The Last Decision

Welcome.

You are standing in front of the open refrigerator. The cold air is coming out onto your feet and you have been there long enough to feel it.

There is food in there. You are looking right at it, and none of it sounds like dinner.

Take a breath with me before you close the door. All the way in, and let it out slower than you took it.

What is happening to you has nothing to do with what is on those shelves.

You have been deciding things since you opened your eyes this morning. Which pill goes with breakfast and which one waits until noon, whether to say anything about what your sister said on the phone, which line at the pharmacy looked shorter, whether the ache in your shoulder was worth a call to anybody. Hundreds of them, most so small you would not count them if somebody asked you.

By the time you got to this hour, there was nothing left over for the smallest one of the whole day. So you are standing in the cold air waiting for a refrigerator to decide for you.

Nothing is wrong with you. You ran out of decisions before you ran out of day, and dinner was standing at the back of a very long line.

Breathe in and let your shoulders come down off your ears.

Dinner does not have to be a meal tonight. It has to be food, and then it has to be over with.

Your Tiny Healing Habit for today is “The Last Decision.” Reach in and take the easiest thing on that shelf, and eat it without arguing with yourself about whether it counts as supper. Then, while you are still standing there, say tomorrow’s dinner out loud and write it on the back of an envelope. One word does it. “Eggs.” “Soup.” Leave it on the counter where you will walk past it.

Tomorrow at this hour you come into the kitchen and somebody has already decided for you. That somebody is you, tonight, being kind to the tired person who walks in tomorrow.