On meat, potatoes, and the voices that keep me moving toward the river

The Fork at the Table

The scholarship dinner was a stage dressed as a meal. White linen stretched taut. Polished forks winked in the lights. My sister sat beside me, her napkin folded like a vow, her eyes saying more than I could hear.

The menu offered its little provocations: buttered boats, brined mysteries. Across the table, the other finalists chose boldly—escargot, something pickled, their plates arriving like stamped tickets to another world.

I ordered meat and potatoes. Safe. Heavy. True.
The fork chimed—ding—such a tiny bell to toll a fate.

By dessert, the scholarship had slipped away, quiet as a polite guest leaving while laughter still lingered. Outside, the night smelled of grass and diesel. I carried two shadows: sadness for the door that closed, relief for the weight I would not lift. And yes, that sly shame of comfort, curling around my ankle like a cat I could not quite shoo away.

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The Ache of Elsewhere

That table was not the first place I felt out of place, nor the last.

I have been poor to my rich friends, rich to my poor. Too loud where the carpet wanted hush; too quiet where the floor begged for dancing. My prayers rise like sparks some nights, sink like stones on others.

City streets do not know my stride. Country fields do not call my name. Even my kitchen table sometimes feels like borrowed wood, the grain running against my palm.

Out of place, everywhere but here.

Here is the breath fogging the glass.
Here is the noticing of a folded napkin.
Here is the small courage of not bolting from myself.

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The Elders at My Elbow

Most mornings, three voices sit with me like elders breaking bread.

Wendell Berry shakes his head at the quick road. He says belonging is slow, that soil takes years to welcome a root, that trees earn their shade ring by ring.

Stephen Covey clears his throat before the first sip of coffee. Do the hard thing first, he reminds me. Lift the weight while your back is strong. Step into the tide before it pulls you past the buoys.

And Garry Brecka laughs at my steaming shower. He points toward the cold knob, daring me into the shiver, reminding me that the aggressive pursuit of comfort is a fast track to old age—softening bones, dulling spirit.

Roots. Order. Shock. A homely trinity that refuses to let me drift into sleep.

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The Fish on the Shore

Kierkegaard once told of a fish flopping on the shore. No lecture needed—just water.

I know that fish. Felt it in my ribs on ordinary Tuesdays: the flop at a staff meeting when my words missed the current, the flop in a grocery aisle when sadness rose unbidden, the flop at midnight when the ceiling gave me back nothing but silence.

Born into time, gasping for the Infinite.

Some nights I say yes to the strange—an escargot of a conversation, a pickled courage on a plate. Most nights I bless the familiar: meat and potatoes, the humility of enough. Either way, I listen for that bell in the fork, and I heed the elders: root where I stand, do the hard thing first, finish with a cold shock that wakes the soul trying to slip back to sleep.

If I learned anything from the dinner I did not win, it is this: home does not always arrive with trumpets. Sometimes it sidles in while you scrape butter from a plate, touches your wrist like a sister’s hand, and whispers, Here. This breath. This noticing. This is enough for now.

Street by street, day by stubborn day, I edge toward the river—until one morning the current knows my name.

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A Question for You

When have you felt most out of place—and did that very dislocation open the doorway to belonging?

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Tags: Rumi, Kierkegaard, Wendell Berry, Stephen Covey, Garry Brecka, belonging, out of place, faith, wisdom, reflection, storytelling, spiritual journey, writers who guide, comfort and courage