I was chopping parsley in the kitchen and found myself smiling. Nothing else was happening, no podcast, no phone call. The cast iron pan was heating up to my right. The green of the parsley darkened each time I rocked the knife, releasing the smell of fresh, clean, sturdy. I noticed my smile and heard in my heart “sometimes things just get stuck.” It felt like a truth, like a feather of wisdom landing softly on my head, and with green bits speckling my hands like confetti, I reached for my phone to take note.
For the last week or so I have not felt like smiling, especially in quiet, private moments like this. I cried at the little kitchen table at my parents house just the day before. My dad was talking about something I can’t remember and suddenly, I was staring long enough at the clock that tears peaked through. “Are you alright? It looks like maybe you’re crying?” my dad asked, confused. The fact that he noticed, and asked, is something of such significance it is too much to even take the detour to explain, but I will just say that ten years ago I don’t think it would have gone that way- I wouldn’t have let the tears out, and I don’t think he would have looked long enough to see. I cried for a non-specific and specific reason, the best word I could use was “overwhelmed.” I told my friend later that day I felt like an egg that was cracked into a pan, just sizzling.
I met with a young woman this morning, a student at the university where I work as a triage therapist. She spoke of a feeling like “a knot of wires in her chest” she said. I told her it reminded me of when a necklace chain is knotted, the faster you rush, and the harder you pull, the tighter the knot gets. She took a big breath out and her shoulders dropped. Toward the end of our session smiling, she said, “I feel so much lighter. You’re good at this.” I smiled too at the gift she just gave me, something she did not have to say, but did.
I scooped up the parsley with the wide side edge of my knife and pushed it into the glass mixing bowl. Sometimes things get stuck, and then, they move, like that smile that floated to me out of nowhere. Last week the idea of cooking was a chore, a burden, something my precious, waning energy could barely meet. Today, I feel a bubble of contentedness, a ripple of joy. A tear dropped down my cheek, in relief.
