I usually make myself scrambled eggs, but sunny-side up looks and tastes more luxurious and rich to me. I think it’s a better method for appreciating and honoring an egg. This morning as I broke the runny yolk, however, it occurred to me why I don’t prepare them this way more often.
Maybe it’s because I’ve had a weekend to myself, talking to no one but an impassive journal, that I’ve become more attuned to the movements of my own mind, but I realized that breaking the yolk makes me anxious. Every time. It spills all over the plate. You can try to corral it, but it’s always too late.
It was my birthday last week. I read an article by Adam Gopnik in which he pointed out the difference between those who are “still growing” and those who are “merely aging”, and the apex beyond which that definitive change happens. We expand until we contract, like a sine curve. Like everything.
Halloween is an occasion of darkness, of the rare public acknowledgment of death. At a gathering of women on the full moon beforehand, one of them pointed out that darkness is the womb, it is mystery, and depth, and ultimately — generative. Having been born on Halloween but never really knowing what to make of that fact, I appreciated this insight. Death and birth, full moon and new, exhale and inhale. An essential and inescapable symbiosis.
As I’ve gotten older, my interest in organization and orderliness has grown — an endless counteraction of entropy that I engage each year with renewed energy. My clothes folded into neat rectangles, my possessions minimized and carefully tended. As long as the things I love aren’t falling apart, I can be free. As long as I discard the things I don’t love, there can be space. I can keep creating. I can keep expanding. I can stay on this side of the curve.
Maybe this is about the desire for continued growth, amplified by the acknowledgement and employment of its ultimately inescapable opposite, or maybe I’m just an anxious person minimizing chaos wherever I can. In any case, an egg whispered to me this morning that ending and beginning are exactly the same, and eggs know these sorts of things, so I’m trusting it.