I do crossword puzzles. Almost pathologically. I finish one, I start the next. I keep a big book of them at home and work on them in my down time or to take a break. Puzzle after puzzle. Page after page.
I do them so I can feel done. There’s little glamour in ripping that perforated sheet out of the omnibus and recycling it, but I take a little bit of pride in each one – the neatness of my handwriting, how fast I caught on to the theme or the pun scheme, how well I balanced the different color pens I used on a particularly hard puzzle that took multiple days.
I finish it. I love it for a moment, and I let it go.
I took a food class tonight. And, to my surprise, what I was left with at the end of an evening that was sating in so many much bigger ways, was that crossword puzzle feeling. I felt complete. And done.
I know myself, therefore I second guess me daily about this latest vanity. But tonight, I caught a glimpse of why this path might be so meaningful to me. Maybe it was nothing but I didn’t want to forget it.