Pressure Cooker
A story for the True Fiction Project podcast by Logan Rose
My cup is not overflowing, nor is it boiling. Even though I am in a pressure cooker, my cup is not too hot, nor too cold. Steam billows off of it, like a waterfall. It is beautiful, serene, and constantly in motion… just like me.
Inside my cup, I sit cross-legged; upright and comfortable. I quiet my mind before pulling on the jogging pants, the running shoes. The pavement stretches out in front of me, winding and peaceful. I feel the dew on my skin, which transitions to droplets in the shower, iced lemon water sliding down my throat.
Now, clean, calm, and hydrated, I eat to nourish my body. The ingredients are fresh and natural. I feel supported by the earth, by this meal, by my partner and child as they pour in around me and the day comes to life.
We eat together before diving into our own worlds. This time is important, never too long and never too short. Every day, I savor it. The love is important; my daughter’s drawing, important.
I hang it on the fridge before driving to work, focused and alert throughout the experience.
At work, there are handshakes, smiles and connections, meetings and problems. I think freely in my office and speak freely with my colleagues. Then, there are solutions.
Here, solutions are celebrated. As part of the celebration, someone offers me an oatmeal raisin cookie. I accept it with a smile, then deposit it into the waste bin. In this life, the nos are just as important as the yeses. I say no to sugar because it slows me down, interrupts the flow.
Some say life without sugar is not sweet, but in reality, the rare indulgences are even sweeter. A weekend ice cream cone on the beach with my daughter is sweeter than all the oatmeal raisin cookies in the world — and worth the tummy ache in the morning.
I remember being young and addicted to sugar, stomachaches stress, television, sex — easy pleasures and their hidden consequences as far as the eye could see.
I do not think unkindly of this person. They were simply a seedling. Oh, how I have grown.
I jot some of my thoughts down for safekeeping in my journal and appreciate this moment of solace and reflection. Then, I go to a celebration of my own.
The problems are solved, and the system is ready. Its bells and whistles remind me of model trains; of rubber shoes on plastic dolls. I am a kid in a candy store. This is why I do what I do.
I’d love to say it’s for my daughter, but we have to do some things for ourselves.
Once all the fires are extinguished and the system is up and running, I leave the building. To some people, the workplace is a prison, but to me, it is a sanctuary; a controlled environment where mistakes only get you closer to the right answer.
On the drive home, I listen to music. The notes lift my spirit and carry me to the next part of my day. My ears are awake, so I can hear stories from outside of myself and lend my attention to the people I love most. I cannot wait to be an audience member to the dramas of my daughter’s day — to hear the parts of my partner’s life that I am not privileged to see.
But what I look forward to most is the moment; the moment when all the dishes are washed and my daughter is put to bed, when I look at my love and ask, “what shall we do now?” The abyss of evening will stretch before us as time to fill. It will become a sandbox to play in, a bed to make love in, a blank page to fill with our story.
When I was younger, this chasm used to scare me. Now, long swathes of aimlessness and attention mean freedom and magic and play. I remember how my mother used to say, “only boring people get bored.”
I am not bored, and this life is the furthest thing from boring.
Back in the pressure cooker, at the top of my cup, the steam curls into children on a swing set, a boogie board sliding into shore, crayons leaving their color behind on the page. It sounds like a purring cat, and it tastes like an Earl Grey tea with milk and honey; the pink wine and oysters on my honeymoon.
The water in my cup is warm and still. It feels like bathwater, and sometimes, I add bubbles.
Every day, people ask me how I take a bath in a pressure cooker. How I float and glide through a life that can feel so hard.
I don’t tell them that I start every morning cross-legged and end every night alone in my bathtub. I simply tell them, that “in order to do well, you must be well,” that “wellbeing drives success.”
These sound like truisms, but they are the truth.
Every night, the very last thing I do before I close my eyes and let sleep take me is say a prayer to the world. I wish everyone in it well, including you.
My cup is full. Now, find a way to fill your own. Life is a pressure cooker, and it doesn’t get easier. We get better.
Read more about Logan Rose here: https://www.loganrosereadsandwrites.com/
