Tag: Humility

Eat shit.

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photo-oct-01-5-27-26-pmThe dog ate a pile of goose shit while we were out on a walk yesterday.

If that isn’t humble, I don’t know what is.

As I screamed out, “Murray! Drop it!” He looked back at me, still chomping away, his pink tongue sloshing over and around his loose, flapping lips, and he smiled his puppy smile. A true, shit-eating grin. — And, in that moment, my sheer disgust melted into laughter.

A dog’s life is 100% pure presence. And, in his moment of sheer delight, Murray lifted me out of my anxious, humanly concern and placed me in a state of acceptance and joy. With his own Humility, he humbles me too.

I sat in bed, overthinking my self-assigned task this past week, reexamining Humility. I tried to make sense of the role it has (or hasn’t) been playing in my life, when I realized: I take myself too seriously.

We get a lot of conflicting messages these days. As our culture moves its focus to self-awareness and growth, it feels like there aren’t many seeds of Humility sprouting up around us. Self-interest has always, to some extent, reigned supreme. And, even when we’re aware enough to think that, perhaps, we should be a bit more humble, we end up finding out that manufactured Humility isn’t half as potent as the real deal.

Humility isn’t so much an action as it is a state of being. So, how do we get there?

Murray stops to sniff and lick a particular patch of sidewalk, he looks up at me and his eyes ask, “This is good, why aren’t you getting in on this?” And, for a minute, I wonder why licking a spot on the sidewalk where a child likely dropped an ice cream cone three days ago isn’t the highlight of my day? — “What can I tell you Murray? We play by different rules.” I say before urging him on, gently tugging his leash.

But, Murray makes me think. While I have no desire to lick the sidewalk, I start to ask myself what I might be telling myself is off limits? My Year of Happiness has shown me that, we don’t have to play by all the rules we thought we did. In fact, rules are pretty much garbage. They limit us in ways that can take us away from the moments for which we should be 100% present. We don’t lose everything by going off the cuff. I don’t know where that rumor started. Risk opens us up to humbling experiences, so, why are we cutting ourselves off from Humility by limiting our lives to predictable and safe experiences?

It’s difficult writing about being humble. Especially when I’m trying to sound like I know what I’m talking about while aiming to both sound, and remain, humble. Even as a quasi-academic effort it’s exhausting and requires patience that feels wasted. It’s much simpler than we’re making it. Humility, as a concept, is easy: In the grand scheme of things — We’re small. — But, that’s a pretty big concept for a self-obsessed culture to wrap its head around.

In a 12-Step meeting, someone once told me: When your world is big, your problems are small. When your world is small, your problems are big. — That statement, is pretty profound. And, for me, it’s more or less the definition of Humility.

Living with Humility doesn’t mean you have to live like a monk. However, it does mean that if you’re going to enjoy your time here on Earth, you’ve got to show up and be willing to experience things moment by moment. Like Murray. If we could allow ourselves to comprehend our own insignificance, I think we’d eat a lot more shit.

We let our brains get the best of us. We forget the moment that’s right in front of us. And, that’s when having a dog’s undiscerning palate, the kind that can lick the sidewalk outside of a CVS and look back up at you with his eyes expressing each new, exciting flavor of dirt like a four-legged sommelier, comes in handy. Animals are truly humble. Their innocent nonchalance is the closest I’ve come to understanding my own Humility. Their worlds are enormous. For Murray, one city block is an unending adventure where he is in a constant state of discovery. New smells, secret hiding places, and life’s simple pleasures — a child’s grubby hand reaching out from a stroller to pet his snout.

Beyond survival, animals exist purely in the moment. — Naps. Snacks. Pets on the head. The intense urge to rip apart a chair, couch, or chew toy. It’s all a visceral love of the moment. The moment is never lost on animals, because they are always right there in it.

And so, it comes full circle as I laugh my ass off in a patch of grass when I realize that Murray has, in one simple action, taught me the same lesson that Baba Ram Dass has taught me over a span of years, in multiple books, and through meditation practices.

Humility, my friends, is about eating shit. It’s about living without fear. Fear is too a small a problem for such an infinite world. Humility is the endless possibility that surrounds us if we choose to get out of our own way. And, when we allow ourselves to be open to everything, the world gives us that magical feeling that reminds us we are limitless.

And then we get to ask everyone, “This is good, why aren’t you getting in on this?”

Eating Humble Pie

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photo-oct-04-11-57-34-am

Ten years ago, I became obsessed with baking pie.

This obsession came years before I got sober or became a vegan. At twenty-two years old, the fire-water-fuel for my pie-baking frenzy was almost exclusively pint glasses filled with vodka-cranberry. And, all my pans were slathered with rich, Irish butter.

My pie-making phase was the result of, what can only be described as a difficult time in my life. I had just graduated college and I had no idea what I was doing. Thrust into the world with a BA in Creative Writing and Irish Studies, I was well equipped for absolutely nothing. And so, I sat in the living room of my apartment and read every pie crust recipe I could get my hands on.

Even with absolutely no direction, I did know one thing: I was going to make the best damn pie ever baked. And so, it began. I spent the first few months perfecting my crust. First, one made with butter. Only butter. Then, shortening. Only shortening. Then, a combo of the two. Then, back to butter alone.

There was a time, I made a pie almost every day, but at the very least — three times a week. My boyfriend and I had friends over for dinner several times a week just to avoid the sheer surplus of pie. Banana Cream. Raspberry Chiffon. Chocolate Mousse. All-American Apple. Blueberry, with a lattice top. Pumpkin-Pecan. Cranberry-Pear. Sour Cherry. Lemon Meringue. — I could go on.

I didn’t know it then, but, looking back, I see how my great pie obsession filled some great need within me. The need to excel. The need to perfect. Pie gave me something to strive for, something to be great at, and when I felt helplessly alone — something to snack on.

As I’ve grown and changed in sobriety, my perfectionism, my drive to achieve, and my need to create things seamlessly has changed quite a bit too. I’ve learned about the unhealthy patterns we create in our desperate attempt to save ourselves from the thing we fear, usually — the unknown.

During my great pie period, pie was more than just a relaxing evening in the kitchen. It was tangible evidence that I hadn’t failed. My truth was baked in, and, you could taste it in every flaky, buttery slice. If nothing else: I was a fucking baker of pies. And, even when I did fail — yes, some of my pies were completely inedible — I had a new goal. I was going to make that pie again, and, this time, it was going to be so good it would make Martha Stewart weep.

Almost exactly a decade later, I’m starting to realize that if you want to learn, grow, and truly change there’s only one kind of pie we should strive to bake perfectly: Humble Pie.

I’ve spent a lot of my life struggling to do things on my own. Because, I always thought that asking for help was a weakness. I thought that admitting that you couldn’t be perfect on the first try was a sure-fire way to get overlooked. But, sobriety has taught me that if we are going to strive to be perfect at anything, we have to be open to letting others tell us what they see (and taste). We have to be open to criticism. We have to fork over a piece of our pie and be comfortable with being told that the filling is way too jammy and the crust is far too soggy.

Humility is a confusing word. It’s often accompanied by negative connotations. And, that’s why I’m devoting the seventh month in my Year of Happiness to Humility and its nuances. Humility isn’t negative when it is practiced in it’s truest form. Being humble is being able to step back and appreciate that something supersedes you — it’s accepting that fact that you’re not always the absolute authority. Humility is possessing the ability to learn, with grace.

So often, we lump Humility in with martyrdom. We step back for show. We let someone else take the stage because we think it will look good for us — but, false Humility stinks of insecurity. And, insecurity is one of the main reasons that we find it so difficult to admit that — THE PIE JUST ISN’T ON POINT.

In the dictionary, Humility is synonymous with “meekness,” “modesty,” and “unassertiveness.” But, I don’t think that’s always true. I think that being able to step back from one’s self and see where there is room to grow — is straight up ballsy. I think it’s inwardly assertive. I think it requires a strong backbone, grace, and confidence to be truly humble. Learning isn’t easy. If it were, we’d all be experts and scholars. Change requires facing the unknown, and, being willing to fuck up.

These days, I don’t bake as much as I used to, but, I still love it. And, even though I perfected my crust ten years ago, a few years back, I had to start from scratch when I went vegan. I’ll be the first to admit, margarine isn’t the same. But, I’m learning. And, I can still make a vegan lattice top pie that would make Julia Child proud.

The truth is — I don’t need pie anymore. I find comfort in knowing, I don’t have to be the best and neither does my pie. And, if people don’t like my aquafaba meringue, fuck ’em. More snacks for me. But, I know I still have to bake, and eat, a Humble Pie on occasion. Because, unlike ten years ago, today, I am open to suggestion and I’m ready to fail.

So, take the pie or leave it. But, if you take it, I recommend the Pumpkin-Pecan.

 

 

Photo: My All-American Apple Pie, Lattice top w/stars.