My toddlers liked puzzles. They started on wooden ones with images like trucks or fruit, where only one piece fits in each slot. There was a solitary solution, and nothing else worked. The other day I saw a parakeet who could do as much, pairing colored balls with coordinating cups. Pigs have the capacity to solve puzzles too, and can plop the right piece where it belongs. There is satisfaction in such efforts, which apparently extends to birds and piglets. The videos did not reveal whether there were edible rewards for such accomplishments. I would not mind if there were. 

We grown ups, too, seem to migrate toward correct answers. In the medical show I watched last week doctors searched for the diagnosis, the one that matched presenting symptoms. Everyone's shoulders dropped when the right treatment could be shoved into the I.V. and the patient's blood pressure stabilized. 

This translates into my own search for the conclusion that fits, because there can only be one. If someone is angry with me, it means I failed them. When my adult child says that their experience of our home was painful, I was at fault. There is no other possibility. 

Yet in recent years I feel confounded by those times when there seems to be more than one option. In defiance of those wooden puzzles, there are multiple pieces to consider. Maybe my child felt hurt by my actions, and yet I was doing the best I could. It might be that the friend who is upset with me is reacting in ways I did not cause and cannot heal. 

Today one of those conundrums broke me open. It was not easy. I think I will allow myself a piece of chocolate. I don't think anyone will mind.