Askida Ekmek | Bread On The Hook

To offer without knowing who receives. To gift without knowing the recipient. To create, period. To begin. To share. To hope. There's something risky yet safe about that. To tell a joke not knowing if it'll land. To send a hello to someone just because. To smile at a stranger. To be kind. To stand and say, "This is who I am. This is what I offer," and not linger for a response or acknowledgment.

About a year ago, I saw a cheery colored greeting card that read, "Hello, Sunshine!" It reminded me of an office manager I used to work with, Jane (name changed). That was the greeting she'd shout when she saw me or answered my phone call. It always gave me a little lift in spirit each time I heard her. I purchased the card and felt delighted a greeting card was made in her language! As I sealed up the envelope ready to address it, I decided it was best not to send it. Best because I don't know how it would be received; because maybe it wasn't going to be welcomed after the corporation she works for sent me legal threats; maybe this was stupid and I would be judged. We were not friends, we were friendly former colleagues and I left that behind. I threw the card away, feeling silly and cowardly. I was not willing to hang my bread on the hook. "Askida ekmek" is an old Turkish saying, translating to "there is bread on the hook." It refers to someone paying for an extra loaf of bread to be hung on a hook in the bakery for another that otherwise would be hungrier without it. It is an act of generosity, an offering made, without knowing who, if anyone, would be the recipient. To give without knowing.

The unsent greeting card is small but remains a regretful moment. Such regrets are stored in a place where all possibilities lie waiting. It is where the social self, conditioned and governed for acceptance and safety, plays tug-of-war with the essential self, our very core being. It's where ballots of who we are and who we are becoming are cast. When someone smiles at you as the elevator opens and, without thought, you smile back, that's a vote. When you say something in a meeting that goes against the grain of the framed faces on Zoom because it feels right, that's a vote. When you decide it's best not to send a greeting card, that's also a vote.

Askida ekmek are acts that vote for a liberated self. The self that does not need permission to be kind nor wait for agreement that the act will be socially well received. It's when children ask each other to play without worrying about social norms; it is my aunt who wears clothing that would be considered "too young" but she looks beautiful in it anyway; it is buying bread to feed yourself and offering a loaf for someone, or no one, and the bread tastes that much sweeter for it.

Recently, I was asked by a yoga mentor if I would audition for a teaching position. Honored, excited and quickly frightened of the idea of auditioning. What if I mess up? What if don't get it? What if the world comes crashing down from humiliation because I forgot how to queue from one pose to another? I listened to the riduclous thoughts in my head and brought them to one of my coaching classmates for our practice session. In the end I remembered that I became enamoured with yoga because it was medicine I didn't know I needed. Yoga brought me back into my body when most of the time I spent it in my head. The teachers that taught the classes I attended did not know this, but it was a gift. It was their askida ekmek. I took the bread off the hook, unknowing how hungry my soul was for movement in a body I took for granted and stillness in the chaos of my mind. Now, I have an opportunity to hang bread back up, for any hungry yogis that might be passing by. To give for the sake of giving, without any expectation of who and how it will be recieved is freedom. I don't know who will be in the space I share my audition with, but I no longer fear it. Because what is there to fear in hanging up an offering of bread?

There are numerous examples of this the spirit of askida ekmek. It is when my patient who turned offers outdoor adventure advice and brings me and my assistant fish he and his wife caught on a recent trip. It's the dark blue Honda Pilot that lets me in during rush hour traffic. It's the reason a dentist who started using AI to ease her own life ended up giving a talk on Zoom to a bunch of other dentists looking for the same relief. It's the reason I sent her an email to offer appreciation for her generosity of knowledge and wisdom. Sharing an act of kindness or something we created sometimes feels vulnerable. Like baring our soul for the world to see, with our palms spread open offering a piece of who we are. It takes courage to tell the world, "Look, I made this." But when it's done from a source that feeds our own soul, it is always liberating and satisfying. When enough votes are cast from and into this well spring of our own light, it takes us from who we are supposed to be to who we always have meant to be.

This is the bread I put on the hook; it is delicious.