What if you already were enough?

Right now, no combing, polishing,

or fixing required. What if

your broken and incomplete parts

were essential ingredients

in the stew of you,

and that it was yummy and good

already, no garnish of créme fraiche

or chives necessary, not even

a sprinkle of salt?

Sure, the flavors will blend and deepen

with time — everyone knows

soup’s always better a day or two later —

but everything you need is already

in the pot. What if

you already were enough?

[scs_alt]

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To the 56 other men who met me for coffee,

took me to lunch,

treated me to dinner,

or a drink,

thank you again.

Not for the drinks,

or the food,

which I thanked you for already,

but for keeping me on the quest.

I didn’t appreciate you at the time

for not being The One,

because I didn’t realize that the combination

of your 56 selves

was the education I needed

to finally realize who was.

The very fact that you weren’t basherte

helped me recognize the one

who was.

[scs_alt]

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Who knew such hybrid delights even existed?

If a scuffin is a scone-muffin, then could we also have scookies, or mookies, or cookuffins?

The possibilities are, if not endless, at least certainly delicious.

And if a scuffin were the MacGuffn in a movie, like Rosebud, or R2D2, or the Maltese Falcon, it would be deliciously poetic, don’t you think?

[scs_alt]

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We are alchemists, every one of us.

Rumpelstiltskins not of straw, but of emotion, meaning.

Transforming pain & loss into opportunity,

indifference into passion.

Of course it goes the other way, too —

we can spin gold into straw just as readily,

perhaps more so.

A native talent, I think.

It took only a matter of months for me to spin passion

into the first strands of contempt,

but even after 20 years of honing my skills,

it took 2 1/2 years to burnish mild interest

into gleaming, transparent love.

[scs_alt]

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What was I really hungry for after dinner?

Not the dozen cookies I ate,

after so lovingly mixing up the dough.

One would have been more than enough.

But cookie dough sseems to trigger something in me,

as if all the hungers I’ve ever had in my life —

for love, for attention, for understanding,

for challenge and fun and laughter —

all try to stuff themselves at once.

It never works, and I never seem to learn.

Next time: just don’t make the damn cookies.

[scs_alt]

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