They say, “It should be easy,
“Like the buttering of bread”.
And indeed, they move like masters.
But this morning, I made toast.
The bread was very crumbly. The butter was not soft.
It was cold, and it was hard, and it was bulky in its wrapper.
And so I had to pause,
Standing at the counter with the hot eggs waiting
And the burnt greens aching, and the oily sausage wondering
Just how I was going to do it.
I considered, a long while, how to best anoint my toast —
Yesterday was a disaster.
I imagined the fat lives of those easeful butterers
With that rich, supple substance dancing soft on silver knives.
Surely they’re superior at more than making breakfast.
And what, I had to wonder,
Did my toast fiasco say about my oh so fragile life
If the buttering of bread is freedom’s secret key
And here’s me, so clearly, failing?
But then, I came back. I came back to myself.
I came back from my efforts to butter like others,
I came back from their teachings on mending my life.
Then I did this strange thing that I’ve always enjoyed -
I buttered my bread with no knife at all.
With a perfectly cold bulk of fat in one hand,
And a perfectly crisp slice of toast in the other,
I slathered that toast very gently, straight on.
And I like it this way -
More closeness, less dishes.
She melted, he loved it, and breakfast was served.
And done in this way of my own quirky Dao,
It was easy, after all.
And the eggs were still warm, the sausage felt happy,
And the burnt greens relaxed, even tasted quite good,
Knowing I’d be able to love them.
“Like the buttering of bread”.
And indeed, they move like masters.
But this morning, I made toast.
The bread was very crumbly. The butter was not soft.
It was cold, and it was hard, and it was bulky in its wrapper.
And so I had to pause,
Standing at the counter with the hot eggs waiting
And the burnt greens aching, and the oily sausage wondering
Just how I was going to do it.
I considered, a long while, how to best anoint my toast —
Yesterday was a disaster.
I imagined the fat lives of those easeful butterers
With that rich, supple substance dancing soft on silver knives.
Surely they’re superior at more than making breakfast.
And what, I had to wonder,
Did my toast fiasco say about my oh so fragile life
If the buttering of bread is freedom’s secret key
And here’s me, so clearly, failing?
But then, I came back. I came back to myself.
I came back from my efforts to butter like others,
I came back from their teachings on mending my life.
Then I did this strange thing that I’ve always enjoyed -
I buttered my bread with no knife at all.
With a perfectly cold bulk of fat in one hand,
And a perfectly crisp slice of toast in the other,
I slathered that toast very gently, straight on.
And I like it this way -
More closeness, less dishes.
She melted, he loved it, and breakfast was served.
And done in this way of my own quirky Dao,
It was easy, after all.
And the eggs were still warm, the sausage felt happy,
And the burnt greens relaxed, even tasted quite good,
Knowing I’d be able to love them.