Here I am at my coffee shop, sipping on a non-fat latte with an extra shot, or moosed, as our local chain likes to call it.
The damn dog woke me up at 6:30am on a Saturday morning. Lucky for him, he raced out to relieve both his bowel and bladder. It’s the mornings he goes out to bark at the birds that I could just as easily cut him loose. Unfortunately, I am not one of those people who can effortlessly go back to sleep, and so like I said . . . here I am.
There was a time when I used this blog as therapy. I must have worked through several of my issues, because I just don’t seem to need it like I used to. This morning brought back memories of rising early,sneaking off for coffee and writing before Bubba wakes. And so it seemed only natural I should log in and click “Add Post” while the sun slides up in the sky.
A friend sent a note a week ago. Not electronically. She made it with real paper, with a hand-drawn fish on the front. She wrote a few words, not many. “How’s it going?” “What’s new?” but the card said so much more. It made me think about her. She lives on the coast, and fish are ever-present on her mind. Big fish. Like whales. Drawing a fish on a real paper card is so like something she would randomly do, eagerly dropping the envelope into a mailbox on the way to the rocky shore to look for shells, or jellyfish, or whatever the sea rolls in.
I can’t say for sure, but I imagine her finding the little oval cards with their matching envelopes at a humble second-hand shop or old-fashioned drug store. The price was right, and she knew she’d find some way to make someone’s day brighter; the thought of their smile involuntarily igniting one of her own. She has this crooked little grin when there’s something she’s thinking but not saying.
Perhaps she stared out over the waves when she decided what to do with the notecards, or maybe she was pulling weeds in the garden. But I know she spent some time contemplating. I know she thought about each person who would be on the other end while she drew. She undoubtedly laughed at her illustration of a fish swimming through the weeds. And she sent it anyway. Because that’s who she is.
And in this age of email and text messages, what kind of person does this random act of drawing a fish on a plain pink card and sending it in a matching envelope through the mail? It reminded me of how much I miss her unapologetically real and honest soul. If we asked her, she’d laugh and say she is quite unremarkable. And perhaps she’s right. Maybe we want to believe it takes a certain someone to make time for this simple deed. Maybe we’re afraid of learning that if we slow down for just a minute, we, too, hold the potential for honesty, love, following our dreams, and sending real paper notes through the mail.
This little card reminded me just a bit of who I want to be. When was the last time an email did that?
Peace . . .
Check out my friend’s Instagram Account to know her better:
At 16 we get our drivers license, at 18 we receive the right to vote. At 21 they allow us to legally drink. After that it goes downhill. At 26 you’re kicked off your parents insurance and at 50, well, they prod you to get prodded. I’m talking colonoscopy, here. Yes, I did turn fifty some time ago, and my doctor’s been lecturing me ever since. She gave me a pamphlet and presumably sold my number to the gastroenterologist. After they realized I wasn’t picking up, they stopped calling. I held out for five years.
It’s not that I’m afraid of the doctor or the embarrassment or even pain. I delivered four babies vaginally without meds for Christ’s sake. It’s the principle. They aren’t looking for polyps. They’re mining my intestines for gold.
The colonoscopy is the poster child for American healthcare run amok. It’s the most expensive test most of us are prescribed. Like other hospital procedures, a colonoscopy in other developed countries is a fraction of the cost we pay in the US. Here, the procedure accounts for the lion’s share of most gastrointestinal physicians’ income. Using less invasive, less painful, safer procedures would also be less expensive, but who wants that?
Sure other tests may have to be done more often, but at the cost of my prep kit (or less), some of them can be done at home and with no disruption to work or life for those of us who are at low risk.
I was told it was no big deal. Well, it was a big deal, albeit temporary. And the argument is that cancer is a bigger, potentially more permanent deal, right? And because we all know someone who has suffered and lost to cancer, we let them win that argument.
Here’s the thing. You knew I was going to tell you the thing, right? I have health insurance. It makes it easy to go to the clinic every year whether I need it or not, and order up smears and cultures, and scans and scopes whenever my doctor deems it necessary. I have a primary physician and even a phone app that will tell me the results of every test I’ve had in the last ten years. And while they go to the effort to make it all seem free it indeed is not. Healthcare is costly, and is not getting any cheaper or accessible for millions of good, hard-working Americans. If, by some miracle, they can afford the colonoscopy, it won’t matter because they can’t afford cancer treatment.
Once I booked my appointment, I had to put in for my day off of work. Not only do I have the luxury of taking a day off of work, I know someone else who is also able and willing to take a day off of work to drive me to and from the surgery center.
Four days prior to the procedure I went on a low-fiber diet. Not everyone can indulge in changing their diet for four days on a whim. They access their food from a food shelf once a month, or clean out their cupboards at the close of every week. Heck, I’ve been there — and not so many years ago. They can’t afford the $18 for the prep kit, or the two quarts of electrolyte beverage.
No one told me I should have considered taking the day before the appointment off of work, too. I was disoriented from fasting, couldn’t think or make decisions. I was ill from overdosing on mega-laxatives. When Bubba apologized for eating dinner in front of me, I told him I couldn’t eat if I tried.
However, by the time we arrived at the medical center, the illness of the power-lax had worn off and I was starving. A woman in scrubs took me to a tiny room and instructed me to change into a gown. When she came back she slapped a pressure cuff on me, inserted an IV needle in the back of my hand, and said goodbye before closing the door. That was the last person I saw for an hour and a half.
I sat in that room after not eating any solid food for 36 hours, while the staff talked audibly outside my door about who was going to lunch, and where. When finally someone came to get me, I was just about at the end of my rope. I made her wait while I slooooowly coiled my phone cord and placed it in my bag. I sauntered down the hall at my own pace, watching her surprise at how far behind her I’d fallen. You’re on MY clock now, bitch.
Apparently I get mean when I’m hungry.
No less than four people made conversation out of how to pronounce my last name. Yeah, that never gets old. The nurses complained about how cold it was and that the music had frozen. What kind of music is appropriate for a colonoscopy anyway? Dirty Deeds? Send the Pain Below?
When the doctor asked me where I’d been hiding for five years, I was thinking, “You know what? The faster we do this, the faster I can eat.” But you don’t argue with a guy who’s about to put a 6-foot tube up your backside. Mama did teach me not to say anything if I can’t say something nice, so after an awkward moment of silence he replied, “Okay . . . !”
Thanks to plenty of sedation and pain meds, the memory of the next twenty minutes is dim. I do remember the doctor asking for more Versed and the anesthesiologist telling me if I let go of her she can get me more pain medication. I remember them showing me the monitor, as if it could distract me like an episode of The Handmaid’s Tale.
Okay, okay . . I’m done going over the details of my colonoscopy like Gramma at the Thanksgiving table. In the end (pun intended), I got a clean bill of health, a free ticket to come back in 10 years, pictures — yes, pictures! — and a blue tote bag out of the deal.
Let me be clear. I’m not saying that colon screening is unnecessary. I’m saying our health system needs a good thorough check-up. If they really wanted more people to get screened so that less people would die, they would offer more convenient and less disruptive and less expensive options more readily. Healthcare would be for everyone. But then they wouldn’t have all that fun money, would they?
We are aphids blindly sucking nectar off the tender plant while they farm our backsides for the sweet honeydew.
I imagined starting off this post with all the reasons excuses I haven’t been writing. My computer broke. I’ve been crocheting. I have more. If you’re interested, just let me know. But I highly suspect you aren’t.
The truth is, I’m speechless. At a time when I feel like I should most find my voice, I’m embarrassingly mute. It’s not that I’m disconnected; quite the opposite. I’ve become a news junkie. I go to bed at night wearing wireless earbuds and wake up in the morning wondering what I missed after I fell asleep with them in. It’s that bad.
I’ve always maintained that I can’t change what goes on in the vast world, and so I’m just going to pay attention to those things that I can change. Someone’s day. My outlook. A corner of the garden. That worked for me because I believed, and still do, that the majority of people in the world are good. I believed things would all work out in the end because good conquers evil most of the time.
So now I’m a news junkie and I can’t claim blissful ignorance anymore. I understand that the good majority is poor, and that money buys the world. And what does one do when her voice is small and peaceful in a world that is screaming injustice at the top of its lungs?
I became speechless.
It’s not that I have nothing to say. It’s just that there are others saying it so well and so loud with all the best words. (That’s funny, right?) I can’t compete. Nor should I. Just because I have opinions on the news doesn’t mean I ought to write about it. That’s like somebody who admires and critiques art feeling guilty for not painting.
In the words of one of my favorite millenials, I need to do me. And if my voice is small and peaceful and speaks of wholeness, balance and love, there’s room for it. And maybe someone will hear it and smile. Because if all I do today is make someone smile, that’s enough.
I’ll never rid the world of injustice, prevail over all evil, or move millions to march. But I am enough. For that one person who just needed a hug or a smile or to be seen, I am enough.
So maybe you’ll be hearing more of me again. But you may need to take out your earbuds and listen closely over the roar of the protesters.
So proud of the women my daughters have become. They love deeply. They think critically. And on this day we became not just mother and daughters, but women standing as one with millions across the globe against injustice, fear, hatred, and bullshit.
I had this post I was writing, and somehow I lost it. It’s. Just. Gone.
So that was disappointing. And now that you can’t read it, I can tell you it was probably the most amazing and life-changing post you were ever going to read. Instead, I will leave you with a YouTube link that was kind of the inspiration for the awesome post I lost.
I wanted to serve you an ice cold margarita in a frosted glass with lime on the rim. Now all I have is lemons. Enjoy your lemonade.
Peace . . .
All the Single Ladies: Unmarried Women and the Rise of an Independent Nation
I’m not one to get up on a soapbox when it comes to politics. One politician is, in my humble opinion, as bad or good as the next. However, I feel the time has come for me to bring to light something that has been glaringly overlooked. The closest thing I have to a soapbox is my bottle of liquid detergent, so without further adieu, let me begin.
Donald R. Trump is not a politician. He is the neighborhood bully you wouldn’t have voted into class presidency. He is a spoiled, egocentric, tyrant who never received the good whooping he had coming to him. In fact, I have indisputable evidence that he is Scut Farkus from A Christmas Story, all grown up and running for president.
Please tell me you’ve seen the holiday movie A Christmas Story. It’s the classic tale of a nine-year old boy who wants only one thing for Christmas — A Red Ryder Carbine Action 200-shot Range Model Air Rifle.
So who is Scut Farkus, and why am I telling you this story when there are still 292 days until Christmas? Scut Farkus is the little shit bully who torments our protagonist, Ralphie Parker. And I’m claiming Farkus grew up, changed his name to Trump, and is now running for the presidency of the United States of America. By the time you’re done reading this, I think you’ll be convinced as well.
When we meet Scut Farkus, he’s cornering Ralphie and his two buddies, Flick and Schwartz, along with Ralphie’s little brother Randy in an alley. Farkus lets out an evil laugh. The narrator, adult Ralphie says,
“There he stood, between us and the alley. Scut Farkus staring out at us with his yellow eyes. He had yellow eyes! SO HELP ME GOD, YELLOW EYES!!”
The boys run to escape, but are cut short by Grover Dill, Scut’s crummy little toady. Every bully needs a toady to do his dirty work. Bullies don’t typically have the grit for it, and dare I say, neither does Trump.
I’ve seen a lot of comparisons of Trump to Mussolini or even Hitler. One included a who-said-it game, and I thought that might be valuable here. Unfortunately, Farkus didn’t say much in this movie, so this isn’t a long game, but let’s see if you can play along.
WHO SAID IT — TRUMP OR FARKUS?
Listen, jerk. When I tell you to come, you better come.
I don’t like losers.
I’m not doing that to brag. Because you know what, I don’t have to brag.
What? Are you gonna cry now? Come on crybaby, cry for me.
She’s a fat pig.
Scroll to the bottom for the answers.
The narrator goes on to tell us, “In our world, you were either a bully, a toady, or one of the nameless rabble of victims!” Yet, Ralphie proves he is none of these when, finally, he is pushed to his breaking point. His hot tears turn to rage and he rams into Trump . . . er, I mean . . . Farkus, and knocks him to the ground. Ralphie pummels the bully to a bloody pulp, while his toady, Dill, runs home to his Dad.
If Trump ends up being our Republican candidate, which it looks like he will, I can’t wait to see who his crummy little toady is, but I’ll bet he was once known as Grover Dill. You’ll know him by the way his lips curl over his green teeth.
If you’re still considering voting for Trump, please check out these common traits of bullies:
Are often strong
May or may not be popular with their peers
Have trouble following the rules
Show little concern for the feelings of others
Think highly of themselves
Often a sign that a person has not learned to control his or her aggression
Does this sound like a certain Republican you know? Is this the person you want leading the United States of America?
This year you will have the choice to be a toady or one of a nameless rabble of victims. Or will you finally reach your breaking point, march into the election booth, and pummel this bully with your vote?
Lest you still harbor uncertainty for the likelihood of Scut Farkus having grown up to run as Donald Trump, I ask you to examine the uncanny resemblance.
Everything and everyone are temporary. Some things are temporary longer, but never permanent. The oldest thing you can think of will someday be as gone and forgotten as tomorrow’s Top 40. Is this too deep for a Sunday morning? I apologize. I’m in a melancholy mood.
How, you ask, is this woebegone thinking going to dig me out of the doldrums? When I mention my thoughts on this out loud, at least one person will eventually tell me I’m depressing. I understand. Life is art. Your perspective depends on where you are standing. Lack of permanence is comforting or unnerving depending on your perspective.
Abraham Lincoln, in an address to the Wisconsin State Agricultural Society, once said,
“It is said an Eastern monarch once charged his wise men to invent him a sentence, to be ever in view, and which should be true and appropriate in all times and situations. They presented him the words: “And this, too, shall pass away.” How much it expresses! How chastening in the hour of pride! How consoling in the depths of affliction!”
Sometimes we control how long something will be temporary. We can take action; re-cut a bad haircut, remove a tattoo. We can take a break or even quit a job or relationship. I prefer not to stay in an unacceptable situation if it shows no sign of change. I left an employer over a decade ago, because I needed different hours. I asked if there was any way to change my shift, and they said no. It was a fine place to work, but it just didn’t fit my family needs. Several people mentioned how they should leave too, for various reasons, but mostly because they hated it there.
Upon handing in my two-week notice, a couple of managers approached me. They wanted me to stay. They would have offered me different hours. They would have trained me in different areas. They really had high hopes for me. Would I consider staying? “Sorry,” I said. “I already have another job.” Perhaps if they had known I was so very temporary, they have valued me more from the onset.
When I go back to that place, I still see a couple of those people who said they wanted to leave. If you wait for change to fall in your lap, you might have to wait a long time. After a while you forget you have a choice. Time flies when you’re having fun, but disappears forever when you’re not.
When things are really bad, I mean really bad, caring friends will ask, “Are you okay?” To which I reply, “I’m fine.” When they ask if I’m sure, I say, “What else am I going to be?” I suppose the obvious answer to that is “not fine.” But as long as I’m conscious and breathing, I make the choice to be fine. The rest is temporary.
In my car this morning, Alanis Morissette was singing through the stereo.
I’m broke but I’m happy
I’m poor but I’m kind
I’m short but I’m healthy, yeah
I’m high but I’m grounded
I’m sane but I’m overwhelmed
I’m lost but I’m hopeful baby
What it all comes down to
Is that everything’s gonna be fine fine fine
She sings of the yin and yang of life. The fact that I gravitate toward the yang when the yin of life weighs me down is a healthy thing. I write. I walk. I get out of the house. I look for beauty in the world. I find beauty within myself. I know both light and dark are temporary, and find delight and grief in their brevity.
So, yeah. I’m a little introspective and quiet this morning. And a little melancholy.
Instead of clipping, sorting, and filing newspaper ad coupons every week, I watch for coupons through member perks. Everyone has a membership program these days. I have three coffee shop apps that track my activity, send me coupons, and even let me pay, all on my phone. Everyone from convenience stores to Chinese restaurants message me to stop in and pick up the latest special just for the trouble of showing them the text.
Text coupons are convenient. They don’t clutter up my purse. I always have them with me. There is nothing to throw out when they expire. The problem? Half of these coupons are BOGOs.
Technically, I’m not a single. I’m not married, but Bubba and I are a pair. Two peas in the same pod. I’d love nothing more than to take him out on one of my BOGOs and spend a lazy morning conversing over two cups of coffee, one of them free. Except he doesn’t like coffee. He doesn’t like hot chocolate, frozen blended drinks, or teas — neither hot nor iced. The only thing he wants from my coffee shop is a muffin and a Coke. And he doesn’t want to laze around watching the sun come up while eating his muffin. No. In fact if you blink, you might miss seeing him eat it at all. So I happily go alone.
When my kids were in school, they sold coupon books for fundraisers. My mom would probably have bought one, except they were mostly BOGOs and she was a widow. When they were both alive, Mom was a loner, and had no problem seeing a movie or stopping for lunch by herself. A BOGO would have gone unused even then.
I get what they’re doing. They want your business, but they also want you to bring someone else. That way they can get more add-on sales with food, beverages or desserts. They’re also trying to double their pay-off for the marketing. Except they are excluding half of their audience, so in a way I really don’t get it.
For Valentine’s Day, my coffee shop sent out a BOGO text. I wondered how irritating that is to those who have no valentine, or for those who have loved and lost. It’s not enough that I have to listen to those horrible diamond commercials on the radio. Now I have to consider buying two small lattes in the drive-through, drinking them both on the way home.
How about they just give me a percentage off my entrée? Or a free dessert? What about buy a coffee, and get a free muffin? Now that’s something Bubba could sink his teeth into. Or swallow whole, whichever comes first.
The newspaper subscription was dirt cheap. We’re talking $2 for two years, Sunday, Wednesday, and Thursday. When the offer came in the mail, I must have checked it a dozen times, using my cheaters to look for fine print. There was none. So why wouldn’t I subscribe? The Sunday coupons alone would more than make up for the cost. Heck, they’d be paying me to take the paper!
There was something nostalgic about having the paper delivered before the sun peeked its lazy eye over the horizon. Reminiscent of the days when young boys rang the bell, steam rolling from their nostrils, collecting coins in an envelope in exchange for a stub that proved you had paid. In the morning, the smell of coffee and rustling newsprint would bring me from my bed, knuckles rubbing sleep from my eyes. I bounced on my father’s knee while he silently read the headlines, Mother’s bangs taped neatly to her forehead.
But reality hit like a poorly aimed Thanksgiving issue against the front window. My paper is delivered not by a paper boy, but a paper man, clad eerily in all black, driving a clunker in need of new brakes and a muffler. He lacks aim and has, on several occasions, lopped off the tops of carefully planted flowers. The issues, when retrieved, sit in the entry until the pup brings them into the living room, shredding the protective plastic and scattering the pages over the floor. Sometimes I save him time and just hand the newspaper over when I bring it in. It’s a cheap toy at $1 per year.
The coupons, which were the real selling point, take about an hour to sort, cut, update and file. If I save $5 in coupons on our shopping trip for Bubba, the dogs and myself, I’m getting paid about $5 an hour. When there were six of us living off one income, it was justifiable, but now my time is worth more. In addition, what do coupons really help you buy? The newest fad processed food, that’s what. When was the last time you saw a coupon for fruit, vegetables, or meat in the Sunday ads?
So the life of our paper looked like this:
Day 1: Thrown in the general direction of the front door.
Day 2: Found in the flowers and tossed inside.
Day 3: Shredded by the dog.
Day 4: Picked up piece by shredded piece.
Day 5: Recycled.
In the summer it was used in the garden as mulch. Or if I was feeling very efficient, I’d pick it up on my way out and put it in the recycle bin on the way to my car. It was like chopping down a forest and sending it to the recycling center every day.
It wasn’t making any sense. And it wasn’t bringing back the paper boys on bicycles or keeping me any more informed. It had to stop. And so I went online, where I get all my news, and I cancelled my $2-for-two-years subscription. I admit it felt a little like I was canceling a tradition; giving up on the way life used to be. But everything evolves if it is to exist at all. The newspaper will need to find a way to change and survive or go the way of the dinosaurs. The man in black will need to find another way to fund his car repairs. I can’t be single-handedly responsible for the decline of society. And this should have been the end of my story.
Except little did I know that canceling a subscription to the newspaper automatically enrolls you into a subscription to a daily phone call. At first, I didn’t answer. I didn’t recognize the number, and they didn’t leave a message. But curiosity eventually got the better of me, and I answered the call. They want me back. They want to know why I cancelled. They want to know if I would be interested in a subscription for just Sunday, or maybe Sunday and Thursday. Whatever I want I can get . . . for the bargain price of . . . . wait for it . . .
. . . just one dollar a week!
No thanks, I said. I’ll let Twitter tell me when I need to know something. Then I’ll Google it and decide if I should post it on Facebook.
During my 5k walk benefitting two local food shelves on Thanksgiving morning, I looked up and let the fat snowflakes hit my face. It was a soft snow with little breeze, and in an instant I felt thankful.
I was feeling my age upon waking that morning. The bones creaked and the muscles were rigid. I poked my head out of bed a few times before I left, testing the layers I’d chosen, finally settling on the long-sleeve cotton shirt we received with our race packets, my food bank hoodie, and a pair of grey sweatpants. I laced up my old-lady white sneakers, and loaded the shelf-stable groceries in the back of my son’s vehicle.
This year marks our second annual Thanksgiving walk/run for hunger. Last year the thermometer read a daunting one degree Fahrenheit. I learned a few things about the 5k/10k races, specifically involving winter weather. As a runner’s sweat drips down his or her back, stalactites form on the seat of the pants, forming — for lack of a better term — butt-cicles. It’s true. My son’s facial hair froze into a grampa-white beard and mixed with the evidence of his mile-5 nosebleed. He was terrifying despite the smile on his face. Although these are not the reasons I don’t run, they definitely justify my rationale.
Today was about thirty degrees warmer than last year, but the snow lent a sense of adventure. About 15 minutes after we saw my son off on his 10k run, the rest of us lined up for the 5k. Once the runners had all passed, the dog-walkers, strollers, and I settled into a brisk, yet slower, pace. My joints had stiffened standing in the cold, and they ached as I began. I snapped a few pictures, found some good classic rock on Pandora, and firmly secured my earbuds.
Somewhere in the middle, I looked up into the swirling white, and I felt thankful. And I thought about that word — Thanksgiving. Giving thanks. Certainly I am thankful to the people who organized the race, and to the food shelves who will put the proceeds to good use, and to my body for being able to carry me a whopping three miles on a frosty morn, and to my employer who gives me Thanksgiving off — even thankful to the earth for the crisp air and swirling snow.
But there is more to it than thanks. There’s giving. In the end it doesn’t matter who or how you thank. Whether you offer up prayer, or thank the cook, or tip the waitress. Thanking is polite. Giving takes more. Here, as I looked before and behind me, were all these people who took time away from their kitchen, or got up early, or scheduled Thanksgiving dinner just an hour later, so that they could give of themselves.
And after all the participants have gone home, or finished their Bloody Marys (just sayin’), there are people who are cleaning and clearing the route of signage or trash, sorting and storing the collected food, packing the race gear away, and accounting for expenses and proceeds.
So while I’m thankful to all the people who provided a way for me to give last Thursday, I’d like to change my definition of Thanksgiving from a day to give thanks, to a day to be thankful for the opportunity to give. I don’t give as much or as often as I could. But while my body is able, to participate in this annual event seems like a perfectly splendid way kick off this season of giving.
First and foremost, I blog for therapy. Unlike a diary, it forces me to choose my words wisely. Where a diary will take any abuse you want to give, my public blog requires I treat my thoughts with respect. And in doing so, I find an appreciation for “life and all things peaceful, balanced, whole and precious.”
I blog for posterity. It’s something to leave behind. I don’t believe in a supernatural afterlife. Even if I could, I wouldn’t want to hang around watching over my loved ones eternally. In a recent mishap, I accidentally and unavoidably caught a glimpse of all the pictures on the Rebel’s phone. Trust me when I say I don’t want to watch over them from above.
I blog to pass along a wisdom. Ancient cultures sat around the fire listening to lore from their elders. While I do have plenty of advice to share around the fire, most of it involves the perfect toasted marshmallow or the dangers of wielding hot pokers. Besides, who has time to sit around a fire listening to their elders anymore? Anything like that gets shared here as “Lore” for those who find it valuable enough to read.
I’m not sure at what age one becomes an elder, but I think I’m growing into it as gracefully as possible. That is, kicking and screaming, my brittle nails shredding on the door frame of old age. My daughter, the Romantic, reminded me that I once announced I was going to age naturally and embrace it — gray hair, wrinkles, and all. Yeah . . . I was thirty-something and knew nothing of disappearing collagen or finding coarse, white eyebrows reaching out like odd antennae over the tops of my bifocals. And so this thing of wisdom that comes with age is less of a gift than a purchase, dearly paid for with my declining condition.
Perhaps there is a responsibility to share what has been so expensive to attain. Maybe I want to spare my children and readers the pain I’ve born. After all, the suffering of my children is two-fold; once for their pain and another for the remembrance of my own mistakes. Or maybe I just want to give you a shortcut, a life hack, so you can surpass where I have been and finish farther ahead. Whatever the reason, sharing lore is clearly a primal need, present since men acquired the ability to speak.
The elders of my youth have all passed away. They, too, shared the experience of their years. Some of it I remember, most of it has probably been forgotten. The truth is, I gained less of my wisdom in listening than I found in living. The toddler learns more from touching a hot oven than from being told it is hot. Riding a bicycle can only be mastered after falling. We learn to guard our heart once we know how deeply it can hurt.
I’m told there is occasionally wisdom in my words. If you find it here, it is yours. If you want to keep it, however, it’s going to cost you a couple of wrinkles and maybe a white antenna eyebrow. But I guarantee it will be worth it.