The huge knife with gleaming blade stayed put in my grip as always, but my hold on reality took its tumble. Sometimes this happens, probably due to hormones. More likely, it’s the imagination-on-steroids I’ve possessed since birth.
As I worked the knife into the stubborn winter squash’s hull, my wrist weakening with my resolve for baked dinner vegetable, a vision of horror rose up involving a tragic slip and the loss of one hand. How stupid to go on trying, when surely this scenario could take place?
Worse, my thoughts whispered, now my children are maturing into people who wish to get back to the land and live like their ancestors. What risks they’ll be taking, with animals, weather, and sharp implements! Didn’t people die all the time back in those days from food poisonings and at the claws of wild beasts?
For a second or two I couldn’t take it. Then I imagined my son on his bike, riding this minute through cross-town traffic. My daughter, alone in her home some weekends while her housemates are out of town. The people in a fender-bender on Coburg Road as I passed them last week.
Ugh. The dangers of living have flowed around me every breath. My narrow escapes from disaster can’t be numbered. But of course there’ve been losses, too. Every day the potential looms. The more I have, the more I’ve seen, the more chance there is I will only have memories, and as I age I could lose even those.
I went on hacking at the squash. Rarely has recklessness been my way, especially not when imagination churns. And yet risk is the essence of living. Losing hangs on the other side of finding, of receiving. Along my road I’ve passed signposts leading to brighter things, that I now contain, that contain me, and that I believe I will always keep. No one, however, is handing out certainty.
We ate our squash. It was baked, buttered, pumpkiny-flavored. Like a grace in the middle of traffic, I got to use both my hands.
Get a cleaver, a sturdy cutting board, some courage, and hack that thing!
;D
There was my problem, Cherie. From cleaver to butcher knife to scaredy-cat. :o0 And then the carver, and later lots of knives to clean. Why are those squashes so tough-skinned??
It’s amazing we don’t all hide under our beds curled up in a fetal position. The winter squash, the sharp knife — almost feels like yet another lucky accident that you got to enjoy it for dinner. Do you suppose it was even more fragrant, more full of taste, more savored because of your knowledge of the shadow side? This kind of piece really gets me where I live.
This is my favorite of all I’ve read of yours, Deanna! So very close to my concerns.
Reminds me of one of the best Kirk quotes ever:
“Risk is our business. That’s what this starship is all about. That’s why we’re aboard her.”
I try and remember that as I quaver in my boots… : (
Thank you, Beth and Fresca, for being like me in this. (You probably didn’t choose it, but I find it nice to know I’m not alone.) I put that quote up, Fresca, on my Facebook page. :o)
It was a beautiful post. I think about things like that, too and remember to tuck them in my prayers, just in case.
Prayers are good things.