Today, something pushed me over the edge.
And then I wanted nachos. Or someone’s head covered in hot, melted cheese. But really, I wanted nachos in all their cheesy, nachoey glory.
Instead, I grabbed an apple and ate it angrily, pieces of red skin flying in the air like confetti in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
“That must be a delicious apple,” my son said.
“Shut up,” I said.
I ate the apple and cleaned the litter boxes and packed lunches and scrubbed the kitchen floor and unloaded the dishwasher, trying to channel my anger into something productive.
After all that, I sat down at my desk and noticed a piece of paper I had saved. It said this:
“This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meaness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor …
Be grateful for whatever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.”
Stupid Rumi, I said to myself.
And then I let myself feel a tiny bit better.