Life is a Piece of Toast, and I Am the Butter

I remember 5 years ago driving in my Civic on the 25 South heading home to my Winridge Apartment # 307 on Paris Way in Aurora, Colorado. I remember thinking, praying in my head,

Lord, I don’t like to think too much.

My head hurt, felt heavy like lead, and thoughts like bombs whistled constantly down into it before they gave a big bang. I had been thinking a lot lately and mentally and physically felt like Bilbo Baggins probably did, like butter scraped thin over toast, bothered and ready to find a quiet place where he can rest and finish his book.

I needed peace but took the time to recognize I was being stretched. It was good for me. As I rethink those times I’m left with the impression life is a big piece of toast and I am butter spread over it. And that’s fine, but I wonder who is doing the spreading, naturally, though it doesn’t take long to know the answer.

These days are the same except for one thing: I enjoy the spreading from time to time. Some of the time, though, is too much to take. For example, I have been writing my memoir for the last four years roughly. What a process of discovery, taking me there and back again. I get to re-live my fondest memories and paint them in words on paper—spread them, if you will. The view over my ‘piece of toast’ (my life) is overwhelming and deeply rewarding.

I have learned so much about myself and the toast I embody, this delicious toast I complement. Maybe that’s what my life is about, for others to taste, take a big yummy bite. This book, I imagine now, is my piece of folded toast and in each page I am spread thin for people to know me.

I just finished watching a remarkable documentary titled 180º South. It’s about a guy who decided to journey south to Patagonia in South America (duh, that’s south too-oh, redundancy) and climb its highest peak. His journey takes him by car through Mexico and then by sailboat, whose mast, because of a storm, is broken at sea, and, do to low fuel supply needs to divert course 400 miles west to Easter Island (Rapa Nui), where they made repairs and refuled before setting off again toward his mountain.

I found myself enwrapped in wonder, pleased at how his journey was so eclectic and often surprising as he made new lifelong friends and fostered some of the best experiences one could have. I couldn’t help but think of my own life. Surprised, I also found myself relaxing, as if for the first time in a very long time I had unplugged from society. I didn’t have to think anymore, just explore with him. It was a truly compelling hour and a half for me as I felt so immersed in his adventure as if it were my own. I realized that corner of his piece of toast was very tasty and nourshing. The sights and sounds ministered to my senses and freed me from myself and society.

Additionally, I just returned from a cruise out of Longbeach, California to Catalina Island and down the coastline to Ensenada, Mexico. What a time! A tasty corner of my own. I made some of the best friends in the world. I feel as if I should stop writing because I don’t know if I can scrounge up the words to describe the blessing these people are and the refreshment I experienced.

After roughly four years of writing, which, in its own way is so internal and lonely, the cruise reminded me that my life was in fact tasty after all. With all the thinking I’ve been doing it feels as if my life has been un-normal the last four years. I have thought too much, too deeply, too widely, too highly. Seemingly endlessly I’ve been mentally swept places I’ve physically been before. There have been lots of highs and lows, valleys behind and ahead that cause me to drop my head and wonder how and when.

There are times that I am glad I am on the journey, that it is a pleasure for me and I would rather not be doing anything else. But I know more completely now I need rest, and I haven’t given myself enough of that all this time. Things suffer because of that. I do, first of all, then my relationships and outlook. It can all seem so daunting when it all surrounds my mind and programs it to believe nothing else is real but the book. And it can result in certain misunderstandings within myself and amongst friends. Writing a book is a hard thing. O’Connor was right when she said,

I find that most people know what a story is until they sit down to write one.

I wish sometimes I were normal again—without the burden of this work on top of other responsabilities keeping my full attention from the things I would like to give it to—like friendship, for I am far from the better manager of life, finding it ever difficult to balance everything I would like to keep harmony. Writing, after all, is a sudden inspiration, a non-respector of places I would like to be and people I would love to be with.

Before the documentary and cruise, I found myself saying again,

Lord, I don’t like to think too much. My head hurts, feels heavy like lead, and thoughts like bombs whistle constantly down into it before they give a big bang. I have been thinking a lot and mentally and physically feel like Bilbo Baggins probably did, scraped thin like butter over toast, bothered and ready to find a quiet place where I can rest and finish my book. And can it be?

I think that when my own book is done—finally done like Bilbo’s—I myself will take one big bite and say,

Too much thinking is wearisome. A little dash here and there is a lot of work for one man who has already lived it once to re-live it a hundred-thousand times in his head. Such things should not be but for the exception, as is this case. But now that it is done and I have taken my portion and others can too, whether they like it or not, I am satisfied and can rest my weary bones and weary mind with my friends and family for eternity. I am happy.

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