In Defense of Admiration

As children, we are told, you can be anything you want. Perhaps a ballerina, a fireman, a chef, a rock star, the president.  We all want to make our mark. We all dream big.

But there is something to be said for the discipline of admiration.

It doesn’t pay well. It isn’t a lofty vocation. But it feeds a part of our soul which requires a steady diet of beauty, of transcendence, of a view outside ourselves.

I am an excellent admirer. Were it actually a career, I’d be an expert, a guru. Perhaps I’d teach classes on appreciation and the lost art of admiration.

Words as Worlds

I admire words. I devour well-written prose, savoring an imaginative analogy, sucking on the words until their flavor finally lessens. I reread passages, noting their complexity and subtext.

As a writer myself, I knew the author is speaking to me in code, writing simple words which multiply, divide, expand, and transform when processed through my own filters and sensibilities. My translation is not the same as yours. The story, written in multiple drafts, printed and distributed once, is decoded in a million multitudes. Even upon rereading, my new self translates in a new dialect.

The written word is to be admired. Words do not lose impact when distilled down to bytes and pixels or simple handwriting, nor is it improved by fancy fonts, billboard lighting, or a best seller status. Words simply are.

Truth and story and the immortality of words are sustenance to a hungry soul. A diet of words must be consumed to fill the brain with more than the small, single view point we are each limited by.

You only need to consider the word word. W-o-r-d. Four letters, missing only letter l to create world. Words build worlds, deconstruct worlds, define worlds, and expand worlds. Words are worlds.

Food as an Experience

Food is also to be admired. First, there is the study of textures: a tangy schmear of goat cheese on an unevenly toasted swath of bread, the crisp bite of an apple easing into a contrast of pliable cheddar, the firm dente of pine nuts mixed with soften pasta. Robust smells offer tantalizing promises—sizzling garlic mingling with the fresh scent of cooking celery, the snap of cream and burnt sugar transforming into caramel, the universal smell of baking bread.

Yet food is always about the taste. I understand why spice traders traversed the globe. If first introduced to such luxuries as cardamom, ginger, sea salt, and cayenne, I would chase after them too. Food can transform, be transformed. Balsamic vinegar, a good olive oil, a dash of basil slices, a drizzle of melted chocolate—these all elevate food to decadence.

Food is a requirement. We must eat to live. But the intake of food can be so much more. It can be communion, a peace offering, a promise. Just as writing speaks to the individual, so does food. I can’t taste food in the same way as you do. We each bring our unique taste buds and past experiences to the table.

But it is the appreciation of the food which makes a meal more than mere calories. I cook for my family and friends to fill their caloric requirements but also to fill their need for community and for the fusion of tastes, smells, and memories. I want to teach my children to notice the sun-warmed skin of a Roma tomato, the delicate layering of phyllo dough in baklava, and the specific tongue texture of chocolate.

The same noticing can be done in any of the art disciplines: music, theater, photography, art, fashion, conversation, and conflict.

Noticing and admiring removes nothing from the art, it can only enhance it.  Admiring magnifies.

 Lost Discipline

I admit I would love to be the writer of a great, universal novel rather than the admirer. I would love to feed a restaurant full of people, splitting my time between effusive praise and gentle sautéing. I can envision a deep curtsied bow to thunderous applause—for either a stirring performance or a soft lullaby. But these are internal urges: the need for recognition for self, rather than recognition for the art.

And perhaps, someday I will create something wonderful, something worth of admiration. But until then, I will admire. I will look outside myself. I will read the words set out for me by a lonely, determined writer. I will savor food prepared by the skilled and the student. I will listen to music that moves me, left, right, up, down, and inward. I will practice admiration and expect magnification—which seems a lot like the word magnificent.