You start with good intentions and high hopes.
But then you slice your finger on the mandolin and eat brie instead of bell peppers.
I have the gift of maiming myself in the kitchen. My noble efforts in domesticity sometimes end with a punctured thumb or slightly shortened pinky finger. I use sharp utensils daily. I strain to be attentive. But when working a mandolin, there is a groove, a tempo that one eases into. My pinky nail quickly brought that to an end. The bell peppers are still sitting on the counter and my pinky is wrapped tightly in two band aids. I refuse to look at it until I see my husband tonight.
He says I didn't get hurt enough as a kid. It's true. At age six my dad took off my training wheels. He said he wouldn't let go. He did. "It's the only way to really learn." Well, I pedaled into the ground and scrapped my knee. Pain, I decided, was not for me. Avoiding similar outcomes, I steered clear of sports and risky activities. I broke my pledge once and paid for it. Volleyball. 7th grade. Braces. The ball hit my lip. I was left with a smiling row of bleeding canker sores. In high school, I signed up for beginning dance twice in lieu of PE. No balls, no equipment.
I started this year with goals and, like all human beings, have struggled in keeping them. Consistency is no small feat. I could blame competing items on my agenda or a new schedule. I could blame my exhaustion at the end of the day and the necessary naps I take to remain humane. The answer is many things. A strict schedule and flexibility. Grace and trying again. Rightly ordering my life. Feeding intention with work. Nourishing hope with daily attention.
