Beef Jerky

Sharing a bag of beef jerky with friends is one of my favorite things. It's a rare treat, but I always love it. I love that I can't shove the whole thing in my mouth at once. I must gnaw at it, slowly softening it into meaty juices. It cannot be eaten quickly... it must be digested slowly. Deliberately.

Sometimes my jaws ache afterward, and I long for processed meats. But the jerky leaves far greater satisfaction. Sometimes the jerky sticks. It sticks in my teeth and irritates me. It almost makes me wish I hadn't eaten it. Except I recall the powerful flavor that covers my tongue... and I want another.

I've been reading a book a week, and I am overwhelmed with the sheer amount I'm learning. It's dense like jerky, and I have to chew and gnaw on these ideas in order to understand them. It's satisfying.
But I feel overwhelmed.... like shoving too much jerky in my mouth at once... trying to gnaw through the dense, meaty flavor,

making my jaws ache.
my mind ache.
my heart ache.

Sometimes I wish I could send away these thick thoughts and exchange them for finer, lighter ones. But then I would miss the astonishing discoveries that fill me with awe and joy. Sometimes the thoughts stick and hang around long after I've closed the book. They haunt my days: from the moment my eyes blink open until the time they droop closed. Sometimes I get annoyed. I want to move on to the next bite of jerky, instead of having the old bits dangle around... irritating, agonizing... forcing me to deal with them. And then I do.

The freedom of removing the tenacious bits of jerky that hang in the crevices of my mind! The relief of finally understanding. I'm getting ready for the next big bite.