The Clumsy Interloper

It’s Easter morning and the neighborhood children are standing in a large, chalk drawn circle in the middle of my old cul-de-sac. The words “EGG HUNTERS IN HERE” are boldly arranged around its circumference by an artistic parent. Empty baskets spun by their handles occupy their tiny hands while their feet are bound inside the arbitrary perimeter by an invisible force. The mid-morning sun shines bright upon the scene surely warm enough to melt chocolate – time, it appears, is of the essence. Parents dot the outskirts of the circle with phones held aloft ready to capture the impending scatter. MK patiently explains which lawns are for the “littles” as the older children are already scanning for soft targets in the egg laden terrain. Finally, the pictures and instructions are complete and the countdown begins… 3…2…1… The mayhem begins in an instant, children lurching forth in glee so wholesome that the frenzy feels strangely idyllic.

While I watch Eva and Sybbie reach terminal velocity towards the promise of chocolate, I hear a familiar voice from behind me, “I’m upset with you”.

I turn to see Andy who lives down the street from MK. He’s a bearded Bostonian with a penchant for classic faded t-shirts, acerbic witticisms and local food recommendations. I see him only sporadically now that I’ve moved to a new neighborhood.

“What did I do now?” I ask with mock indignation.

“April 5th,” he shot back.

I studied his expression for a clue without avail. I crinkled my brow.

“I was promised pizza on April 5^th. Your second round of deliveries,” he stated playfully but without a smile.

“Oh that,” I stammered, “I’m not doing that anymore,” I said hastily as I fumbled for my phone. I could feel his eyes on me as I continued to look down, pulling up The Sweet Silver Song of the Lark post to text him, I continued, “I wrote about it…”

“…You gave up?!?” he said with earnest disappointment.

My shoulders dropped, there was twinge of heat in my chest.

“I did,” the words sheepishly tumbled from my mouth.

I hit send on the text as I began to walk towards Sybbie, my four-year-old, who was now bobbing up and down in a designated “littles” yard collecting an egg every few steps.

“Sorry man, I’ll get you a pizza soon,” I yelled back as we parted.

*

Week 3 of the Artist’s Way is about “Recovering a Sense of Power”. I’ve had several interactions like the one with Andy in the last month. Some friends are protective and quick to provide cover, others look at me with confusion and incredulity. I hear myself saying the phrase “it just wasn’t the right time” over and over again, but that’s just something we say to placate ourselves when it doesn’t go our way, isn’t it?

Cameron writes, “Many artists begin a piece of work, get well along in it, and then find, as they near completion, that the works seems mysteriously drained of merit. It’s no longer worth the trouble…this is a routine coping device employed to deny pain and ward off vulnerability.” I stared at that passage for several minutes when I first read it. When I pulled the rip cord on Hawk City Pizza at the first sign of trouble was this just classic self-sabotage?

I’ve sat with this for a while now and concluded something unexpected, but profoundly true. The dream to make deep dish pizzas at the IX Park farmers market was the wrong dream. The desire which brought me so far down the path was genuine, but the magnitude of my miscalculation lay in my fundamental proposition. I’ve always been and will always be, at my core, a writer. I’ve written my way through depression, loneliness and despair. Connecting my brain with a pen is the only strategy that has stood the test of time. It’s the string that pulls reluctant honesty into the light of day. When I replay all the work I put into Hawk City Pizza, I’m struck with deep affection for the posts about my pizza journey. I believe chronicling the quest to become a pizzaiolo was the wind thrust against my sail, not the pizza itself.

 I am reckoning with the realization that my failure, however public and painful, was essential to my growth as a person. I put down my pizza dream so I could pick up the Artist’s Way. Sometimes I must sit back and simply marvel at the sleight of hand with which the universe delivers its realizations.