Passion

It is obvious that we can no more explain passion to a person who has never experienced it than we can explain light to the blind. ~T.S Eliot

I have been thinking a great deal about passion lately; how we live our lives either consumed in it or totally devoid of it. We tell our children to find that thing, that essence, that almost indescribable entity that will bring unfettered enthusiasm to their lives, and then we send them out into the cold dark reality and say "Now, go and try make a living doing it!" (insert cold water shower here!)

Please don't misunderstand me. For those of us fortunate enough to find our "passion" and live the dream, there can be nothing better. We see our jobs as vehicles for a higher purpose. We have managed to turn our hobbies into loves and our fascinations into eager excitements. We enjoy the journey as much as the destination. Wouldn't we all love to say that we have lived our passions?

The Husband can. And so can his best friend and business partner Twin Son of a Different Mother. They have been involved in a passionate labour of love for almost seven years and this weekend we hope to begin to see the fruits of that labour. I cannot adequately express how much pride, love, and admiration I have for these two forward thinkers. It isn't as though a simple bottle of newly released artisan whisky will bring about world peace or cure cancer, but it has brought a renewed sense of spirit (no pun intended!) and fire to The Husband about which most of us can only dream. He is invigorated, energized, and revitalized every single day that he goes to work. How many of us can actually say that?

It hasn't been easy. Worthwhile endeavours rarely are. And while Mr. Eliot had trouble explaining passion, I think that after watching The Husband over these many years, I might be able to aid in the definition.

Passion is doing something you love when you have no knowledge or expectation of financial reward. You want it, hope for it, and pray for it, but you continue to do it knowing that the money may or may not be there in the end.

Passion is found in the sheer joy of the daily experience and not necessarily in the payoff.

Passion is the continuation of the dream when everybody around you is telling you that you are bat-shit crazy!! (That list includes family, friends, spouses, critics, strangers, government bodies and too many others to mention.)

Passion is fighting through the roadblocks set up to deter you from the dream.

Passion is rejoicing in the incremental steps forward.

Passion is allowing for the nutty and off-the-wall ideas to flourish.

Passion is the excitement you feel when that first bit of praise, that first Twitter RT, that first Facebook like comes in and provides you with a small pat on the back.

Passion is the animation in your voice, the light in your eyes, the childlike exuberance you exude when discussing your project.

Passion is defined by your creativity and finds its genesis in your self-worth. 

To The Husband and Twin Son.....I toast to your passion. 

Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech Ha-olam

Shecheiyanu v'kimanu, v'higiyanu lazman hazeh

Blessed are You Adonai our God Ruler of the Universe

Who has given us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this day!

My Evangelical Moment (It's Not What You Think!)

How is it possible that I am almost fifty years old and only now am I discovering the healing and restorative properties of alcohol? Stunning, I know. And it is made all the more remarkable by the simple fact that The Husband owns and operates an artisan distillery  that is producing some very well received whiskies and vodkas. (Shameless personal plug: Please check out his website and purchase a bottle or two. Girl's gotta eat, ya know!) Me? Well, I just have never cared for any of it. I have found the taste of most spirits to be akin to swallowing paint thinner. And wines..well...as flavourful as many might find them, they have always been less than satisfying to my underdeveloped palate. I hate and fear the loss of control that liquor affords; once a type A always a type A, I suppose. I have zero physical tolerance for the stuff given my almost half century of teetotalism. My friends have experienced first hand that I literally cannot tell my left hand from my right when I drink even modest amounts of the grape. Also.....and this is a big one for somebody who has constantly battled extra poundage......I have always hated the thought of drinking my calories. I would much rather indulge in a plate of fries or some chocolate. My conventional thought was that they were so much more satisfying. As a result, alcohol has been a rare indulgence for me throughout my lifetime.

But I have come to see the error of my ways. I have come to understand that there is true magic in a glass of cabernet and great curative properties in a snifter of brandy. I realize that I am not stating anything cutting edge that the average frat boy or stay at home mom hasn't known for years, but for me this is as close to a religious conversion as I think I will ever get. I have tried to ascertain when my personal "Road to Tarshish" moment occurred, and as near as I can deduce it started last year around Rosh Hashana.

Last summer brought on a horrible asthma season. The wheezing and coughing that I experienced was never calmed enough by the myriad of bronchi-inhalers, anti-histamines, steroidal puffers and an assortment of herbal remedies. In fact, a week before the High Holidays I came down with a horrible case of laryngitis brought on by the symptoms and after effects of each successive attack. As if my stress levels surrounding the most vocally taxing time of the year weren't enough, now I had to cope with the very real possibility of not being able to sing. The Husband, ever the saint at this particular time of year, (the religious metaphors simply abound, don't they?) was once again ready with his 3S cure all. This time I readily accepted the scotch with willing throat and found that while I still couldn't understand the worldwide fuss over single malts, I did find that there was indeed a medicinal property that allowed me the get through the Ten Days of Awe in decent if not perfect order. After the holidays, I promptly returned to my water guzzling ways exclusively.

But the strangest thing happened. I found that I missed it. Not the taste, mind you. That experience was still reminiscent of sucking back burnt campfire wood.  No. I missed the calm. I missed the warming sensation of sipping it late in the evening while chatting amiably with the Husband. I missed the stress release that it so obviously provided. I missed the routine. Should I be worried? Was this a cry out for an intervention? No, of course not. Rather this was an embracing of the thought that maybe....just maybe....I actually liked it? Hey! I'm a grown woman. Why shouldn't I enjoy the odd glass of something when the mood suits? Guilt and calories be damned. Welcome this moment of clarity and learn from it.

Clearly I needed to find a substitute for the swill of single malt that monopolizes our liquor cabinet. The Husband, always the willing guide on the subject, suggested brandy. BINGO! It was just what I was looking for. And so began a several week trial period of evenings curled up on the couch with my Courvoisier in a glass and endless reruns of Murdoch Mysteries on television. (I promise that sometime this month I will write an entire love letter to this show, but for now just know that it is a true passion for me. I can't wait for Season 6.)

Step one had been taken. I was actually enjoying my dalliance away from temperance. Oh the humanity! But true consumption can only be sincerely experienced in the company of friends. Sort of "if a tree falls in the woods" scenario. And so, last week I did something that I haven't done in years. I ordered a glass of wine while out for dinner. Twin Son and His Better Half looked a bit stunned, but they embraced my new-found liberty as readily as I knew they would. It was like they had won an epic battle and had brought me over to the dark side. Light sabres could finally be holstered. Years of cajoling had finally broken me, and here I was wandering in the abyss at last with all of the other mere mortals. Of course, after one glass of Shiraz I couldn't feel my feet, but we all understand that it is a process.

On election night, my evangelical moment reached its apex. I actually opened up a bottle of red and downed two glasses as I watched the returns come in. I loved every swallow. Barack and me and Dionysus makes three. Not a bad trifecta, if you ask me.