Envy, you hoary curmudgeon, seated at my breakfast table, tapping a gnarled knuckle with yellow, splitting nail by my steaming mug of ambition; whining and crackling your twisted, belittling words in my ear about the gifts and successes of my nearest and dearest, preaching poisoned parables from a pulpit of fear and frustration; I listen politely, respecting an elder the age of time itself, bowing my head and closing my eyes in prayer for relief and gratitude.
Then, Joy, the ample-bodied mother innkeeper bearing bowl of batter bustles ‘round the kitchen amid lively chatter and raucous laughter, sampling the pots steaming and simmering on the stove, gesticulating wildly with her spatula, slinging pre-pancake in punctuation, reminding that these people with their beauty, their strength, accomplishment, intellect, kindness and humor have chosen ME with whom to share their kinship. And that, folks, is a blessing of epic proportion.
While Envy miserly nibbles at his burnt bacon and dry toast, Joy and I feast on the plenty she’s laid before us. There’s always room at her table, friends. Pull up a seat and grab a plate. Love y’all.