That Is Not My Story

I wrote in my journal this morning about feeling holy. I am divine. A holy spark. I’d read this somewhere and thought, let me try it on, see how it feels. 

I felt holy for about three minutes. Then the dog laid his head on my knee and began to whimper. And Claire, sweet Claire, came in, rumpled from sleep, sighing about going to school. 


I made oatmeal. The dog needed walking. Claire needed a lunch packed. Nothing difficult, not like people being shot in the streets of Libya, or the man lighting himself on fire in Tunisia, the fruit seller who sparked a revolution. No, nothing like that. 


My life is charmed, luxurious. Divine. But I felt the spark sizzle out, a drop of water from an icicle had landed on the ember. I was a crabby woman, spreading peanut butter on a piece of bread. I felt Claire reacting to me, oh no, Mom’s slipping. I tried to pull myself back. 

What is it that I’m looking for that I don’t already have? Maybe the holy spark is the peanut butter. And the dog whimpering. And Dad lifting the lid off the pot of oatmeal I’d made for me and Michael and Rob, saying, “Hmmm. Maybe I’ll try some of yours this morning.”

He always makes his own and now he wants some of mine? 

So protective of my pot of oatmeal. Nothing holy in that.

“Go ahead, Dad,” I said, “Have some. I can make more.” 

But I felt let down; another person, dog, wanting. 

My brother, Rob, got up from his seat and said, "Where's the oatmeal, Bean? I'll make you some."

"No, no! Eat yours, it'll get cold.

"But I want to," he said, "I want to make you some oatmeal." 

This is so embarrassing, my crabby unholiness, my divinity lost under a pile of winter coats in the laundry room. Three minutes?

By midmorning, I was home alone, writing at the kitchen table when this shot through me, Maybe I should write about one-night stands and how much I love vodka. That would sell millions of books. 

But that is not my story. I am so grateful for that.