Thoughts on My Time at the Ranch

Moving from the ranch.jpg

When we bid farewell to the ranch this past summer, I felt like I was exhaling for the first time in four years. What a strange, transformative time it had been for me. It was there where I discovered just how adaptable I was. It was there where I cultivated a rich internal life for myself. It was there where I connected with Nature. It was there where the literature I chose to read resonated like never before. It was there where everything I thought I knew about science, religion, philosophy and politics was turned upside-down. It was there where I experienced a relationship that kept stretching itself to varying degrees before snapping back again.

The unknown contains infinite possibilities. 




Pea & Burrata Salad

This past Fourth of July weekend, we were invited onto our friends' boat in Marina del Rey. The plan was to ride to Paradise Cove in Malibu, dock there for two nights and catch the fireworks show. I was tasked with making dinner the first night. With a tiny kitchen to work in–not to mention the constant rocking of the boat itself–I took inspiration from "quick n' easy" communal-style dishes, like dips and salads from a quirky Israeli restaurant in Silver Lake called Mh Zh. My menu was, as follows:

Mixed bitter lettuces
with finely grated sharp cheddar, dukkah and toasted pine nuts

Pea and burrata salad
with mint, dill and lemon zest

Spicy lamb ragù over hummus
with harissa and labne
served with grilled flatbread


The easiest dish to pull together, by far, was the pea and burrata salad. It's "semi-homemade", if you will–you're essentially putting frozen peas that have been thawed and dressed over a ball of burrata. It's a fabulous summer dish to serve as an appetizer with friends... Whether or not you're on a boat! For my version, please find the recipe below!

1-2 balls of burrata
5 ounces of frozen organic peas
1 lemon
Very good olive oil
Maldon sea salt
Freshly cracked pepper
A few sprigs of fresh mint leaves
A few sprigs of fresh dill


1. Prep the frozen peas according to package directions and set aside in a mixing bowl.

2. Chop the mint and dill and add to the peas. Toss. Then, zest the lemon over the pea and herb mixture. Toss again.

4. Pour about a tablespoon or so of olive oil into the bowl with a squeeze of fresh lemon juice and toss the mixture until thoroughly incorporated. Season to taste with salt and pepper and toss again. Adjust proportions to your liking.

5. Gently place the burrata into your serving bowl. Slice a cross over the top of each ball and open to reveal the creamy interiors. Spoon the pea salad on top and finish with a generous lashing of olive oil before serving.

Recollections From a Daughter

For as far back as I can remember, my mom would tell me that she was given a life full of struggles because of a karmic debt that had been accumulated over many lifetimes. As a devout Buddhist, she believed in reincarnation. Her life, you see, was a temporary vessel for this particular soul to experience: a child sent away from her family to become a live-in nanny for a cruel aunt, a treacherous journey to a new land, an unfulfilling marriage, the birth of five children, a traumatic divorce, ongoing familial turmoil, a string of unworthy suitors, too many nights spent alone in a small ramshackle house, and an intensely stubborn personality to mask her vulnerability. 

She was already wrung dry by the time she became my mother yet Life somehow managed to find a way to squeeze a little more from her. "I must've done something really terrible in my past life," she used to say. The fact that she believed her fate was sealed would frustrate me to no end. Instead of fighting against what she was dealt, she surrendered to it and let it play out to the end. 

Her lackadaisical "it is what it is" approach to life–this sort of acceptance of things as they are–used to be a point of contention between us. I wanted her to fight for something different; I wanted her to try harder to turn the tide. She deserved more and I wanted to believe that we all had the power to change our destinies. But now I'm not so sure.

Upon reflection, I noticed a pattern in my own life: No matter what path I take–no matter how seemingly drastic one is from the other–I can't escape encountering the same questions over and over: What am I good at? What am I meant to create? How is it possible to feel content and discontent at the same time? How can I come to terms with my independent nature and my co-dependent one? Every time I fight for something different, I seem to return to the same point where I began. What is fate, if not the will that guides us on an overarching journey–one that opens us to new experiences and outlooks with which to examine our questions? I've come to believe that, while we may be able to change the path, we can't change the journey. Maybe we only think that we have free will...

At my mom's wake, one of her best friends approached me and told me that my mom had her palm read two years prior to her death. "The fortune teller told her that she would die at the age of 61," she told me, "She's been preparing for this since then." In an effort to renew her karma, whatever charity work she had done throughout her life was increased. She cared for the elderly and volunteered regularly at the local churches and temples. I remembered hearing from her more frequently. She even wanted to come visit me at the ranch for two weeks. Considering the strife and misunderstandings we went through whenever we saw each other, I wasn't sure I was ready for it at the time so I postponed it. I foolishly thought it was better to love each other from afar. I hadn't seen her for about three years.

On the day of my mom's cremation, the day of our final farewell, the Buddhist monk who was conducting the ceremony told us to pray with all our might to help her soul to leave this life. "Don't cry," he told us, "It will be hard for her to leave you if you cry. " With the resonating sounds of chanting monks, the rhythmic beat of the temple block, and the tinkling of chimes around me, I closed my eyes and envisioned my mom's spirit lifting away. She had endured all that Life had offered and resilient she was. I felt the pains and the joys of life rush through me and wept. A new journey was awaiting her. It was time to let her go and be hopeful. When the ceremony ended, I looked upward and waved goodbye. 

To this day, I don't know what the questions in my mother's life were or if they were ever answered, but I imagine her next life as one with a sense of fulfillment, lots of love and plenty of comfort.






Every Person's True Calling

At this point the realization suddenly flared within me like a sharp burst of flame: everyone has his “task,” but it is never a task he can choose for himself, can define and carry out however he wants. It was wrong to want new gods, it was utterly wrong to want to give the world anything! For awakened human beings, there was no obligation–none, none, none at all–except this: to search for yourself, become sure of yourself, feel your way forward along your own path, where it led. – This realization upset me deeply, and that was what I gained from the whole experience. I had often toyed with ideas and images of my future, dreaming up roles to play: as a writer, for example, or prophet, or painter, or whatever it was. All that meant nothing. I was not put on earth to write, or preach, or paint–and nor was anyone else. These things were only secondary. Every person’s true calling was to arrive at himself. He might end up a poet or a madman, a prophet or a criminal–that was of no concern of his; in the end it was meaningless. His concern was to find his own fate, not a random one, and to live it out, full and complete. Everything else was a half-measure, escapism, fleeing back into the ideal of the masses–conformity and fear of what was inside yourself. This new picture rose up before my eyes, terrifying and sacred, foreshadowed and suspected a hundred times, maybe even spoken out loud many times, and yet only now truly experienced. I was a roll of Nature’s dice, thrown into the unknown, maybe into a new world, maybe into the void, and my only purpose in life was to let this throw from the primal depths play out, feel its will inside me, and make that will entirely my own. Only that!
— from "Demian" by Hermann Hesse