If you know what’s good for you, you’ll pass by that kitchen full of dishes from last night’s dinner. You’ll linger only long enough to get your coffee. Then you’ll go straight to the table, while the room is still quiet (it won’t be long) and you’ll push aside the bread board with the last delicious heel of crusty bread, now long past its glory day. You won’t waste the ten seconds it would take to throw away the now-stale chunk. If you know what’s good for you.
Right now is thin and clear, a shimmering emptiness. There are no sounds and no demands, other than knowing, please, what’s good for you.
Write it, if you know what’s good for you.
It has been hard to know what’s good for me. But now I wake up on a Saturday morning and see a thousand silly things in the kitchen to finish, and I pass them by till the air is thick with noise and distractions and laughter. The glorious empty morning is for writing it down, with my dog and a stale chunk of bread for company.
Because I know what’s good for me.