Come Tuesday, and it’s time to talk. It’s time to fill myself up by, as ironic as it is, getting some of the stuff choking me out.
For the better part of an hour, I can talk all I want. I can dictate the conversation and decide (if I’m verbal, that is) where it should go.
But here’s the thing. I need to digest each topic carefully. Can’t just stuff my cheeks and have my fill without giving myself time to chew over each matter at hand. So that means that I’m very limited.
I cannot indulge in everything I want.
So I carefully peruse the menu and choose what to settle on today.
Will it be something new and exotic, something I’m itching to talk about, or just the basics that I need for my very survival?
Often, I will choose, in which I think is a wise manner, to address the basics, arduous as it is to regurgitate the same stale topics. Because I know that where my struggles lie, therein is work to be done.
And so I finally work through the topic, only to see there was so much more I wanted to address.
But time is up, and I’m left lacking, knowing that I will never quite get my fill.
And then I’m left agonizing if a different menu item would have been more wholesome for me. If I’d feel lighter if I’d chosen differently.
Because I always need to leave some things off the menu, tempting as they are.
It means that issues that loom so big in my life will not be touched.
Because my plate is oh, so full and the all-you-can-eat expires after some time.
Then it’s out, away, and whatever I need, I have to slap together on my not-very-skilled own.
