flipping the omelette

It's been more than a year since I tried to make an omelette.

It's not really the kind of meal you make for one.

It's more of a meal made for another.

Sunday morning, with a side of bacon,

and some fresh squeezed orange juice.

It's a loving meal, food tendered up as a gift.

But today I wanted one. Mushrooms and cheese.

And, as I whipped the eggs with a bit of milk,

and put the butter into the warm pan,

I wondered if I should just make a scramble,

a fancy scramble. That would be good enough.

Then, a sure resolute "no" came over me.

I would make myself an omelette,

I could offer myself a good and loving meal.

The mushrooms sauteed, the eggs poured in,

the bubbling and pulling from edge to center,

edge to center. Creating the hard cooked bottom.

Then I was faced with the problem of flipping.

Not something I have done with much success,

and certainly without any practice

in a long, long time.

Again, a sure and resolute "yes" came over me.

I rocked the pan, felt the ease, the slippery tide of the eggs.

With an unwavering certainty,

I pushed the pan out and caught the omelette

on the other side.

It takes a certain amount of confidence

to flip an omelette. Just as it takes

a certain amount of confidence to flip your life.

To finally say, sure some parts of me

are still a bit loose, but I am solid underneath,

I am ready for what will happen.

See the way I can slide back and forth

against my life, see how I am about to teeter over,

see how I can take the push.

Push me, I dare you, push me.

See how I'll turn one end over the other,

see how I'll fly, then land, just right.