Unhatched Eggs: Basking in the Blankness of an Uncreative Day
(and learning to love it)
Some days are made to build something. Others are made to take in what surrounds us. Yesterday, I had every intention of writing a new creative piece, or at least working on something in flux. But my mind would not let me have it; could not find the fuel to get any kind of fire going.
So: I recalibrated.
I listened, watched, sat still. Did laundry. Weeded a patch of earth. ‘Angela,’ I said to myself, ‘ This is a day to absorb, to ingest. ‘This is not a day to “take on” but to “take in.”' An inspired pep talk for the uninspired. All day, I did my best to come to terms with my state. It wasn’t easy. Every hour required a concentrated, concerted effort to stop trying to form a lucent glass sculpture out of a wet cup of sand.
Tired, disappointed, I went into the kitchen where I found the carton of eggs my neighbor had brought over. I ventured to accomplish one practical thing before evening by taking them out of the carton and putting them in the refrigerator’s egg holder.
I opened the carton and literally gasped at the display before me. How old was I when I discovered that chicken eggs are not always white? Too old.
Honestly, look at this:
Those pale blues, deep sand tones; that burnt umber number sitting in the top row, second from the right—unbelievable! Had it hatched that umber egg would have grown into the Paul Newman of chickens. But it didn’t, and yet it’s still something gorgeous for the world to behold.
Looking at those eggs reminded me of one of the best poems I have ever read:
A poem
is an egg
with a horse inside.
-by an unidentified 4th grader
I stared at those eggs a while, picked them up and held them in my hand. I realized that standing there, in my kitchen, admiring the varied hues and feeling their smooth, cool weight in my warm palm was better for me than writing a single line that day. It’s exactly what I needed.
I need to learn to love that kind of day more, and more often.
And today, another a gift, a tick on the earth’s dial; a marker of time as the curvaceous world spins—opening blossoms, setting bees out to matchmake; amplifying the sterling voices of Black-headed grosbeaks with nothing better to do than sing their little feathers off.
Happy Solstice Weekend, Dear Friends.
-Stirred in the Woods,
{| AC
I went to look for the comment you made on of my posts, where you offered me kindness over feeling sad and I was going to write you a message and say, "where you been Angela, haven't seen you around?" and then I came across this wonderful post with that great poem inside (like the horse in the egg) and I have those blue-green eggs in my fridge and some brown ones too, so instead of messaging you and asking you where you been I am writing you this.
The “Anita” in me would have opened that carton of eggs and seen how beautiful they were and said to myself, “Those are much too pretty to eat so I’ll just save them.” 😄