Anthony Bourdain is dead

I'm trying to process this, and why it means so much to me. Of course, he was one of my favorite authors and tv stars. He covered two of my favorite things - things that make me feel most alive and that I gravitate towards with every ounce of freedom I can wrench away from school, work and family - food and travel. Nothing makes me feel more alive than finding myself in a situation of total surrender to my strangeness. I stick out, can't speak the language, can't assimilate. I feel lost and free. Food is an accessible gateway to that feeling. These days, I can't hop on a plane to China, but I can visit a Cambodian food truck or a Korean Barbeque. It's reminiscent of adventure, and it tastes damn good. I have tried so hard to cook Chinse, Korean, Cambodian and Indian food at home. I just can't do it. My mouth wasn't trained to understand those flavors enough to recreate them.

He also understood that food is not just a thing you put in your mouth to let your taste buds interpret. Food is a distillation of culture and human experience. The food you cook speaks of where you come from - more and more these days I'm turning to the cookbook my grandmother gave me, calling my mom for the recipes she made when I was growing up. What we eat as a culture speaks of our collective history - two books I've read recently that have helped me organize my feelings into thoughts about this are The Cooking Gene by Michael W. Twitty and The Potlikker Papers by John T. Edge. Our recipes and the ingredients in them tell our story, regardless of whether we are aware of it.

My psyche is turning over something bigger when I think of Bourdain's death. As anything big does, it stirs that same pot that's always simmering on the backburner of my mind-stove. What does his suicide awaken within my experience, and what is this awakening trying to tell me? I know that I haven't let my brother's death impact me beyond my grief. I haven't reached the point yet where I feel anything but paralyzed by the news that has come out this past week about Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade's death and their place inside the larger issue of our nation's suicide epidemic. What would it mean for me to take the next step to advocacy?

Also, I've heard much said about how ironic it is that he had America's dream job and a beautiful life and he still wasn't happy. It is ironic, but it's not surprising to anyone who knows mental illness. That cavern can't be filled so easily. What my mind goes to is his genius. I didn't know him personally, but it definitely seemed like he was someone who didn't hold back. He lived completely and put his whole self on the line when he interacted with the world. He packed a lot of living into his 61 years, and I have the (probably wrong) gut reaction of thinking "If I were him, I'd have no regrets, no dream without pursuit." I'm positive he had regrets, but he could never say that he didn't go all out when pursuing his passions and dreams. He couldn't have been more successful or influential in his field. I reach the end of each day with a list of places I held back when I should have charged forward. I look inward and find I've gummed my psyche with a series of mundane numbing mechanisms. Ultimately his end leaves me thinking of my own. What will I regret? What ways am I sabotaging my own destiny because I'm submitting to the expectations of my lesser self?

Anthony Bourdain, you had a responsibility to finish your work here, and you bailed on us. My prayer is that you find completion in the next that you could not find here. Rest in peace and wholeness, dear child of God.