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A Place Called 2am

Admit it.  You're at that place in your head called 2am.  We've all been there.  You wake up in your bed, and you're regretting some small part of Yesterday or fretting about some part of Tomorrow that stubbornly refuses to worry back, just like the first fourteen times you went over it in your head. 

Lovely- you think-  Someone up there has a sense of humor, but at 2am, you aren't getting the punch-line.  Instead, you're trying to figure out what to do in order to make something productive of this time when you're quite patently Not Asleep. 

Well, I'm right here with you, this time.  We seem to be riding this insomnia train, together, so let's explore some of the different cars of this train.  My all time favorite is, of course, the dining car. 

I was telling my son, at dinner time, that food, here in America, can be considered a whole culture, unto itself.  We obsess over it, to the point of causing ourselves all sorts of "eating disorders" just so that we can label ourselves in the hopes that other people will finally understand and accept us.  Aside from eating disorders,  food is so important to us, that we have a sect of people that we call "restauranteurs". 
 
Restauranteurs have a sort of a retinue of purveyors and service providers that cater just to them, and cooking schools are as big a business as restaurant operation. 

Consider how beautifully your dinner is served at any restaurant other than a fast food joint.  Some chef put a certain amount of thought into arranging all the asparagas sprigs on the side of the plate, so that the sauce would drizzle just so over each one, and then he placed that pretty little piece of parsly on top of the fish, right in the middle of it.  Someone taught him or her how to do that, for a pretty penny.

There's another facet to our culture of food, here in the states.  There's all the food that is left on the plate at the end of your meal at that fancy restaurant.  That's where the bus boys/girls come in, and the dish-washers and then the civil servants that take away the waste that can't get washed down a drain pipe in the kitchen.  It's such unglamorous work, that it's politely hidden away from patrons who tend to forget what has to happen behind the scenes in order to create the atmosphere in which they can eat an elegant meal.

The bussers, servors, and dish-washers may not even get a pension or benefits, and yet they work just as hard, if not harder than the cooks. The civil servants, have some sort of insurance through their work and or some sort of social security and retirement plan, even it it's not much to speak of.

Then we come to the bedraggled looking guy or gal, standing on the corner just a few feet away from your half eaten dinner, because (s)he has no where else to go, and no way to get there. You're probably realizing at this point, that half your dinner would have been enough for you, and even if you take the other half home with you, there's still that basket of bread or chips and salsa that you didn't quite finish.  It's just going to get thrown away, in plain view of that poor, hungry person on the corner............again.

I don't have any solutions.  I don't know how to stop people from going hungry in an environment that is rich enough in resources that we don't think twice about our side dishes at restaurants.  I don't know how to make restauranteurs offer up their surplusses to those, near-by, that are down on their luck.

I only know that this is the kind of thought that keeps playing in my head, like a broken record at almost four in the morning, when by all rights I should be out cold.  I'm usually up at 6:30am, and my day starts when my feet hit the floor.  My son needs a lunch for school, and I want to be sure that he has breakfast before he runs off to the bus, and I've got to make sure that there are wholesome snacks around for when he gets home. 

As far as my breakfast goes, I try to wait until after I do my work-out for the day.  My husband satisfies himself with a mug of tea and a saucer of cashews in the morning, and I've never met an egg I didn't like.  One of these days, I'll experiment with another over-night crock pot breakfast.

So I guess that when I'm not in bed, where I belong, at 2am, I'm at the kitchen table, one way or another.  I hesitate to ask others where they might be at 2am.  If you tell me that you're asleep, in bed, where you belong, I might get a bit jealous. 

Maybe I've done a boon for society and planted a seed that will grow in your dreams, into some really great answer to the mystery of where all the extra food goes and how we can get it into the hands (or stomachs) of the needy.  Maybe I didn't lose a lot of you, on my travels from my bed, to restaurants, to street corners, to the kitchen table, and ultimately back to bed, again.  I thank you, if you stayed by my side through all of that, even when the skies seemed to cloud over with the grey of ever-present poverty.

Give the sun a chance.  It's not five, yet, and if I rained on the parade of  your dreams a bit, in these wee hours, you'll have a rainbow soon for having braved the rain. 

Yours in Service,

Sue Hirsch, CWC Reap Your Dream Life Coaching, Owner/CMT  Perfect Day Massage, and Hostess of:  100 People You Should Know radio show.  (Live-stream it thru Blogtalkradio.com).






 





 
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