Breakfast on someone's birthday takes on a new level. Either John or I might stir a bunch of pancake batter, or create made to order omelettes. Blueberries and maple syrup find their way to the table beside the applesauce, and we all partake. 

 

But by eleven, it is forgotten. We have moved on to the events of the day, and the dishes are tucked into the dishwasher which if all goes well is even running.

 

Yet the food is just getting started. Having survived, or rather not survived, the mastication of my molars, the particles of nutrition are on a one way journey through my digestive system. Whether or not I understand or try to help- which it turns out I can't- my stomach and intestines are engaged with the complex process of nourishing my body.  

 

This is not a problem, unless I make it one. Esophaguses have been deftly handling chewed food for centuries, and with good results. Even before some anatomist won the privilege of naming said tube, they performed their duties without threat of punishment, or promise of reward. 

 

Last year John and I were scheduled to provide chapel at the college. We had had little time to coordinate our plans, and frankly the minutes leading up to it were not what you might call friendly. I wondered how this would work. But when we stepped on to the stage, something deep and unseen released, like digestive juices, and broke apart my resistance. The story we told, the song we sang were close to my heart. As close I guess as an aortic valve is to the colon. Anyway it worked. 

 

There are parts of my life, relationships for example, in which I have an active role. Choosing my words and actions impacts those exchanges for good or ill. But then there comes a point when I need to close my mouth and forget it.