Consider the spoon.
The spoon did not decide to be a spoon.
Her spooning is the natural expression of the fibers of her being.
Even more, her spooning is the natural expression of her creator, embodied in this corporal existence inside the physicality of her, the spoon.
It is that simple.
It is that beautiful. It is that pure and purposeful and the joyful allowing of her destiny.
Except for the utensil drawer.
The spoon enters the world and finds herself surrounded. By forks, knives, serving spoons, pizza cutters, turkey basters, those picks for corn on the cob.
She wishes she could be more. She wishes she could do more.
She wishes she were like them.
She says, “look at what a fork can do with the chicken, look at what the knife can do to the bread, they are all so much more valuable and important and successful! What is wrong with me? Why can’t I fit in? Everything would be better and easier and more important.”
The fork says, “there’s no future in spooning! You will be safer if you fork like us! I’m sure you could if you just try harder!”
So she aspires to fork, or shovel, or play the tambourine.
Some of her endeavors are moderately successful. Some are failures. All require force. Pushing. Making. Suffering.
She worries, “I must not be a good utensil. If I stop for a second, this will all collapse. I must keep trying harder, or what will become of myself? I must make these forks like me, I must do more forking, or I will be abandoned, I will die.”
She is drained. All is only about work and waiting and monochrome flatness. Life is hard.
So she wallows in the acquisition of yet fancier utensil baskets, she drowns herself in the spirits of the bar, she runs away to hide in the child’s sandbox.
Until she hits the bottom of the sandbox, and reflected there in the quartz crystalline fragments she finds a glimpse of her truth looking right back at her.
And she remembers.
“I am a spoon.”
Not just remembers in her head, but she begins to feel it in the entire length of her.
In her very metallic nature, she begins to feel the truth of her spoonness.
She remembers spooning when she was first created, she remembers those moments, those secret stollen seconds where she spooned in the middle of the night, or when the forks weren’t looking, or when a spooning was needed and she was the only one around to do it.
She begins to hear the voice of the creator in her soul.
Yes, she requires rehabilitation. Yes, years of forking took a toll on her, she requires polishing, relearning, stretching of her spooning muscles, keeping up on the latest in spooning techniques.
Yes, this requires energy. She works at remembering how to be a spoon, at being her best self, at relearning what she had been created with but had forgotten in her attempts to be what she is not.
But the only remaining fight, the only resisting force – is her denial, her fear, her possibly running away again from the real of her creation.
She wonders, “but is this enough? This is so in the flow, being a spoon is so natural to me, how can it be valuable, how can this be important to anyone?”
Because being a spoon is natural to the spoon.
But the soup looks at her in wonder and says, “to me, you do the impossible.”
The effortless carrying provided by the spoon, this is what the soup could never do for herself.
The soup’s nature, her very purpose would remain unfulfilled, would remain unrealized, if it were not for the natural glory of the spoon.