Zenzero

Zenzero (pr: DZEN'dzedo) is the Italian word for "ginger." I love the sound of this appropriately spicy word. I love how saying it makes my head hum. When I lived in Santa Monica there was a restaurant called Zenzero, which I mistakenly thought was some kind of Asian restaurant. I figured it must've served sublime foods that transported its patrons to a state of Zen. Only recently, when I looked up the word "ginger" in my Italian dictionary, did it dawn on me that there was actually an Italian restaurant in LA I never got to try.


But still, every time I use the word (my three year-old -- who knew -- loves candied ginger) in my mind I still think of Zen+Zero, stretching a connection from the harsh spiciness of ginger to a state of nirvana. Okay, so I know I overthink things, but zenzero pretty much sums up the paradox of my life right now. On any given day I feel a pull in 2 directions: one, to spice up my life more, fill my "plate" (and my palate) with delights - and the other, to strive for a state of zen, simplicity, "zero." It's a constant straddling of a river: one foot on the "have fun, fill up your life, strive for rich experiences" bank, and the other on the "be content where you are, here and now" bank. I guess the two aren't mutually exclusive, but they require a delicate balance nearly impossible to achieve.


I've got my "spicy" projects: getting ResearchMamas off the ground, ramping up my Italian, feeding the big picture dream of living in Italy -- and my "simple" life, always ready for more down time with family, friends, me. I guess I just need to trust that if I straddle my "ZenZero" deftly, these 2 opposing aspects of my life will somehow harmonize. But meanwhile, in the interest of simplifying while making more room on my plate, I'm going to take a longer break from my little A to Z blog. AlphabetDancing has definitely warmed up the writing muscles, my goal from the outset. And it's not going a way; I'll start it Again, perhaps in a different incarnation. For now it's just taking a rest, an extended yet restorative nap. Zzzzzzzzzzz.

Years.

Years come and go, marked by the familiar countdown of a shiny dropping ball and the rising bubbles of expensive (we hope) champagne. We all bid adieu to the old year and welcome the next number on the list of who-knows-how-long. But tonight at the dinner table, a moody, and certainly over-hungry C questioned the basic linear concept of time. She asked when March 26, 2003 (her actual birthday - the only day that really matters, naturally) would come around again. We told her that the March 26 part would come around every year, but that the 2003 part would never happen again. She, however, would have none of the basic time-moves-forward-not-backward explanation. She lost it, and out of nowhere became insta-tantrum child. The simple temporal nature of life turned her into a ridiculously sobbing, hysterical mess. It was beyond her comprehension how she would never experience her actual birth date again. Dammit, she wanted to live in 2003 again! Why can't it happen, Mommy??

It would have been quite comical if I myself didn't want to start crying with her: "I don't know why it has to be this way, C. I would love for it to be 2003 again. I would love to be 20 again, but it'll never happen. I can only celebrate birthdays as I get older and older. And it's so unfair! I don't understand, either!" Heck, if she had been lying on the floor pounding her feet like a 2 year old, I would've gladly joined her. But even my hedge, putting out the possibility of a parallel universe maybe having March 26, 2003 in the future, didn't really comfort her (though it stopped the wailing). And I know this because several minutes later she asked me, "Mommy, does everyone die?" Well, I'll spare you the answer here.

Oddly the passing of time and the fleeting of years has been on the forefront of my mind lately, too. Maybe it's completely normal with the holidays, the getting rid of more baby stuff, Liz's passing (not to mention an inordinate number of people we know who are seriously ill). That doesn't take away the heaviness of it, though. Being so aware of the finiteness of life can really fuck with one's ability to enjoy it. But earlier today when my writer friend K shared her similar emotional fragility around the subject, it gave me such relief to know I'm not alone in my tortured thoughts. Maybe such sensitivity is the price "poets" or "thinkers" pay. I wonder if it's possible to achieve even a delicate balance between living in the moment, while still appreciating the profound passing of the years. I for one, certainly need to tip the scales toward the former.

Coincidentally, while working on this blog entry I got an email from N, who knows absolutely nothing yet about what I'm writing -- an email entitled "Time Flies" with a video attached:

The choppy, silent, low-res quality, and the simple pan of the horizon suggest how fading memories might replay in our minds. Here we are in 2003 with a baby C, out for a walk on a sunny day in Portland. A simple, sweet memory.

So maybe, in a sense, we can go back in time - just for a quick flash, or a snippet of a visit here and there. And maybe if C asks the question again I can give her a real answer: No honey, we can't ever move backward in time. But if we live well today, we can make good memories for tomorrow. And then, in our thoughts and dreams, we can visit all our years, whenever we like.