I treated myself to a massage last week, but as usual little Wren claimed Elyse’s attention as soon as she arrived. Later, she jumped up on the table and lay quietly between my knees as I received one of the finest back massages of my life. I had her focus on my back because I’d pulled something (conveniently) the day before our appointment, whilst accidentally cleaning out the chest freezer. I only meant to scrape some of the ice that was impinging on lid closure, but couldn’t stop myself from emptying it all out, defrosting completely, sorting contents into Compost (2018 wax beans, 2016 rhubarb, etc.), Keep, or House, to bring into the house freezer or fridge and eat soon.

I haven’t eaten much red meat for years, but when I did I bought the best: local, free-range, from people I knew who raised their animals with love and care. The only meat left in the freezer was a pair of ribeye steaks, which went into the House pile. I have no idea what year they were from, and knew that if they looked awful when thawed I’d throw them away; if they looked fine but not appealing I’d cook and cut them up small for Wren fud; and if they looked tasty to me I’d indulge.

They did look tasty! But they were huge. So I rewrapped one for later and put it back in the chest freezer, and looked up the best way to cook the other. In the years since I cooked meat, I’ve learned a thing or two from watching chefs on tv or instagram, and my mouth always waters a little when I see Chef Matthew Ryle basting browned meat with butter, which I’d never done. Oh, I’d fried steaks in butter, but never knew to baste them. It just looks so sumptuous.

So I browned the first side in butter, and then tossed in finely chopped shallots, garlic, and sage, all from the garden, and finished cooking while I gently tipped the skillet and basted the steak. I probably should have basted before I put in the flavors but I’ll try that next time.

After a few minutes on each side and a poke with the thermometer I determined it was done to medium and removed the steak to a plate to ‘rest.’ Also something I had never bothered with before. Then I splashed a little red wine into the pan and cooked it down to a lovely quick sauce. I sliced a few thin strips to eat with a baked potato and leftover collards, and enjoyed a restaurant meal in my sunroom.

One reason I cooked the steak was so that I could have leftovers in sandwiches for a few days. Wren got all the fat and gristle chopped up small for topping on her next few meals, and I boiled the bone down to a broth for her also. The first sandwich included deli-sliced smoked gouda and garden tomatoes. Between the luxury of steak and the garden tomato, it made me think again of a phrase that comes to mind occasionally, ‘spoiled white girl.’

Shortly after college, I moved to a southern town and lived miles into the country in the ground floor of a two-story duplex owned by an older black woman in town. We had a cordial landlady-tenant relationship, I thought, until one day when her brother picked all the biggest, ripest tomatoes I had grown in my garden out back. I’d invited him to pick a few, but not all of them! I must have mentioned it to her, because she said “You just a spoiled white girl!”

The words stung, I’ll be honest. I mean, like a hard, full-handed slap in the face. They felt deeply unfair, yet also somehow true. I recall nothing more (maybe it will turn up in my journals when I get back to reading them) but the label has haunted me for four decades. As I begin to learn the importance of self-compassion, and explore the process of cultivating it, that phrase keeps bubbling to the surface. I accept that I was raised as a spoiled white girl, but I believe that I’ve come a long way from my upbringing. I see that this weekend in my equanimity and adaptability to losing the running water in my home. The plumber can’t come til Tuesday but I’m making do with water jugs and shower offers from neighbors.

I noticed quickly that my baseline stress bumped up a couple of notches, simply from not having reliable running water. In truth, I’ve gotten the pressure tank to fill up a couple of times but the switch is dicey and dying. I’m managing to keep dishes clean with frugal intention and flush the toilet when necessary with the house water, but I don’t think that luxury will last through the next few days. I’m grateful for the kindness of friends nearby. This couldn’t have happened at a better time: plentiful rain and cooler temperatures allow a pause in watering the garden, and jugs will work for the few plants that may need some; I’m not dealing with stomach flu or colonoscopy prep; it’s still warm enough that I’m not relying on a hot shower to thermoregulate. There’s much to be grateful for.

And certainly, I recognize my good fortune that this minor inconvenience is the worst hardship I currently personally face. For one thing, I can still afford to fill up my car, which a friend kindly suggested I do the other day before prices go even higher, though it did cost almost fifty dollars for less than a full tank, and forty is the most I’ve ever paid to fill it from empty. Coincidentally, this sign showed up in an email later that day, with a link to Factocracy.net where you can download this and many more signs for free.

But I’m keenly aware of the suffering of humans and other beings around the globe. Everything changes. All the time. In this moment, all is well in my tiny sphere. I think of people in Ukraine, Gaza, Lebanon, Sudan, Nepal, who once had running water and now live in ruins. You never know what’s coming. I think a true spoiled white girl wouldn’t consider the suffering of others, just as the spoiled white men ruling this country don’t consider, or don’t care, about the suffering they’re imposing on millions of Americans—on most Americans: at the gas pump, the grocery store, the hospital, you name it. I know that, privileged as I am, I’m considerably worse off now than I was two years ago, financially, mentally, and emotionally.

The only thing that saves my sanity at this point is the practice of mindfulness. I teach a meditation called “Three Thoughts,” and each morning I wake up and remember those thoughts as I make an accurate assessment of my life: 1) I’m very fortunate, and I name some of the many ways; 2) my fortune could change in any way at any moment, and death is certain, time of death uncertain; 3) how can I live each precious day that will never come again so that I can face death when it arrives with no regrets? Every day takes learnin’ all over again how to fuckin’ live.