dinnertime thinking.

I sat on the steps of my deck last night, a bowl of leftover penne pasta and olive oil in my hands, and looked out over the busy city below. People coming and going. Cars moving, parking, and moving again. People on bicycles gliding down the street, helmets protecting their heads. What protects their hearts? I wondered.

I ate slowly from my bowl. Chewed with measured rhythm. When the bowl was empty, I still held it. It was warm. I do that, you know. Hold things, even when they're empty.  Synonymous for my own heart right now? Maybe. Or maybe I just liked the feeling of that warm pottery against my palms. These days, I will take all the comfort I can get. But for whatever reason, it felt right. To hold on.

I do that, too. Hold on. Sometimes too long. I've never been good at letting go. Things feel so permanent with me once they begin, once they exist, once the come into being. And when they finish, or die, or disappear, I can't let myself be okay with that. I wish I could. I'm working on it. But I'm very, very slow.

Right now, I'm trying to hold on to a few things. Some are good to hold, some I should let go. But I can't just yet.

I'm doing the best I can. And for right now, that has to be good enough.