Some Things Never Change

I can remember losing almost every jacket I ever had in elementary school.  Okay, high school too.  My mother would ask, "Where's your jacket?" and I remember thinking two things simultaneously - "Uh-oh" and "Who cares?"  Because, "I'm in trouble" and "It's not cold out anymore" were the thoughts behind those thoughts.

Yesterday I took my 11 month old pal, SuperBub, to play on the grass at our favorite public area,  an upscale outdoor shopping mall with a large grassy area and a big fountain.  Apparently, the outfit he had on when he was put in my charge earlier that day was missing at the end of our time together several hours later.  My first thought was, "Hell, I don't know.  He travels with a whole diaper bag full of God-knows-what.  What mortal being could expected to keep track of all that stuff?

Then I remembered a friend talking about how he's 48 years old and it bothers him that he's still not very responsible.  I thought to  myself, "Well, that's easy.  You just have to take responsibility for things.  You know, man up and bite the bullet, swallow hard and do those things you don't feel like doing or are too lazy to do.  After all, procrastination is just sloth in five syllables."

As always, whenever I say or think something the least bit judgmental about someone else, something soon happens that highlights my own character defect in that area.

I feel bad about being irresponsible with regard to SuperBub's outfit.  But feeling bad neither improves my carelessness nor replaces the items I lose on a fairly regular basis.  It's been my experience that I only care when it costs me something, and even then the cost has to be such that I feel pain, financial or otherwise.

I don't want to be irresponsible any more.  Last week I thought I'd lost a pair of sunglasses while SuperBub and I were out, but I found them in the diaper bag this week.  I lose glasses and sunglasses all the time, but they're always ones I've found or obtained cheaply or for free.

I want to keep the inner child in me but I don't want to keep the part with an attitude of indifference toward things that matter to someone else.  I'm responsible for ALL of my choices, whether they seem like a big deal or not.

It doesn't make me a bad person because I lose things, but sometimes the good is the enemy of the best.  It's really not about a jacket or a an outfit or a pair of sunglasses.  It's about making progress toward becoming who I want to be before I lie down for my last nap.  Because who knows?  I might come back as a scatterbrained fox who misplaces his tail.

Help and Thank You

   I've never thought prayer had to be complicated.  "Help" and "thank you" pretty much cover it for me.  The sea of life moves me up and down, and while I manage to keep my nose out of the water most of the time, 90% of me will always be below the surface.

   Yesterday was one of those days when I swallowed a little water, panicked, asked for help, and now I'm saying thank you.  A stranger misjudged my motive and criticized my honesty.  Because the comment was neither clear nor direct, I first mistook it as a overture of friendship.  When I began to suspect his words were unkind, I asked him what he was trying to say.  He clarified his opinion a bit, the moment passed, and we parted ways.  I felt indignant and naive.  It took me a while to let it go.  A friend reminded me that it's a broad highway and there is room for all of us, with all of our opinions and character defects.

    Today is a new day.  Thank you for new days.  Help me to pause before I react.  Help me to be patient, kind, and tolerant in the ever-changing sea of life.


  

The World is My Teacher

   There is a gate I have to open fairly regularly for which I do not have a key.  I had an old pair of scissors that lost the rivet and was therefore two halves of a scissors.  Is it a "scissors" or a "scissor" or just "scissors?"  I don't know, but I digress.  Anyway, I take one half of the scissors, which is a flat, thin, curved blade, and I slip it in the latch, release the bolt, and open the gate.  The other day, I had approached the gate without my handy half scissor tool and, rather than walk back to my truck with all the stuff I was carrying, I was trying to open the latch with my pocket knife.  A couple of kids walked up behind me, returning home from school, a boy and a girl I'd say were probably 9 or 10 years old, saw what I was doing, and said, "We just do this."  The boy gave the iron gate a good kick, in and downward, and the it popped open!

   Here I thought I was so smart with my secret "master key," and all the while all I had to do was kick the gate just right.  Sometimes I just don't know what I don't know.

Syllables

   One of my favorite books suggests that procrastination is really just sloth in five syllables.  Syllables seem to matter a great deal in American English lately.  I frequently hear "utilize" in place of "use," "notate" instead of "note," and "stated" for "said."  For example, "She stated that she'd notated you procrastinate rather than utilize your talents," instead of "She said she'd noted you choose to be lazy rather than use your talents."
    Simple is beautiful.  I'm a decent speller with a pretty good vocabulary, but I suck at pronunciation.  If there's a wrong way to pronounce an English word, I'll find it.
   For me, the fewer syllables, the better.