or what would ever end up on that property, and would it be a boon or bust for our neighborhood. So, the place really exists. Maybe that gives this particular daydream something more of a foothold in reality.

Sunday, September 11

It is cool and pleasant outside and we are getting ready to close for the evening. Wow, it has been a good day. We sold almost all our fresh produce and bread and cheese. We sold a bunch of S.’s soaps and lotions and gift baskets. More than twenty people signed up for next week’s cooking class, bringing the total to over forty. Mental note, get more chairs, and more product for food tasting. Someone came by and asked me about doing a dinner party for their garden club, using the fresh and organic product I sell and some of the local wines I promote, too. This little market stall has turned out to be a good idea. Although I was not always convinced it would be.

The seed of the idea for our organic vegetable stand was laid when we walked by the tiny corner lot at the end of our street and saw it was for sale, 100% financing available. We pondered what commercial operation might go in there. We were both concerned it would be something that would not add to the value of our community. A gas station or a convenience store or a strip center that remains vacant for months, a brand new ghost town at the mouth of our subdivision. We began to talk about the things we’d rather see go in there. A cute boutique shop or a nice family market where we could stop and grab a few item on our way in, vs. going to Kroger. Our conversation developed and we thought how cool it would be to have a diverse little organic produce market. We have a produce market down the street, but it is the kind of store that stocks everyday vegetables, jams, shelled peas in ziplock bags, boiled peanuts… what I call “cracker food”. And it doesn’t cater to the diverse elements of our community.

We envisioned a small stall set on the blacktop with room for about five cars at a time. It would have little racks with the kind of produce you cannot find at CrakerMart, foods that appeal to our diverse neighborhood of Asians, Latinos, African-Americans and the smattering of others. Also everything organic and local, with a cooler for fresh cheeses and yogurt made from raw milk. That was the kind of place that we would like to have, communal and local and independent.

Of course, the idea of “why not do this ourselves?” crossed our minds. We talked and brainstormed and figured things out. We daydreamed and imagined ways we would make it work. She would keep her job and I would man the stand during the week. We’d work together on the weekends. She would make soaps and lotions in the evening to sell in a little basket. She would blend specialty teas. I would go to the market for the best organic produce, I’d make jams and preserves and spaghetti sauces and salsas. We wouldn’t make a fortune, but we’d get by in the summer when my industry is slow and we’d be serving the community.

That was a year ago.

In the months that followed the seed burrowed and took root in our combined brains. A used commercial shed became available to us for a song of a price. We bought it without even really knowing what we would do with it. Our friend bought two cows for milking, ensuring us a steady supply of milk and eggs if we wanted. The property remained vacant, and a new sign announced a new price, with a buy or lease option. My work and my interests brought me into contact with people who provided a range of organic and interesting products. I investigated the requirements for having a roadside vegetable stand and learned that they were not impossibly high. A friend gifted us a large chill chest. We chatted with neighbors and found they shared our vision for quality food choices that were convenient and conscious. Over time this was less of a dream and more of an idea, then more of a concept, then more of a plan.

One day we contacted the real estate agency about the property that was still unsold, over-grown and weeded. They quoted us a figure that was impossibly high and I figured this was the reason people dreamed things that never came to be; harsh reality set in. But then I thought about some advice I had offered a friend recently about what to do when there was nothing to lose. I told the agent that their price was ridiculous, explained what I wanted to do with the property and why, and counter-offered my “dream scenario price” with a take-it-or-leave it finality. A few days later they called me back to see if I was still interested, because there had been another price reduction. The price still wasn’t low enough, but instead of quibbling on money, I held firm to my original offer and explained again my mission. I was talking to the Universe at large as well as the real estate agent. It’s not the money, it’s the mission.

Weeks go by, fall slips into winter, winter becomes spring. One day the agent calls me and asks if I am interested in a special leasing contract on the property. The numbers work and we agree to meet on the property to talk about the details. When we get there I walk him around the lot and draw the vision for him, filling the lot with imaginary patrons and a homey storefront with a raised bed garden in the back and an area for cooking demonstrations and potluck parties. I was fleshing out my own vision as well. The Universe hears, and the Universe delivers. I walked away with a leasing contract for one year, with a monthly payment less than purchasing the lot outright would have cost.

After the “Oh shit!” factor had worn off, we realized we had serious work to do. Off days and late evenings were spend cleaning, weeding, trimming and cutting back a jungle of vegetation that had grown up around the lot. Endless trips to the state and county offices for the proper licensing. Renewed contact with vegetable vendors and farmers, cheese-making classes and supplies, canning and preserving, building a selection of natural soaps and lotions… it all became an exhausting, daunting, frustrating, and sometimes terrifying push to meet our opening date of June 21st. We nearly broke our own bank, but on Solstice Eve we had a “soft” opening after the sun went down. The lot and store front were lit with strings of bulbs, a fire pit burned on one side, ice cold lemonade and peach punch were on the other side. Summer vegetables packed the shelves and tables, baskets of soaps lined the counter. Our friends and invited guests filled the lot with conversation and laughter. We had a guy I know from a local winery donate his time and product for an improptu wine lesson and I gave a short cooking demo using fresh tomatoes. We had put up folding tables and they were piled with casserole dishes and potluck meals and everyone wandered and ate and made little purchases and we ran around hosting and trying to cover all the bases.

Through the course of the evening we attracted a lot of attention from our fellow neighbors as well as people driving by on the road. Many stopped and joined our party, making their own observations and purchases. Everyone left smiling, everyone left happy. We made $300 in four hours and I had no idea if that was good or bad but it didn’t matter. I’d taken a leave of absence from my day job last week and like it or not, we were at the cliff’s edge, so we’d better start flapping our wings and fly.

We opened the next day to waves and lulls. People often drove by, looking at our little stand, but not stopping. Some pulled in, wandered around, and left without buying anything. Everyone who came left with a pamplet listing not only upcoming events and classes, but a paragraph outlining our mission. Hey, who’d have though that all those years in church would pay off in some way? Keep pushing the mission! On the weekend we were slammed. We sold out of everything and the rows of chairs set up for my little pineapple demonstration were full. S. cut her day at the market short so she could run to the craft store and clean them out of soap-making supplies to replenish her stock. On Sunday I packed everything away, locked the converted shed and gate surrounding it and walked (yes, walked, not drove) up the stree to my house.

That evening I hosted a small and intimate dinner for those people who had been most instrumental in bringing this dream to a reality. My friends, the wine guy, the real estate agent were all there. We had a delicious meal from the very product I was selling to my customers and we toasted to the success of our dream market with glasses of champagne. We were celebrating as if we were at the end of a long journey rather than at the beginning. That celebratory energy is what I wanted to generate and manifest. That sense of “as if”.

All summer I have worked the market with more success than either of us imagined when we first talked about it. Sure, there have been shortages from vendors and frustrations and issues. But we have always referred to the mission. We have always put the mission first. That actually seems to heal hurt feelings and solve problems. We sell soaps and bath salts and lotions, tea blends, fair trade coffee imports, bushels of fresh vegetables and fruits, jars of jams and preserves, sauces, cheeses, yogurt, eggs, breads, cakes, pies, brownies, dressings… We have a small rack for a woman who makes pottery, a shelf for a man who blends his own spices (22 of them so far). Two or three times a week we have classes under the tent next to the garden which is finally bursting forth with ripe, homegrown vegetables. In the far corner, away from the hubub but still visible, sit four bee hive boxes. In another corner I’ve finished building a pen and roost for our first live chickens. We are going to teach and serve as much as we sell. Two weeks ago, after the market was closed down, I made a private dinner for an couple celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary, with the cloth-draped and candlelit table set up along the raised bed gardens in a way that made them feel they were dining in the middle of a greenhouse. Later this fall I am going to actually have a greenhouse. Newspapers and local magazines have been out to photograph our stand and report on how in a tough economy two dinks on the outskirts of a major city build a successful specialty market. I would never call us a “specialty” market. Our interests are not specialized. Our mission is broad.

Mondays and Tuesdays the market is closed but I am still busy. There are food runs to make and product to produce and books to keep. I’ve hired a girl from the neighborhood fresh out of high school to work the register during the rest of the summer and fall. I can’t pay her much, but I can give her a lot. We haven’t decided if we will stay open on weekends during the winter or if I will go back to work in my industry, staying busy and paying the bills, and resume our market again in the late spring. With all our thought and concentration on getting started, we have not thought that far ahead. People in the neighborhood know us by face and name now. They look out for our tiny little concern, forming a kind of “marketwatch” after we were broken into one night. There have been no repeated robberies and I have to believe that sometimes things like that happen so that a greater good can be generated. Financially the market didn’t make us rich, but it paid for itself, our lease for the year, the renewal for next year, and all our bills with a bit of extra cash, provided the taxes aren’t worse than we projected. If we stopped right now, tonight, we’d be a success.

But the need hasn’t stopped so our mission hasn’t stopped. I can still walk briskly to work each day and imagine greater things, things that delight and inspire me. I’m sharing that inspiration with others around me, a few of whom have asked me to start a CSA-type food box that they can pick up every week. Occasionally someone comes by who has their own items to market or a farm. Sometimes people request me for special events that they are (gasp!) willing to pay handsomely for. My wine guy and I do regular classes now where he talks to guests about wine as they munch on food I’ve prepared. We do this in offices and condos and million-dollar homes. It’s a lot of work, but it’s also a lot of fun.

It is cool and pleasant outside and we have closed for the evening. Everything is put away and locked tight and we tote a basket of assorted vegetables and a cooler of cheese as we walk up the street to our house. We take a very circuitous route so that we can walk throught the neighborhood and wave to our neighbors. I give away several tomatoes and cucumbers and zucchinis. We chat here and there with people. We go arm in arm up to our door. I shower and shave and make plans for the next day. I miss a call on my phone from the real estate agent. He leaves a message that says he has another small property about 4 miles away very much like the one I am currently leasing. He hasn’t had any offers on it in a year. Have I ever thought about expanding my operation?

I will call him back, but not tonight. It is Sunday night and I’m home with my wife and for a few hours, that’s all there will be. It’s Sunday night already? Jeez, time flies when you are having the time of your life.

This time last year I posted a daydream about what kind of a Father’s Day I would have liked to have had. Of course it was all fantasy, but it wielded a sharp knife. I wonder if sometimes things aren’t better left un -said.

They say you don’t get the things you want until you are really ready for them. If you never get them, then does that mean you were never ready?

I think over the last year I’ve lost my stamina. It’s become too grueling. It’s depressing to see rounded female bellies when we go out. It’s hard to follow other’s posts and stories about wonderful pregnancies and happy, wrinkled little newborn babies. I want to be happy but I don’t feel warm-hearted anymore… I feel more and more like I’m being hit in the chest with a medieval spiked mace. Last year I fretted over my friend Linda’s baby, born premature, for four months. Then she retreated into near total seclusion with the child and I haven’t seen so much as a photo since. Just a few emails, “she’s fine, we’re fine… go on about your lives”. My wife’s friend from work got pregnant at the end of the year. At 42, she was surprised. She and her husband had given up trying to have more children after two miscarriages. She was quietly happy but wouldn’t get her hopes up. After the first trimester she began to be a little more confident. S. began to construct a baby box as a shower gift. In the fifth month her friend began to have familiar troubles. Shortly after she miscarried again. S. put away the box and hasn’t touched it since. We know a couple trying to conceive. They are not having success right now and that is hard to listen to; it reinforces my own feelings. But how much worse will I feel when they succeed where I have failed, and how awful a feeling is that to have about our friends?

Maybe it’s not something I deserve. But if the fates are going to remove the ability, could they not remove the desire as well? Does it have to ground out like sand in a wound that forms a callous?

Sunday, June 19th, Father’s Day

How can I love the idea of something that never existed? How can I grieve the loss of something I never had? Pictures never taken, baths never given, long nights never lost in worry, candles never blown out, presents never unwrapped and played with. Games of peek-a-boo never played, bicycle lessons never taught, hair never braided, dresses and gowns never bought. Plays never watched, matches and races never cheered, teeth never exchanged for quarters, grandparents never deluged with photos and videos and colored drawings. No camping trips or fishing expeditions or bowling or roller skating, no cartoons or video games or books with big letters and big pictures where everyone lives happily ever after. No beanies, bows, booties or Oshkosh B’Gosh or Fisher Price or Sesame Street. No dolls or plastic tea sets, no GI Joes or Matchbox cars. No Star Wars blankets or My Little Pony curtains. No doctors or dentists or karate instructors or ballet teachers. No homework, no summer school, no gymnastics, no scattered laundry or slamming doors or footballs and bicycles scattered on the lawn in the rain. No “because I said so” or awkward conversations about where babies come from and where we go when we die. No membership into the all-encompassing, all-understanding, all-commiserating club of parenthood. No dances, no graduations, no sleepovers, no grounded-till-your-eighteen. No snot to wipe, no tears or blood or poop or pee or puke or Kool Aid. No kiddie Halloween costumes or Christmas morning chaos. No Mother’s Day. No Father’s Day.

It’s not a dream about something I ever had, or something I ever almost had. It’s like a gap in my life with a bottomless hole and every shovel full of dirt just drops right through. So it never closes. It’s a wound that gets pulled open with every question from unknowing clods about children and fatherhood and it never heals and never scars. So it stays fresh and bleeding. And since the feelings are counter to everything a commitment-phobic, responsibility-darting, emotionally-hardened, freedom-loving man is supposed to be, no one considers the pain and loneliness and emptiness and sadness. Or the way it feels to see other men pour out onto the ground the contents of a cup I would die to take just one taste of. Their fear of their fatherhood astounds me, their disregard infuriates me, their carelessness breaks my heart.

I’ve tried to turn it off, tried to run, tried to live a different life. I’ve tried to fill the void with things and money and drink and work and women and experiences. But it is like a coat of paint over rusted iron. For a short while things look good, but then the corrosion begins to bubble and crack and flake the paint away. What lies underneath will always come to the surface. I cannot really complain, my life is fuller and happier and more complete than a lot of others. There is little I want that I lack for. But in the end it is just paint over iron.

I would give up my whole life to make things different. I would give up the air in my lungs and the blood in my veins and the heart in my chest and the soul in my body. I would surrender every ounce of myself and lay it on the altar of fatherhood if it would change anything. I would love without condition or consideration and all my being would be bent to being the best father, husband and man I possibly could. If wishing were what it took, if dreams were what made things real, if desire brought the things desired… then it is the one thing I would have.

But it isn’t, and I don’t. The dream ends and the halls are quiet, the rooms are empty, the air is still. No laughter, no squeals, no thumps, no crying. No splashing in the pool, no ice cream, no teddy bear surgeries, no Band Aids, no BFF bracelets. Not even memories or ghosts or almosts. Just nothing, just never.

The best thing about daydreams is that they can occur anywhere, anytime. You do need time to indulge them, however, to flesh them out and give them structure in your imagination. Most of my days last year were consumed with constant concentrations and attention so that daydreams were a luxury I could scarcely afford. However, I realize that some really good ideas can come out of daydreams, if we tease them into fullness and look for ways to fulfill them. My daydream, once I reconsidered it, seemed like a good way to market my skills, ask and receive, and take advantages of opportunities. I don’t know that I would do it exactly like this, but it wouldn’t be a bad starting point…

Monday, January 10

I’m in the bookstore. I love this place. It is at once huge and cozy. It is the kind of place you can get lost in, hiding among the towering rows of shelves, the one place the mutual courtesies shared by bookies will prevent someone from starting a conversation with you when you bury you nose in a tome. It is the kind of place where you can initiate a conversation with an interesting someone if you wish. It is a place where you and your friends can gather and you can all hold court at the tables near the coffee counter and talk about whatever and no one will give you strange looks. It is a hallowed place, and surrounding me are kindred people with a shared interest. They have forgone their televisions and sports bars and rave clubs to come here and browse the world’s collective voice, printed on millions and millions of pieces of papers, bound in paper and cardboard.

As usual, I am perusing the food and cookbook section. Here it is quite large and diverse, and laid out according to the bookstore bible of marketing to ensure maximum traffic flow. The people who come and go from this section are as diverse as the volumes upon the shelves. But I am on the lookout; not for the latest fad diet or the musings of the most recently elevated celebrity chef. I am on the lookout for a certain type of person reviewing titles in this section of the bookstore. I have been here, prowling, for about an hour. Wearing my chef jacket and pants, carrying a notebook and a couple of titles under my arm, I patrol this section like a territorial shark. Yes, I am here to discover new information and find out what new books and ideas are on the market. But I am mainly here to fish; to cast out baited hooks and see who I can lure into biting.

A middle-aged man comes around the corner. I watch him discreetly as he traces his fingers over various glossy book surfaces. He stands next to me and reaches for a copy of “The Atkins Diet”. In one hand is already a copy of “The No Fat Diet”. Ah, first of the year resolver, I think, glancing at his thick midsection. No ring, nice clothes, decently groomed and in fairly good shape, except for that expanded middle. Probably rather athletic in his youth.

He picks up “The Atkins Diet” and I say quietly, “Ohhhh, don’t do that.” He glances over at me. I don’t look at him, I look at the book he holds at arms-length, just off the shelf. But to him, I “look the part”(thanks to my own observation of my goal on 43T): I have on my chef jacket, the pocket on the sleeve bristling with pens and a thermometer; I’m in good shape because I exercise every day and I am scrupulous about what I eat; under one arm I have a notepad filled with scribbles about food and dieting, in my other hand I have an aluminum water bottle with an assortment of affirmations on the outside(my “power water”). He gives me just a glance, but it is enough to give him the immediate impression that I am someone who knows what I am talking about. Those first impressions… priceless.

“No good?” he asks, probably unaware he has already allowed the book to settle back on the shelf. I give a short shake of my head. He nibbles at the bait. “What would you suggest?” I look down at the other book in his hand, as if seeing it for the first time. “Well,” I say. “What are you trying to do?” This may seem a dumb question, but wait…

“I need to drop a few pounds,” he confesses, patting his belly. “For how long?” I ask. “Pardon me?” he responds. I lean in just a little. “For how long do you want to lose the weight?” Wait for it…

“Well, for good, I guess. You know, take it off and keep it off.” There, he has said it. He has articulated in his mind and with his voice what his desire is. I nod, complete understanding in my face and poise. “Then these books are not what you want. These are temporary solutions, and not very good ones. Many people go on these diets and might lose weight for a little while but they generally end up gaining it all back, and then gain even more. Diets like these are not the answer for you.” I turn and point out books that are not in the dieting section. They have titles like “Farm to Table”, “Fresh and Simple”, “The Sustainable Cookbook”, and “Return to Real Food”.

“Most likely, you are already eating the foods you need to… you just need to eat them in a different way.” And I explain to him in four sentences what my philosophy on modern food and eating is(since I am only daydreaming at this point, we will gloss over those points). I tell him how important regular exercise is and being clear about what he wants. He is engaged now, and we talk for several minutes, he describes the way he wants to look and feel, and I give color to his descriptions. His biggest two enemies are time and knowledge. He needs something easy and fast. He doesn’t really cook or know what kind of variety to seek in pursuing a broad and healthy eating program.

“So,” he asks inevitably. “You’re a chef?” People always ask this when I wear my jacket out in the world. They would never ask a uniformed cop if he was a policeman, or a man in a spacesuit if he was an astronaut. I don’t know why they do, but they always do and it always allows me to reach into my pocket and present them with a card. “Yes,” I supplement. “I am a personal chef.” Before he can ask I give him my practiced one sentence description of what a personal chef is, and what they do. He is nodding, affirming in his mind, as he takes my card. Finding me is better than finding a book, he has determined. I ask him if he has a card and sure enough, he does. He is in a lucrative field, a something-something/something-something. I take the card and tuck it away. I probably won’t call him. But I will put the card up on my intention board and put out the intention that he will call me. We shake hands and part on a promise that he will get in touch with me and check out my webpage. I work my way out of the food and cookbook section and head over toward the magazines. Sometimes to net more game, you have to expand your hunting territory.

I cut through the children’s book section, walking slowly. A woman approaches me, a two-year old child in tow. “Excuse me,” she asks. “Are you one of those personal chefs?” Look the part, it pays off. I tell her I am and I give her three cards(she has friends, certainly). She is glad to meet me, she really needs help getting her family to eat right and peppers me with questions about my services and the type of food I do. I answer her with four sentences. “Well, I will probably be giving you a call,” she says brightly, and I invite her to look at the webpage, which has much more information and wonderful photos that I could ever get her to stand still for in the middle of a bookstore. Moving on I go to the long wall of magazines and position myself in front of the food and fitness magazines. For twenty minutes no one passes into my field of interest. Then a man ambles over to me and boldly asks me where the best place to eat in town is, but not too expensive. I tell him the best place to eat is right in his own dining room, with someone like me preparing his dinner. Imagine a wonderful three or four course meal for him and his friends or family, with nothing to cook or clean-up, and also no parking to pay or waiting to be seated or trying to get the waiter’s attention. I give him a card, and he takes it but shakes his head. “I’m from out of town. We’re staying at a hotel and I’m sick of eating in their restaurant. I wanted to try someplace new. You don’t work at a restaurant around here?” I don’t say ‘no’. I almost never say ‘no’. Instead I tell him that I am a personal chef, and I make meals for busy families, working single professionals, people trying to lose weight, or people who need special diets but can’t cook for themselves, such as cancer patients. At this the man looks up. “My brother-in-law has cancer,” he says. “That’s why we are here, visiting. He really needs to eat more, but he’s lost a taste for everything and my sister just doesn’t know what to do. She’s so busy with everything else, and she’s really stressed about trying to make dinners flavorful and different for him.” I nod, complete understanding in my face and poise, and explain how I have helped people just like his sister in these situations. “Well, I’ll give her your card, thanks,” the man says.

I check the big clock on the wall and see that I have exhausted my allotted time for prowling. Only time will tell if I netted any big game, but it is always invigorating to make myself available to opportunities. I leave the bookstore and stop by the supermarket to pick up a few items for dinner that evening. I do a slow stroll around the produce department, picking up fruits and vegetables and eyeing them knowledgeably. A woman on a cell phone notices me and nods with a smile. I smile back. I make a circuitous path to where she is standing undecided in front of rows of vegetables. I shamelessly eavesdrop on her phone conversation. She is having to make dinner for her dad. She doesn’t know what to make, since he doesn’t like anything. She asked her husband to pick something up but he forgot and she has just been so busy she hasn’t had time to think about what to make. “This always happens,” she says to the phone. “I always get stuck having to make something last minute and I don’t know what to do.”

I draw a card from my pocket and present it to her. I hold it just out of reach so she has to step toward me to take it. That step is an affirmation in her psyche. “For the next time it happens,” I tell her. I turn and walk away, but I hear her tell her phone that she will call right back. “Excuse me,” she calls after me. I stop and turn. She takes a few more affirmative steps towards me, holding my card in front of her. “So… you’re a chef?”

I am not a father. I don’t have children. I never will have any of my own. Everyone assumes I never wanted children, that I made conscious and deliberate decisions to evade fatherhood. Or that there is something wrong with me, that I lack the real measure of being a man. I think that, too. I think my life is poorer for never having had children, and that I am less of a man. I failed in the most fundamental function humans have on this planet: make more humans. I’ve tried and tried. Failure. All on my part. I’ll never witness a sonogram of my child growing in a woman’s body. Never lie next to her and feel her body change and her belly swell over the months, or feel little rolls and kicks inside of her. Never see my child born into the world. Never hear anyone say “He’s the image of you”, or “she’s got her father’s eyes”.

People, often other men, tell me how lucky I am not to have had children. They tell me how lucky I am to be free and able to go where I want when I want. How lucky I am not to have to fight for custody with ex-wives, pay child support, not to be tied down and always in “dad-mode”. When they tell me this I ask them if they really wish they had never become father’s themselves. Not a single one ever answers “I wish I’d never become a father”. So, lucky me.

Sunday, June 20th, Father’s Day

Before the sun even has a chance to come up I can hear doors opening and little feet coming down the hall. The door to our bedroom creaks open and little eyes peek furitively in. When they spy my head lifting off the pillows the door flies open and the two girls dash in, shrieking laughter and clamboring onto the bed. They jump at the foot of the bed singing “♬Happy Father’s Day To You…♬” and crying out that I need to get up, get up, get up. Only six and four year olds have this kind of energy in the morning. Their mother rolls over and looks at them with that amused, patient look she has. The girls grab my hand and try to pull me up and my wife and I have to tuck the sheet tighter around us so the kids don’t uncover our nakedness. My wife gave me my Father’s Day gift around midnight.

She shoos the girls out of the room with make-belive chores and I get up and take a shower. I think about Father’s Day while the water pours over me. Father, Dad, Papa, Daddy. These are names no one but my children can call me. Like invoking the secret name of God, these little people have access to parts of me no one else does. Have I been a good father? Am I a good dad?

My oldest daughter is seventeen. She was born to a woman I loved but never married. For a long time I wasn’t the best dad. I probably fucked that situation up, but given the choice of having her or not having her I’d rather she was in this world than not. I sent cards and gifts and money. I saw her as often as I could and when life settled down for me we actually got to know each other. I’ve always loved her very much. This summer she chose to stay home with her mother and get a job. She will be a high school senior in the fall and an adult very soon. I got her card on Friday and it was full of swirly hearts and X’s and O’s and syrupy proclamations that I am officially the best dad ever. That wasn’t always true. My clearest memory is standing at the window of the hospital nursery looking at her tiny, wrinkled, red, tagged and taped body sleeping in post birth exhaustion and wondering what the hell do I do now. I was paralyzed with terror, I think. Up to now it had been only me. Wives you can divorce. Parents, friends, family you can leave and they will be fine. But now there is a weak and dependent part of me in the world, and I cannot for a moment stop thinking about her happiness and welfare. I’m sad she didn’t come to stay with us this summer, but I understand. And I love her all the same.

Out of the shower and quickly dressed. My wife passes me on her way to the shower and gives me a progress report. Breakfast for Father’s Day is being drummed up in the kitchen. The kids are in charge of preparations. With some trepidation I go downstairs. Three pajama clad kids crowd the kitchen. My 12-year old son is making pancakes. My son. My boy. My mini-me. He’s grown like a weed in the last year, both physically and from child to teen. He’s got a few of his mother’s features but mostly he looks like I did at that age. He looks like his dad. Like his dad he fancies himself a chef. The pancakes have cranberries and walnuts in them. When he was five he came down with a fever so bad we took him to the hospital at 2am. I sat in a curtained room with him on my lap, ice packs over his whole body, waiting for doctors and test results. I prayed and pleaded with a stone-silent God. I bargined my life and soul in exchange for my son’s. Take whatever You want from me, but leave this child unharmed. He recovered without ill effect but everyday I remember that my life if forfeited for his. God can have it when ever He wants it, and that’s okay with me. While my son studiously flips the pancakes I make juice and fruit and toast and by the time my wife comes downstairs we are all at the table and Dad’s Breakfast Gift begins. It is splendid.

Kids go upstairs to dress. I clean up the kitchen. I am home today by choice and design, not happenstance or accident. My work leads me to travel, which I love. It also allows me to make my schedule (more or less) and I love that too. I don’t miss birthdays or ball games or dance recitals. When I am home I spend nights reading stories and helping with homework and playing games and blowing bellies. I was in the audience when my six-year old made her play debut. Instead of speaking her four-word lines(“Here comes the King!) she stood in the middle of the stage, staring with amazement at the audience. When her eyes fell on her mother and I she pointed, waved, and let out a long, loud “Hahahahahahahaha!” She’s no Meryl Streep, but she’s a damned fine daughter.

Into the car and off we go. It’s supposed to be my day, but we will do what the kids enjoy. I take them to Pilar’s farm. We pick tomatoes and cucumbers and squash from her garden. My kids play with her kids. They ride the horses and feed the goats and chase the chickens. Pilar and I talk about the upcoming series of Garden Club Dinners we are doing at her farm. We will be gathering local produce and meats and I will prepare gourmet dinners for people who come out to the farm where they can learn about local, sustainable food resources, whole food cooking, and environmental impacts they can make by their choices. Somewhere during the day I find some time to call my own father. That relationship has never been really good, but I am a dad now, too, and I am resolved to be both a better dad and a better son. He got the cards we sent him, including the hand-made ones from the children. He laughs when I tell him about pancakes with cranberries and walnuts. I never heard him laugh before I had children.

When it becomes hot we get in the car and go over to a friend’s apartment. They have a pool and we slather the kids with sunscreen and everyone gets in the water. I bounce the baby around in her water wings as she sputters and spits and tells me she can do it on her own. The second I release her she screams and tells me to not let go, Daddy. I gather her thrashing body up and she grips my fingers in her hands. When she was born I held her bundled little form and even though they say newborns cannot see anything clearly this little girl looked me straight in the eyes with great severity, as if judging whether I was worthy of the task before me. Her newborn infant hand slowly opened and closed, grasping my finger. A few years later she gripped my hand with tears spilling down her cheeks. She had decided to kick a large cactus in the neighbor’s yard and now a long, wicked cactus spine was speared between her toes. My own fingers trembled as I tried delicately to remove the thorn. She screamed and cried with each tug I gave and inwardly I was torn to shreds. With fierce resolve I jerked the thorn out and hugged her sobbing frame tightly, hot tears scalding my own cheeks. Goddamn cactus. Goddamn cactus. I doctored her injured foot with iodine and neosporin and dinosaur bandages and coconut sorbet. The next time she went to do battle with the cactus she took a stick.

After the pool we go back to the house. We change clothes and fall in a pile on the sofa and watch a DVD with singing animals. Within 30 minutes the kids are napping. My wife and I slowly and methodically go through my Father’s Day cards. I scrutinize each one like it’s a work of art. Well, to me… each one is. My oldest calls and we talk for nealy half and hour. I think this is pretty good for a dad-teen daughter conversation.

It’s late in the afternoon and I rouse myself to make dinner. My son helps and the girls chase one another around the house. Eventually there is a crash and someone starts to cry and my wife intervenes. She has to be bad cop all day today. It’s Father’s Day and I’m off the hook.

We eat, we play around, I give horsey-back rides. It’s a pretty average day, I guess. The only difference is that I can look at each child and map the course of my life, and the value it has now. I’m no hero or president or world figure of great importance; the world isn’t so much a better place because of me. But my world is certainly a better place because of my four children.

Baths, dressed for bed, story-time. One more story, please. No one wants the day to be over with, especially me. Tucked in and lights out. I spend one hour preparing for Monday. I have appointments, demonstrations, and an article to write. When I come to bed my wife is still awake and waiting. “Did you have a nice Father’s Day?” she asks. I certainly did. We make long slow love, I try to demonstrate how grateful I am to her for her gift of our children. I still appreciate the other woman whose body gave me my beautiful, wonderful, amazing daughter, and that she has been such a good mother, even if we could not be together. I lie in tangled sheets and drift at the edge of sleep, my primitive dad-brain awake for the sounds of bumps or cries from my children’s rooms. I know not every day will be roses. There will be hospital trips and dentist trips and principal trips. There will be skinned knees and bloody lips and those sickening, heart-stopping falls from slides and swings. There will be buried pets and ruined clothes and tantrums with slamming doors and shouts of “I HATE it here! I can’t WAIT until I’m grown and outta here!” One day there won’t be story-time. One day they will swim on their own. One day they will slink out of the car and roll their eyes and moan that I am embarrasing them and ruining their lives.

There will also be days of hugs and tears and laughter. Graduations and birthdays and camping trips and vacations. Great mysteries only Dad has answers to, games to play, things to teach and show. Being a man, being a father, being there for them as they intergrate into the world. Everyday will be a treasure, a precious gift. My only fear is that all those days will go by too fast.

Today flew by, that’s for sure.

My daydream is to travel, have more time for friends, and do things in my life and career that fulfill me and allow me to contribute to the benefit of others. Also to appreciate the wonderful people and opportunities I already have in my life.

Saturday, May 1st

After all the events of last night I thought I would wake up late this morning. I guess the time difference hasn’t had a chance to kick in yet. Woke up about 5 am local time and went out on the hotel’s balcony, overlooking the ocean. The predawn darkness amplified the sounds of crashing surf and the city behind the hotel was just beginning to stir. I stretched and dressed and went for a run along the beach, fulfilling a goal I had set when I first decided to take this trip to Hawaii. The smell of the Pacific was clean and raw, and Oahu slowly revealed herself in the grays and pinks of the sunrise like a beautiful woman provocatively undressing. I passed a few other stalwart joggers at that early hour. A few tossed me a wave of the hand as we passed one another, others kept their heads down, focused on their own thoughts. My thoughts were on how fortunate I am, how “in the right place at the right time” my life is these days. It isn’t luck, it has been a challenging effort to arrange my life so I can be in the right places at the right times. But with the challenges come the rewards. Running on the beach in Honolulu at the start of a wonderful and exciting day is one of my rewards.

S. was still in bed sleeping when I got back to the suite. By the time I’d showered, shaved and made myself pretty she was up and half watching the morning TV shows, half reviewing my itinerary for the day. I made a green smoothie for me and an organic milkshake for her while she showered. We got dressed and went downstairs and a car from the studio took us to the location where I would be shooting the segment on organic and raw cuisine I had been flown out here for. It is part of a “traveling raw” series sponsored by Planet Green and The Discovery Channel. They chose a beautiful spot on the beach with a great view of Diamond Head in the background. We had shot all of the shopping and market sequences the day before, including taking a trip to Tom Yaw’s organic farm for some wonderful fruits and veggies. He’s a super great guy… an insurance broker who gave it up to get back to the earth and a natural way of life. Why is it that living in Hawaii still makes one feel like an expatriate living abroad? They are a state, after all. Maybe there is just no escaping the magic of these islands.

After the usual rigmarole in getting set up, saying hello to the host and quickly confirming what we would be doing and saying and who would be feeding us cues, we got to shooting. It took just over ninety minutes (I’m told it will be edited down to about seven or ten), and I demonstrated four dishes with about eleven ingredients, giving a little background on each one. It was fun. I can’t believe they pay me to do this. Wait, wait… yes I do believe it, because it is what I intended and opened myself up for. I even got a chance to promote my two books! Afterwards we used the left over foods and I quickly did a simple brunch for the film crew as they were breaking down. Everyone told me how well it went, and the producer chatted with me about other opportunities she might have. They want me to consider my own show but I don’t feel everything is in place the way I want it. I still have several big projects to complete this year (my next book has to have the final drafts submitted by July!!:O), and I still want my schedule to be my own for a while. I did give the producer a copy of “Freakin’ Vegan” and told her I’d be happy to talk with her more.

It would have been great to spend more time on Oahu but we had to get back to the hotel, pack up and catch our charter plane to the Big Island. During transit I worked on book drafts and reviewed the revisions Carmine had suggested. I emailed her the whole packet back and she said she had been waiting all day and I reminded her it is five hours difference between there and here. She finally asked me about the shoot and wanted all the contact info regarding the producer and asked if the host of the show was as cute and friendly in person as she appeared on television. Carmine is a great agent and a great friend. I am glad destiny and intention put her in my path.

Once on the Big Island Gail picked us up and we had a great, fun, relaxing day of sightseeing and volcano-prowling. I finally got to see real, actual lava running like a red ribbon into the sea, steam exploding and molten rock cracking as the island continues it growth and transformation. We made our way back to Gail’s tree house, where she was hosting a casual dinner party with friends. I love her place, it is so beautiful and restful and sacred. I wish I could come more than once a year but it is still such a big world, with sooo many things to see and do…

We made dinner and had things done well before everyone began to arrive. About twelve people showed up (two more than expected!) and everyone had something wonderful to say about Gail’s house. It has always been a great venue for synchronicity and this night was no exception. I met a wonderful and very personable couple who operate a gorgeous events venue in the jungle. They are hosting a week-long health and wellness seminar and want to engage a chef who can produce some healthy, exciting, sensuous and organic food for 50+ guests, most of whom are marketers and vendors of health and wellness products around the globe. They are doing this in September and want to talk about booking me for the week. I told them it would be two weeks minimum, and that only seemed to make them happier. They have two back-to-back weddings the weekend before, and the bride for one of them is a raw/vegan from Manhattan. We have exchanged information and I know I will be getting in touch with them. Also, S. met a woman who collects and polishes volcanic glass and ships them to jewelry makers. S. has wanted to develop more jewelry featuring things like volcanic glass, so they have a partnership in the making, too.

The dinner was fabulous. It wasn’t 100% raw but it was 100% delicious and everyone had a great time. They didn’t start leaving until nearly midnight and by then the change in time zones was catching up with me. I still had energy to clean up the kitchen, prep an easy fruit smoothie breakfast, take a quick shower (I always get a kick out of showering in the open air behind that bamboo curtain, a big tree rising behind me ☺). I bid everyone left a good night and staggered off to bed. I could hear S. and Gail talk and laugh a little while longer as I drifted in and out of sleep. I finally, faintly recall S. coming into the bedroom, kissing me, and snuggling under the sheet while the gentle sounds of the forest enveloped us.

Tomorrow we have to get up, go back to Honolulu, catch our plane and head home. I did arrange a detour: a two hour drive down to San Diego to spend a little time visiting R. and on Monday provide all the food and do some healthy eating demos for the Grand Opening of her second yoga studio. At the rate she’s going she will have a total of four open by the end of the year. HG will be there and we can finally talk face-to-face about the culinary exchange student idea for NNHHC. Ahhhh, so much to do. So many wonderful, exciting, rewarding things to do.

Today has been a good day.

I’ve enountered many people who keep “dream journals” wherein they seek to understand, remember, interpret, enjoy their nightly dreams. Mine is a slightly different take, and I think a means to creating an environment of intention and positivity (is that a word?). I don’t recall my dreams very often, and I don’t know what they mean. They could just be random processes of my brain chemisty sorting things out as I sleep. But I do recall my daydreams. Those thoughts and ideas that come when the mind is not intensely focused on the here and now. And I think daydreams are communications from our spirit, telling us the life we would like to have.

Ever get emotional over a daydream? Sure, we wake up with a start from a bad dream, but what happens when we let our waking imagination plunge forward into those realms of darkness or promise? The emotional effect is longer and more pronounced. It generates a mood that can remain with you all day. If you daydream about being in love, you feel more in love. If you daydream about skiing, you feel energized and active. If you daydream about that argument you’re gonna have with your boss/spouse/parent/kids… everyone better watch out, you’ll enter the room half-cocked.

Professional athletes and dancers “daydream” about their performance as a training method. People in the adult film industry think about sex before getting on the set. Seminar speakers imagine people in their underwear, salespeople rehearse their speils over and over in their heads, imagining (daydreaming) all possible variations of a conversation and countering them in advance.

A few months ago I needed to ask the owner of the company I work for a question. I went upstairs and found out he was not in town. He had flown to Manhattan for a restaurant grand opening, then was going to spend four days in Hong Kong for a friend’s birthday, where they would sample some of the world’s top cusine. This was not long after he got back from an Eco-vacation in Costa Rica. “He has time for all that?” I asked his assistant.

“He makes time for all that,” she told me in return. Then she turned back to her own stack of papers surrounding her keyboard. “Must be nice…” she said absently.

“Must be,” I said thoughtfully. That night I went home and wrote a small entry in my own journal, as if I had been the one who jetted up to NYC, had dinner then traveled to the other side of the planet for a friend’s birthday. I embellished it a little and personalized it, and when I was done I felt different in my spirit. I felt ambitious. A few days later I marked and planned for all my friends’ and family-members’ birthdays, and made sure they received cards and gifts.

I think a vision board is a type of daydream journal, and I continue to use mine and see results. However, for me it is harder to generate the kind of emotional investment I feel I need. I get it much more from writing and journaling. I want to see how the two actually work together.

All the entries here are going to be daydreams. Fiction. Hopes. Ambitions. Written as if they actually have transpired. No roots in reality or connection to current circumstances, necessarily. No logical deductions or counter-intuitive corrections. If I say I’m going to Mars to meet the president, it is because that daydream generates the best emotional currency for my ambitions at the time. If I say I want to climb Mt. Everest, and it reads like the exploits of a much younger, fitter, more sensible man, it is because that daydream encapsulates the intention I am trying to manifest.

It is meant to be work, but also to be fun. I want entries I can enjoy reading, that maintain the feelings I put in them even when they are re-read. I hope that by maintaining these feelings and intentions, I can begin to see some opportunities manifest.