Peeling an apple for Sam's lunch--fresh, sweet, lovely to hold and to smell--and the knife slides easily under the skin. And I notice that the blade only ever meets resistance at the point where the apple has begun to rot. Rot and resistance, yes, yes, it only makes sense. That is always the place where I meet my own resistance, where something has been left to rot, something unfelt, unheeded, unintegrated. Yes, yes, keep peeling that apple...