Breaking Open

On my window sill

which is my altar of favorite things

are goose egg shells

broken open into halves.

A friend brought two.

The beautiful gift,

shaped to hold in my hands

offered some

delicious scrambled eggs.

Yolks a deep gold

Savored as my husband and I

delighted in the beautiful

unexpected delight.

The shells too, even broken

were too striking to

put in the trash,

have rested in a

blue ceramic dish

meant to hold chicken eggs.

Each morning

while my water boils for tea,

I touch them,

one nestled into the other,

each with uneven cracks.

I realize

that they mean something

special to me.

First the gift, the delicious

meal the yolk and whites became

and now

the lingering reminder

of the range of challenges

of these pandemic years,

the personal health

weeks of healing and particular caring

for each other.

Even at 80 years old,

I feel like

I have been

cracked open.

So much still to learn

to be grateful for

and the invitation to live

moment by moment,

even when I am not aware

that it is

in the cracking open of

the lifelong shields


and unconsciously

I have put up,

defenses of the emotions

of living life.

I am coming to

accept that

Bitter and Sweet


Living both and at the same time

is the reality

of the moment.

Joy comes

in the poignancy

of the happy and the sad.

Peace and beauty

in practicing accepting


welcoming the snow

of this late february day

covering the bursts of


the snowdrops that are

beginning to invite





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