Myself as a fridge. Open the door, there is some resistance, enough to make you think of the fact that whatever is inside needs to be kept safe. This is an unassuming door, plain will describe it best. Sometimes you can find something colorful and pretty on it, usually handmade. No fabulous stainless steel finish, no baroque medley of pictures and magnets. Simple, practical, clean.
Inside, there is room for many, many different things. There are some leftovers, good enough to keep for a little longer, needing to be consumed before they loose all their freshness. There is a lot of the good stuff, a great aged cheese, a fresh, crisp lettuce. Some of my contents seem regular, unassuming, then there is that spicy sauce here and the sweet syrup there. So many possibilities, so many different combinations, it just requires to open the drawers, search the shelves, spend some time with all the findings until something delicious, different and new happens.
Then, there is all the good nurturing stuff, the stapples of a domestic life; all the things that make my family happy. The comforting flavors of life, the true good, the reminders of home.
Behind all this freshness hides the rotten stuff, you know what I am talking about, the things that once were new and appealing and now after being neglected for a while have become horrid. How do I let them get to this stage? I think it is easy to hide the things that I do not like in the dark corners, let them be, avoid them until their stench gets me back to them.
Once in a while I do clean up the inside of me. I come ready for the task, with all the tools at hand, and when the job is done, the trash thrown out, the shelves organized, the stink of it gone, then I feel light, open, bright. It is then when I feel best about myself. I have nothing to hide and a lot to give. The future a mixture of colors and flavors to discover.