The chips clinked, a low, resonant hum against the felt. The bourbon was warm in my hand, and the laughter around the table was genuine, unforced. I’d just pulled off a blinder of a bluff, securing a decent pot, and the glow of camaraderie, of being truly present in a moment, felt like a warm blanket against a crisp night. Every fiber of my being whispered, ‘Stay. This is good. Prolong it.’ But a deeper, quieter current beneath the surface began to stir, a familiar sensation, like the whisper of the tide reaching its highest, most serene point before gently receding. It wasn’t a sense of danger or boredom, but of fullness. Of completion.
We’re conditioned to think about beginnings, about setting initial parameters. How much time? How much money? How many episodes? We meticulously plan the launch, but rarely the landing. We set a starting limit for, say, a game night, but then, when everything aligns and the energy is perfect, we push past that self-imposed boundary, convinced we can squeeze just a little more joy from the well. We’ve been taught that ‘more’ is often synonymous with ‘better,’ or at least ‘longer-lasting.’ And this, I’ve come to believe, is one of the most significant, yet unacknowledged, frustrations of modern existence: how do you stop a fun activity before it becomes ‘too much’?
A Flour-Dusted Parable
Consider Grace










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