You know that moment leading up to asking them to marry you? What about the intensity of hearing a loved one is dying? Go back a couple of years. Do you remember fighting poverty… and it almost winning? How about waiting for the largest decision of your life-
And them saying-
Yes.
We all dance with the devil: some more than others. Although it can feel insurmountable at times, anxiety is one of the prime feelings everyone can understand.
And while there are certainly folks who seldom experience it, others can live there eternally.
Unbeknownst at the time, I lived in anxiety for what seemed like decades. I didn’t necessarily like it, but I certainly grew accustomed to it. Five days a week I’d garner the weight of the weekend until those three hours of relentless pressure transpired Friday and Saturday nights.
Perhaps it’s perceived as selfish, but I truly didn’t care I was feeding 500 people a day, I just didn’t want it to stop.
I’ve been cooking on the line for the past year. For the first half, I’d watch myself cook seven days a week split between two fine dining restaurants. During the second half, I’d bounce between working seven days a week and throwing when I wasn’t cooking. I know what you’re thinking, “this guy has zero social life.” You couldn’t be more right, but honestly, I didn’t mind that. Working on the line required every ounce of attention I had, and unlike the majority of my life, there was no thinking involved. There was an objective at hand. “Make it good. Make it pretty. Make it quick.”
It wasn’t until a particular Saturday night, that I came to realize anxiety was a minute short of experiencing true enjoyment.
A ticket would ring in. I’d reorient my station. I’d begin working on what would take the longest amount of time and drop the food that would maximize time, space, and practicality. There wasn’t thinking involved, nor was there anxiety, boredom, or even a sense of pressure. There was a task at hand, and my body knew the motion before my mind could contemplate its function. There was so much noise in the kitchen, but even now as I get the chills typing, I relive the silence of experiencing that first moment. It was a moment where my mind was truly silent. Within a foot of space between a cutting board, 400-degree flattop, and fryer, with an air duct fan screaming above my head, Spanish music on the speakers, and shouting of “Hands!” while the chef called the next ticket, it felt like I was dancing with myself, or perchance with the food itself. As I turned to my left and watched another cook melt under the pressure, I literally laughed. I wasn’t laughing at this poor soul, but me. How crazy do I have to be to like the insanity of what’s going on right now? There’s no way this is normal. Why am I like this?
Then, the shift was over.
Over the next month and a half, I’d relive that same rush as an addict does drugs. Indeed, I felt the same way on a multitude of busy nights—a silent mind where my actions were involuntary, and I was dancing with myself. But then it was actually over. I’d find myself on a busy Saturday night with a head full of thoughts. The action was involuntary, but the skillset exceeded the pressure of the situation. It was too easy. However, in those initial moments of laughing on Saturday and Friday night with a rail full of tickets, I wasn’t aware of why I loved it so much until I found myself at the ceramic studio around 4 am.
I was working on a form that was quite difficult. Before this, I was primarily limited to functional ware and experimenting with glazes. I never liked the artwork I made before this as I’ve only kept three pieces out of thousands. This vase took about eight hours, and during this time my mind started off quiet. An hour passed and my mind was a bit louder. Two hours later I’m about halfway done, and my mind is at the level of thinking I’d have on drugs in a college classroom. About three-quarters of the way done, my mind was racing at the pace of how I’d feel before the onset of a fight. In the last minutes of about to finish the best work I’ve ever made, my mind was screaming with abrasive, negative, insulting, critiques that had absolutely nothing to do with the vase I was making. They were intrusive thoughts screaming at me about how shitty of a person I was, how I’d never be good enough in a relationship, guilt, me being the burden of my family, etc. They were all lies, but it was as if my mind was doing everything in its power to keep me from making this vase.
Then, I was done and my mind was absolutely silent again. The piece was perfectly symmetrical, it looked exactly like what I envisioned in dreams and drawn in cold sweats at night. An art medium, that people find relaxing was a bashful onslaught of insults for the better half of eight hours. Had it always been this way?
