PhotosI'd fallen rapturously in love with Portugal on my first trip to Lisbon. My nights were spent playing jazz in a local club, but afternoons were free, so one day I took a trip to Sintra, a mystical mountain renowned for its lush beauty. I brought along a camera, though my photography skills were minimal (I'd point the thing toward whatever I wanted to document and push the button. There: my cousin. There: the boat. There: the building. After all, isn't this what you're supposed to do? I was following the instruction manual to the letter!).
But this day on gorgeous Sintra, I was moved. I saw beautiful scenes, but, raising my camera, felt the daunting near-futility of trying to do justice to them on film. So I applied unfamiliar levels of time and care, refusing to snap the picture until what I was seeing through the camera expressed
precisely what I was feeling. Until then, I waited, patiently peering through the lens, micro-adjusting the composition by a millimeter in one direction or another. There were still subtler nano-adjustments, where the shot didn't change but my
intention somehow did. Only when I felt an inner swelling of exultation, moved by what I saw, did I push the button.
To my flabbergasted astonishment, the photographs were gallery quality. Everyone who saw them fell in love with Sintra just as I had.
Tasting NotesA friend and I were invited to a high-end port wine tasting. My friend loved port, but fell ill and couldn't attend. I felt badly, and vowed to capture the experience so evocatively that he'd feel as if he'd tried everything.
The tasting evoked treasured memories of drinking low-end port in Portugal, and I drew on that as I sat alone, blissfully sipping and furiously scribbling, intent on doing justice to these rare and fantastic wines.
Not being a trained wine taster, I lacked vocabulary. But I funneled my writing skill, my vast admiration for the wines, and my fervid desire to create an evocative account into the task. And the results so impressed the tasting's host (a major wine collector) that he spent the next several years opening the best wines of the century for my enjoyment and education.
The AuditionThere was a call for restaurant critics at a small Manhattan newspaper. Never having written professionally, I prepared three sample reviews of favorite restaurants, and I did not look up from my computer until these articles were honed to perfection. Each word - every phoneme - contributed to the picture I was painting, and it was all painstakingly arranged to create a seamless rhythm. I applied the minute care usually reserved for poetry or haiku so the reader would immerse in a vicarious experience of eating in these restaurants I loved so much.
I got the job.
ChowhoundHere's a secret about Chowhound. We were not the first restaurant forum. When I built it in 1997, there were a couple of other sites devoted to user-contributed restaurant reviews. They consisted of bland (or cutesy) listings of restaurants, each of which contained a space where you could write your review. Ok: Go! Review!!
Of course, no one did, and these flat, corporate, soulless sites remained empty edifices. I opened Chowhound, and filled it with personality. Every element was chosen with loving care. People arrived and instantly felt at home. We eventually pulled in nearly a million of them with no budget or advertising.
GirlfriendsRomantically, I discovered early on that if you commit to never touching your partner with less than 100% of your full love and affection, and to focusing 100% of your attention on
their every touch - and extend this commitment to the subtlest possible level - nothing else matters.
The UpshotI wasn't trying to take great pictures, much less have people think I'm a good photographer. I wasn't trying to write great wine notes, much less impress wine honchos. I wasn't trying to become a well-known food writer, or start a massively popular web site, or impress women. I was simply caring...a lot. Possibly too much. Likely to a degree the mainstream would consider odd.
Don't get the wrong idea. My victories have been few; I've failed much more than I've succeeded. I've recounted a few singular high points amid a life mostly spent in a state of rushed, anguished obliviousness, so I can't be smug about any of this! I am, however, confident that I've dumbly stumbled upon the key, even though I only rarely remember to apply it: Love. Care. Fervor. Attention. Intention. Subtlety. Detail. Commitment. "Doing justice to..." Or, as I more succinctly explained in
my article explaining the magic of Steve Jobs, it's about "lavishing heart-breaking love and caring generosity and ingenuity into something - so much so that you almost can't stand it."
This is all that's necessary to transcend humanity's needlessly grey, grim, grinding experience. It's the open doorway of
the divine. Shakti makes the choice and shakti empowers the result. You only have to give a damn (about what you're doing, rather than about reaching a specific result).
Pot Roast PostscriptMy mom, a poor cook, always burnt the pot roast. Literally always. I kept trying to problem-solve the situation, which had evolved into an exasperated family joke. But as we discussed it, over many years, I gradually recognized the truth, which shocked me: it didn't really matter to her. Feeding the family, period, felt sufficient. Food was on the table. She'd pointed the camera and snapped the button.
An eternal problem makes all of this extraordinarily slippery for most people. Here's the thing: anyone who does anything (most people do nothing) labors to do that thing, even if their work is pedestrian and uninspired. It takes exertion and discipline to write a crappy novel or cook insipid chowder! Sloppy, ordinary hackwork requires serious effort (though a mere fraction of the effort required to produce greatness), so even complete hacks figure they've dug deep, paid dues, and know all about commitment. Hordes of shiftless shitheads would read this posting while nodding their heads in sage affirmation. "So true!"
500 miles is a long journey, and so is 20,000 light years, but the fact that both could be described as "long" doesn't make them similar.
