Last week I was running late. Because of a recent resolve to stay in the moment I was able to resist being anxious about it, simply acknowledging that I would sign on to a meeting a few minutes tardy. When I walked in the door with six bags of groceries John greeted me. 

 

"You go to your meeting. I will put them away."

 

Such a kind man. After the zoom I walked back in the kitchen, and saw the insulated bag in the corner. He had not noticed it. I wish I could say that I quietly slid the melting spinach and mango chunks in the freezer, but that would be euphemism. I muttered, though did not air, my annoyance. Looking back with the lofty perspective of a few sleeps I am astonished at how rapidly my gratitude dissipated. I was dying to say it. Labels like fickle, and fair weather wife fit too closely for comfort. 

 

The incriminating thing about the urge to mention his error, is that it serves no one. It neither chills the produce, nor warms our relationship. What possible carrot could there be for expressing it? 

 

There is a phrase that resonates. Pleasures of insanity. Rather like the gorging that can happen on Halloween night, my voracious appetite for righteousness swallows any modicum of reason. It turns out that crazy objectives, like self importance, bear equally spoiled fruit. 

 

Which is what needs to die.