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Lately I’ve felt shame sliding slowly off me, like an old heavy coat. Wearing this has been long been painful; I hadn’t even noticed.

This morning I looked at the kitchen drain, clogged as it is every morning with grains of rice, bits of porridge, a lemon seed. I fish out tiny slices of onion that have made their way from earth to grocery cart to chopping board.

I look at that drain a hundred times a day. But today I focused on a small screw, and using a kitchen knife I pulled off the drain cover.

What I pulled up was much like what I might feel in my heart after a fit of crying. This is an accumulation of moments, the unarticulated grey, embarrassing, waste. “What is wrong with us that we don’t know how to look after our things?” I wonder as I fiddle under the sink.

I hold considerable judgement about that long stringy gunk.

But I am weary of the the shame about things I am not good at, like.... inelegant family moments, or more comfortably, household maintenance.

I am even feeling less shame about things I AM good at, like talking about my internal life, or perhaps, crying.

Little celebrations.

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