What Do I Want?
I opened the refrigerator door.
I already had a salad. The first desire was simple: What could I add to this?
My eyes saw the goat cheese.
And then, not a thought, an image arrived: baked goat cheese with this salad.
I felt it.
Not in my head. In my body. A kind of yes that was unmistakable.
So I followed it.
I cut the cheese into four pieces, not thinking about it, just doing it. My hands knew how to portion it.
I poured olive oil into a small bowl, added fresh thyme, and watched the leaves release their color into the oil.
This wants to marinate, so I'll let it.
I had stale bread. I could have thrown it away. Instead, I grated it into breadcrumbs.
My hands moving. The bread becoming something new.
I wasn't consulting a recipe. I wasn't trying to figure out what came next.
I just kept following.
When I was ready to eat, I took each piece of cheese and rolled it in the crumbs. Careful. Deliberate. Not rushed.
Each one nestled into its golden coat as if it belonged there.
Because it did.
Into the oven.
And then I waited.
When I bit into one of those pieces, the breadcrumb crust gave way. The cheese was warm, melting on my tongue. The thyme released its heat.
I was right.
Not right in some abstract sense.
Right in the way your body knows things.
I had wanted something. I had felt the yes. And then I had followed it, one small step at a time.
From the refrigerator door all the way to my mouth.
I hadn't needed to know how when I began.
I only needed to know what I wanted.
And then listen for what came next.
Maybe this is what trusting ourselves looks like.
Not a grand declaration.
Sometimes it's simply noticing the quiet yes before our minds arrive with all the reasons why not.
And following it.
What do you want—before you explain it, justify it, or talk yourself out of it?
If you'd like to explore that question with me, I'm hosting a small Exploration of Desire where we'll spend three weeks listening more closely to what we want—and what happens when we trust it.
Anna Scott
