The Egg

Eat. Pray. Love., the bestselling acclaimed memoir written by author Elizabeth Gilbert, was the book I was reading when my life started to fall apart again. When, all-of-my emotional, financial, marital and parental worlds crashed together.

By the time my marriage began to unravel, I was happily beginning the meat of the Pray; already having thoroughly enjoyed the Eat part. I will never forget how dreamy the seafood was described and the pizza too—of course I ate pizza and masturbated after I read that, disappointed by both as compared to Gilbert’s written word.

The book was in my beach bucket all summer. As we sat in our sand chairs, smoking cigarettes and chatting; I’m sure the subject came out several times on the word play of the title. One is just drawn to create new words, words that mean something personal. Words, when pieced together at all the pointy facets – tell a complex story.

A story like a Tibetan labyrinth. A story that is terrifying while at the same time shows courage on levels that only the heartbroken and those that listen can know. Stories that hold floors with small doors and cages in corners. Some of what lives there is shiny and sterile while immediately aside it is a lamp shade and it’s covered light bulb, an idea, covered with cobwebs and nest eggs from spiders that held power so long ago. We played with the words that summer, and I have yet to finish the book. I am working on my own story now and thank Ms. Gilbert for the exercise given to a tired writer.

Eggs. Smoke. Sex.

The US produces about 75 billion eggs a year and continues to be one of the most affordable and high quality foods available in this shitty economy. Thank God they moved the process indoors and started controlling nature better. Before that, basically you got a dirty egg from a dirty hen and were potentially exposed to all its filthy diseases.

The Egg fosters nutrition. The summer of 2010 my children along with everything in my life needed to be fed. They needed to grow and be strong.  The muscles of all my values both self-imposed along with societal imposed were pushed to fatigue. It was all I could do most days to make eggs.  Egg salad, boiled, warm or cold, egg and cheese sandwiches and my favorite— Deviled Eggs. I knew my kids were getting nutrition with their beach food because I’d given them eggs every day. The preceding few years I had been strength training a lot, running road races along with a marathon and learned that I could live on eggs; now I know the rest of my family can too.

The Good Egg. My family are my eggs. My people are my Eggs. The ones I love and will continue to love even when I hate them. The members of my village who challenge me when I think I can’t be challenged any longer. My village. My Eggs. I will love them when I hate myself for loving them; as I am doing with my sister today.

My sister, who is homeless. My sister, who needs money. My sister, who will shortly end up making my mother homeless. My Sister, who I’d promised I’d never let be homeless.

Today I am more concerned about the repercussions of me not intervening and giving Sweet Dee the money that my mother just called to ask to borrow. I can’t risk my mother losing her apartment and being without shelter and I certainly can’t take any money that she can’t afford to repay.

That question from my mother is fruitless.

{Fucked.  F.A.B. Fucked At Birth, he said. My Matthew}

The Egg also fosters life which therefore embodies death. The circumstances and conditions, energetically, emotionally and physically around the conceptions and births of my children I find to be nothing short of miraculous. The death that I think of when I think Egg is of the sadness and still missing feeling of my friend Matthew that died the year before. When I think of Egg in a post-mortem wave I can’t help to think of the pregnancies that I made the choice to terminate. When faced with decisions about life and the life of a child that I will be responsible for – the decision is great; even if the answer comes freely – the consequence is mine forever. I do not regret losing those Eggs. I remember the sadness, the disappointed look on my first husband’s face when I said I could not have these babies. The game we played for so long in our minds about the age and gender. The questions that we do not discuss out loud but make us wonder how our life would have been different.

Many years later, circumstances, shame, self and zealot imposed; made addressing this decision once again, after having children, even more of a difficult decision.

{Today, I like to believe I would spit back}

The Egg is the soul of me. The Egg is my mind when it is scrambled, when it is racing with thoughts and lists and conversations and rules. My emotions are the Egg when I feel love and security. My reassurance when my husband is at home and feeling content. When my children are fed and nurtured. The Egg is the longing I feel to accept love physically and heartfully. The Egg is when I am content in my abilities as a mother and when my boy and girl speak to me with their voices. Not talking at me. When they speak and its real and their inner beauty shines through like divinity. Trust me that is a moment that is hard to find in this everyday shit race and if you spot one treasure it. If you can remember a moment keep that too. Don’t write it down or anything just remember the feeling you get when engaged in full hearted love with your kids. When their eyes look into yours and your heart skips a beat because you are their mom and you are in love. Smile.

The Egg is my incarnation. My visceral spirit without the extras yet added, of what completely embodies the life force of Smoke and Sex.

egg eater

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