Words rise from another like splattering grease on the griddle. You hear your own wrongness in the accusation, the ways you’ve failed, the ways you’re not perfect, the way your egg yolk breaks inappropriately when you wanted to be sunny side up.
You feel the energy harsh and judgmental, stuck to the plate of your dirty dishes. You feel…like no matter how hard you try, how hard you scrub…the pots and pans remain dirty. Bits of food dry on them. The scouring never ends.
You try…don’t you?…to turn it all around toward the positive. You pour hot water and suds on the offending stain, attempting to wash it away. Sometimes the positive works and the sunlight streams through the kitchen windows and the fawns frolic in the grass outside.
Sometimes you listen to a million thoughts which attempt to defend, argue, insist, break the dishes, throw soap suds in the air, stomp away from the endless food of disagreement.
Tonight I let my heart be broken again and again, staying with the pain, breathing. I don’t insist the end of shattering. The dish cloth circles the encrusted heart of the dish over and over again. The hot water melts. The pain we think we can’t bear is born.
Pull open the drain. Water pours down, down, down into the earth. Only bubbles remain floating effortlessly in the silver sink. Soon they, too, will dissolve.
To wash the dishes fully. Dry them carefully. Stay with them when they crack, when they break. When the tears fill the sink.
Stay with the dishes. Tomorrow they’ll serve themselves up again, filled to the brim with that which nourishes.
I have faith.