The Pursuit of Complexity
The Pursuit of Complexity
Galisteo, New Mexico
I write my best work when I’m confined to a single seat in a Boeing 737. This setting, unfailingly, helps me access the mind with which I write. It is not the mind with which I parent, and it is not the mind with which I cook or teach or run. It is the mind behind a locked door on the top floor of a secluded house, and I attempt to access it each day to write as if my life depends on it.
When I open that door, I might find a cold, bare room. Or, I might find a warm, inviting room, one filled with complete sentences that acutely describe my specific emotion or experience. No matter what I find, I write. Traveling in an airplane, thirty thousand feet above Earth, helps me unlock this door more quickly than any other setting. I know this to be true. I sit still. There is little distraction. Cellular service is unavailable.
I faced this truth when I found myself three weeks away from my final deadline for The Wiley Canning Company Cookbook with a mountain of pages yet to create. As a new mother, I had not yet learned how to best prioritize my day. I had not yet learned how to live and create well despite my exhaustion. I had not yet learned how to quiet my mind as it buzzed with excitement, worry, and curiosity about my infant son. Day by day, I let my work slip through my fingers, and time was running out. With only three weeks left, I knew I had to make a serious change. I needed to sit still, reduce distraction, and restrict my phone use. I had to access the mind behind a locked door on the top floor of a secluded house, the mind with which I write. To do so, I had to overcome the fear and vulnerability I felt to be apart from my son.
“I can do this,” I repeatedly said. “And I must.”
I boarded a Boeing 737 to Albuquerque, New Mexico and traveled to a small village named Galisteo. For five days, I found myself alone in the golden desert in a one-bedroom casita. There was a small desk, a single chair, and limited cellular service.
There, I wrote. I wrote. And I wrote.
For this brief moment in time, I successfully compartmentalized my fear and vulnerability, and I poured my mind and heart into my work. The Wiley Canning Company Cookbook mattered entirely to me. I created that mountain of pages. I felt relieved. I felt proud.
Now, it was time to travel home to my son. I needed to see him, hold him, and allow my mind to, once again, buzz about him. As I sat at my gate in Albuquerque to travel home, I continued to write. It was, after all, my goal to make the most of my time away.
My work was suddenly interrupted when the gate attendant began an announcement with trepidation in her voice. She said, “I have a very unfortunate announcement. Please remember I am only the person communicating this decision to you. I have no control over the decision itself.”
“What in the world could this be?” I wondered.
“All remaining flights out of Albuquerque have been canceled. There are currently no available flights for three days. In addition, all hotels in Albuquerque are sold out due to our annual International Balloon Festival. We will do our absolute best to ensure you have a place to sleep and eat until we are able to find a flight for you.”
Gulp.
I sat in sheer disbelief as I watched hundreds of panicked travelers form a rapidly growing line. I could not remain apart from my son for three additional days. Not only would it have been difficult emotionally, but it also would have been difficult logistically due to childcare needs. The day before, I wrote as if my life depended on it. Now, I had to problem solve as if my life depended on it.
Luckily, there was a rental car available. I needed to quickly reserve it, map my route, and ensure I had a full charge on my phone. I had to access the mind with which I endure, the same mind with which I run. To do so, I had to overcome the fear and vulnerability I felt to complete a cross-country drive through the black of night.
“I can do this,” I repeatedly said. “And I must.”
I rented a Nissan Kick and traveled toward Nashville, Tennessee as the western sun met the horizon behind me. For eighteen hours, I found myself alone on the highways of New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, and Tennessee. There were wind farms, plains, and dark, infinite skies.
There, I focused. I focused. And I focused.
For this brief moment in time, I successfully compartmentalized my fear and vulnerability, and I poured my mind and energy into the drive. Traveling home to my son mattered entirely to me. I completed that cross-country drive through the black of night. I felt relieved. I was home.
In a span of five days alone, my work mattered entirely to me, and my son mattered entirely to me. In one moment, I chose to board a Boeing 737 to Albuquerque, New Mexico and write as if my life depended on it, and in the next moment, I chose to rent a Nissan Kick and drive as if my life depended on it. As human beings, we pursue one instinctual experience after another. We make one careful decision after another. We grapple with one thought-provoking paradox after another. We do so much more than choose to board a Boeing 737, despite the fear and vulnerability we feel to be apart from our children. We do so much more than rent a Nissan Kick, despite the fear and vulnerability we feel to complete a cross-country drive through the black of night.
We pursue our first 5k because we believe it will bring us a tremendous sense of pride, despite feeling nervous, even unqualified, to step into running shoes. We decide to call our dying grandmother to tell her how much we love her because this might be our final chance, despite the excruciating heartbreak of that call. We find heroic strength in the profound love we have for our children, despite being brought to our knees by exhaustion and overwhelm. We begin to write our first book, despite an endless list of unknowns and quiet insecurities.
We break, and we rebuild. We second-guess, and we fully commit. We give away our love, and it finds its way back to us. We pursue and accept the complexity of our lives, and we do the best we can.
This is not easy. This is not comfortable. This is not predictable or tidy. The complexity of our lives tests our humanity at times, and it celebrates our humanity at others. It allows us to create a mountain of pages, and it allows us to complete a cross-country drive. It is what makes us authors, and it is what makes us mothers.
My wish for each of us is to know, without a shadow of doubt, that our work matters entirely when it matters most. My wish for each of us is to know, without a shadow of doubt, that our people—our children, partners, parents, grandparents, friends, and colleagues—matter entirely when they matter most. We must board the Boeing 737 when our work matters most, and we must rent the Nissan Kick when our people matter most. We must pursue our first 5k. We must call our grandmother. We must fall to our knees, and we must begin our first book.
We must pursue and accept the complexity of our lives, and we must do the best we can. In doing so, we honor every single ingredient that makes our miraculous lives so beautifully ordinary and so very delicious.
The essay above is from The Wiley Canning Company Cookbook. It is the first of five essays from 2022 being shared between today, December 22, 2022, and New Year’s Day.
It was first available to Wiley Subscribers. You can subscribe to The Wiley Subscription for first access to all essays here. You can also pre-order the cookbook The Wiley Canning Company Cookbook here.