“Probably one of the most private things in the world is an egg before it is broken.” – M.F.K. Fisher
The secret rituals of living alone are my favorite part of this chapter: the way I linger over making coffee, Saturday’s flower choices, arranging and rearranging ceramic objects because I feel like it. After years of loneliness, this year’s solitude feels like Sanctuary.
Until a few weeks ago, only a very few friends had entered my home. The intimacy of this space increased each day, and while there was never a deliberate decision to exclude visitors, my home became more and more the inside of an egg.
I love the M.F.K. Fisher quote above. I love the image of that egg inside its porcelain shell, just a hair’s breadth away from cracking at any given moment. And inside the egg, there’s a whole world happening. There’s the poetry of nourishment or birth. There’s the yellow sun of the yolk, or the magic of a baby bird forming. Inside the egg is a mystery, a gift. Inside the egg is what is about to become.
I’m writing this dispatch from inside the egg of this year, a year that I unintentionally carved out for myself as I’ve incubated happily away. I’m not done yet. It’s lovely and private and beautiful in here. I’m waiting to see what I am about to become.