stirring the pot
starting off the year dynamically
A mixing spoon can be wielded, a pen brandished; each a tool of transformation. The pen is said to be ‘mightier than the sword’, but this language of violence should be approached with caution. The nib of a pen (or in my case, the clack of a laptop keyboard) can cut, yes, but it also heals. Words carve meaning into the void, pour balm over the ache of existence, combine thoughts like sugar into tea. But first, we must stir the pot of thought - bring back to the forefront of our minds both intellectual musings and mundane ideas, to ultimately drown out the screech of the screen.
I’ve often wondered if pouring words into writings is an act of stirring or stilling. Am I agitating the mix, daring to disrupt The Beneath, or am I just swirling the surface, a fingertip in bubbly bathwater, leaving the depths untouched? Stir the pot is my attempt to Figure it Out, to write through the motionlessness and see if, by stirring the pot, I find something worth tasting.
The lives of strangers remain a key ingredient in my pot of thought. Fleeting moments of eye contact on the tube or the street, or what I like to think of as indirect eye contact. When we consume media (good media, intellectual media) it is with the implication that the creator’s eyes were fixed on their screen or page, crafting their work. In looking upon it, we may also look past it, our eyes fixated where theirs previously were, the closest thing to eye contact that the Imagination can experience. These fragments of interaction are spices to a broth, unseen but essential. It is human to interact, human to converse. It may be most human of all to wonder. The meaning of these passing moments is in the wondering, the chewing on it and letting it linger.
It’s a strange thing - the connection we feel to people we don’t know. Any similarity is welcome. Reading the same book, listening to the same artist, parting your hair the same way. We create connections even if none exist, mimicking (copying? stealing? taking part in?) things in others that we find appealing. I think this is human too, to chase threads of ourselves in others, reflections in the misted-over mirror of the wider unknown. In these moments we stir, the conscious unconscious collaboration playing the underlying thrum of existence.
Yet as much as we strive to reach outwards, the act of thinking (or writing, as I am), ultimately pulls us inward. The lives of the external (strangers) will always be framed by the experience of the internal (the self). It is both a personal and communal effort to create, a paradox that keeps us coming back to the page. Maybe this is why the pot is such an apt metaphor: it’s a contained space, yet somewhere where ingredients become much more together, than they were alone. The pot doesn't discriminate, it holds what we give it and allows heat and time to work their magic.
In a world so fast-paced, it is easy to forget the power of time, of lingering. We skim the exterior of Understanding, hop across surfaces without diving beneath. But here, I want to pause. Let the pot simmer. Stirring, yes, but also allowing the words to settle.
So here we are. Spoon in one hand, pen in the other.
To stir the pot.