Wholes and segments

Whole fruit taught me certainty.

Segments taught me truth.

The grapefruit opens and refuses a single story-sweet, bitter, collapsing, intact. The raspberries never pretend: they are fragments held together just enough to survive.

This is what growing up does. You return to what you were given and call it wrong-too hidden, too soon, too late. And maybe it was. But those who gave it were working from fragments too.

The taste is still yours.

And beneath all this—strangely-there is a pattern. Not God, not comfort. Something almost alien in its distance, yet precise in its direction. It doesn't protect you from breaking; it breaks you toward clarity. Toward awareness. Toward something that keeps leaning, quietly, toward love.

Not soft love. Not easy love.

Just a force that refuses to leave you unchanged.

So you stand there, holding pieces, no longer whole-

and realize

the order was never in perfection,

but in the way everything insists on being seen.

We are taught to trust the whole and doubt the segments-but perhaps wholeness comforts us not because it is truer, but because it asks less of us than seeing things as they are.