“There’s no yogurt?” I stick out my lower lip in comical exaggeration of disappointment.

Mark, the farmer-owner of the CSA we belong to, looks me in the eye and says, “D, this is why you are a high maintenance member.”

Me?! High maintenance? He must be joking. I telescope onto his blue eyes, which are locked on mine unwaveringly. No. He’s not joking.

“So there’s no yogurt today. You can’t expect everything we offer to be available all the time.”

“But! But, Mark, I don’t!” Befuddlement swamps me. I pride myself on being easy going, on rolling with contingencies.

“You often express disappointment that something isn’t available. And it’s hard to bear. Because we work so, so hard to feed you, and all our members. We’ve got all this amazing food out, and what do you comment on? What’s not there. It feels like, whatever we do, it’s not good enough.”

I am appalled. I had no idea.

“But! But Mark, I didn’t mean that at all!”

Even as this pops out of my mouth, I see his point. Even as I go on to explain (Or am I defending myself?), on another level insight dawns: I’ve done this covert criticism thing before, with others, for years.

It’s something I hate when it’s done to me. Because it leaves me feeling the same way: not good enough. I cannot believe it.

An electric storm erupts inside my head. I’m a shrink, which should, at this point in my career: 1) prevent me from doing this kind of thing 2) protect me from being hurt by the feedback, and 3) place me above the laws of mere human nature.

Hubby, year after year, complains, “Whatever I do, it’s never good enough!” You know husbands. They have so much baggage. They’re usually wrong. I’ve never taken him seriously.

And then there’s my mother. This is what she does. All the time. Without “meaning to.” That I should do it too? It cuts like a machete through the kudzu of my self-delusion. I can’t kid myself any longer.

These words of disappointment aren’t benign puffs of air. They are darts. They wound. They drain. They take. People need to protect themselves against me, and then recover from these little ambushes. I don’t want to be a person others must guard against. No way. I resolve to stop. Immediately.

“Mark, I’m sorry. I love everything you guys do. It’s killing me that what you’ve been hearing is that I’m never satisfied. It is so not true.”

Mark’s face splits in a grin of delight and surprise. “Really? That’s great to know!” He pauses. “But you hear what I’m saying, right? There’s something in your tone. Also, there’s the build up effect of saying you’re disappointed more weeks than not.” He looks at me searchingly. This is the third time, at least, he’s checking in to see if I’ve heard him.

I have yet to acknowledge what he’s said. Hubby complains about that too.

“Yes. I totally get it. I’ll be watching myself. Please! Let me know if I do it again. You guys do a great job. You’ve heard me too, right? When something I love isn’t there, like the yogurt, and I make disappointed noises, I’m grieving, not criticizing!”

“I’ll pass that along to the farmers,” he says, “so they can stop taking it personally.”

It moves me, the realization that farmers can be as sensitive as plants. And why shouldn’t they be? Their hearts are in their work just as my heart is in mine. I’ve been taking a lot for granted.

Driving home, I think, What a week. First, the flu. There’s nothing more humbling than one minute being vertical, the next horizontal. I was so sick it didn’t occur to me to work. In fact, I have no memory of three of those days. Now this.

It strikes me the two events are connected. The flu made the dialogue with Mark possible. Otherwise I would have gone to the distribution on the usual day, instead of making this special trip. Mark and I would never have had the chance to speak alone, much less so frankly, in the usual group whirl. Plus, even if we had, I doubt I would have been so open to the feedback.

Being ill lowered my defenses, rendered me more receptive. I feel wrenched and pounded into a different shape. A shape I want to learn how to live in from now on, at least until the next change.

I cough. My chest feels hollow, red. A steaming mug of ginger-lemon tea with a touch of honey calls to me. It’s just what I need after this. Have some with me!

Ginger Lemon Tea

Peel and slice into thick coins an open-hand sized piece of ginger.

Add to a stock pot of boiling, filtered water.

Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to simmer for an hour, with lid slightly off edge to let a little steam out. Turn off the heat.

Wash and slice several lemons into thick coins. Toss the ends. Add the rest to the standing ginger infusion.

Add honey to taste.

Drink hot, cool, diluted, sweet or not, whatever you like!

Stores for at least a week in fridge.

PHOTO CREDIT: mckenzieo