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
consciously
and unconsciously
I have put up,
defenses of the emotions
of living life.
I am coming to
accept that
Bitter and Sweet
Bittersweet
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
Pausing,
welcoming the snow
of this late february day
covering the bursts of
nature
the snowdrops that are
beginning to invite
Hope
Rebirth
Beauty
LOVE