Receiving the Potato
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It had been a long morning, but happy. I’d taught in the classroom, and had been peppered with great questions that challenged me in new ways. My son had called to let me know that he wanted to chat when he got off work. I felt grateful he’d called ahead so I could adjust my lunch hour. And for all of this bounty, I felt tired.
Exhausted, actually. As I pulled the eggs, cucumbers, tomatoes, cheese, and peppers from the fridge, I sighed, thumping them onto the counter. I felt sluggish and heavy. I arranged a dish of leftover potato wedges onto a stoneware plate and slid it into the toaster oven.
Why was I so tired? Fact check: it was after one, and I hadn’t eaten; surely this played a role. But there was more. I sized up what was left of my afternoon by noting how much the world was asking of me. I reviewed my morning and saw that I had delivered.
What could I do to feel better? Call a friend? I wondered aloud. No. I wanted all the attention right now, and if I didn’t catch a friend willing to hold me in that space (I didn’t even have the energy to ask), then I might find myself giving again. And I didn’t want to. I had no desire to be curious about another being. I felt flat and dull and lifeless.
I wanted entertainment, but I knew that siren song promised more than it could deliver. As delicious as it sounded to turn on a movie (which I didn’t have time for), I’d likely feel just as empty after as before. I wanted a warm cozy hug without anything being asked of me, some easy nourishment for body and soul. I had been giving all day, and now I wanted to receive.
A lonesome howl of self-pity went off inside me. I saw I was out of balance. I mourned this as I removed the hot plate of potatoes from the toaster oven. Feeling empty and forlorn, I dipped one in ketchup and took a bite. I chewed the lifeless potato, and it half-stuck in my throat. And then it struck me.
The wedge of potato in my hand was a friend of mine. That purple potato had grown in fine garden dirt that a neighbor had gifted us a few months back. We’d watered and weeded the plant so it might flourish, and here was the potato, returning to nourish me, though I hadn’t noticed. I looked down to see the enormous, multi-colored scarf that hugged my body, gifted by an overseas friend some years ago (thank you, Lavi!). And finally, I began to awaken to the smallest taste of what I was being given.
I felt grateful as I polished my terminal connections for love, allowing the flow to nourish me. I laughed at my sleepy daze of loneliness and separation. How often have I felt put out while the gifts sat unopened on my doorstep? Or worse yet, I have at times torn open the packages absent-mindedly and used them without a word of thanks for what I’d been given.
An hour later, gliding along at peak flow, a friend called unexpectedly and listened with care to my story. This time, I was ready to receive (thanks, George!).
When have you so savored the bittersweet taste of self-pity that you overlooked the abundance you were receiving?