A morning that begins with a broken egg is not what one would consider a perfect morning, and it is then that I am reminded perfect mornings don’t exist. When you take the quest for perfection out of the equation, the day suddenly becomes much sunnier. It’s a comfort that coincides with the happy and unexpected relief afforded by a Monday night. When I spent weekends dreading school and work the next day, by the end of Monday afternoon, had I been able to face the demons, I would usually return home feeling relieved and better about all the worries that came to a head on Sunday nights. Even a broken egg, in proper perspective, seems like a minor mishap unworthy of a blog post like this.
Yet in the most minor and mundane of moments and mistakes, wisdom is to be found. In the broken egg, there was instant and irrevocable loss. There’s no putting Humpty together again. There’s also no way to make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, so long as you keep them off the floor. The magic is in how you break them, and where you break them. In the examination of these things, instead of being angry at the egg, you can greet its fallen state with gratitude for pausing the brain’s jump to annoyance. Replacing anger with curiosity may be one of he more productive strategies if I can start to implement it.
For the moment, I’m still swearing about cleaning up this broken egg
