Someone once said that you can take the man out of the South, but you can’t take the South out of the man. William Faulkner, maybe?
The same can be said of California. I miss my two star state.
Happy Friday, dear readers. I hope wherever you find yourself today, it’s exactly where you want to be.
Whatever words we utter should be chosen with care for people will hear them and be influenced by them for good or ill. ~Buddha
I heard this tentative knock on our front door. Before I opened it, I could hear the unmistakable shuffling of feet and muffled sounds of laughter. Boys. There are boys at my door. Their voices grew clearer as I opened the door. “I’d like a word with Boy Wonder,” said the youngest of the group.
Uh oh.
I stepped into the living room where I shamelessly eavesdropped on their conversation. What I heard took my breath away.
“I’m sorry I was such a poor sport yesterday and called you mean names.” With a peek around the corner I could see my son’s young friend looking a little sheepish, his feet pigeon toed and his face sporting a hesitant smile.
And right before my eager eyes, all was forgiven. In an instant, all was well. As a mother of a boy, I can’t help but marvel at the swiftness of these exchanges. Because, while I don’t have a girl, I can clearly remember my childhood and the drama that seemed to swirl around the “fairer” sex. Watching my son with his friends makes me question if indeed womanhood has been misnamed. But, perhaps I’m over-reaching here. Perhaps this swiftness has nothing to do with gender and everything to do with experience.
The thing that gets me about this exchange is not its brevity exactly, as much as what is missing altogether. No justifications are to be found. No modifiers included. Not one trace of obfuscation. That apology was perfectly devoid of any qualifiers. I’m impressed by what it wasn’t: an adult apology! In fact, it seems to be missing all the hallmarks of every apology I’ve ever heard ,or given for that matter, in adulthood.
What happens to us as we grow up that makes us loath to admit responsibility without qualification? Why is it so difficult, when it is clear to everyone involved, to admit we are wrong. Wrong without excuse. Wrong without exceptions. Wrong without explanation. JUST PLAIN WRONG.
And in being wrong, sorry. Terribly sorry for our behavior. So much so, we do not recognize ourselves in the mirror and cannot imagine how we must be viewed. Simply put, we were mean and we’re sorry.
Not, “I was mean, but my sister picked on me all day, I’m sorry.”
Not, “I was mean, but I didn’t really intend to be mean, so I’m sorry.”
Not, “I was mean, but I had a hard day at work/school/life, I’m sorry.”
Not, “Well, you did this to me, so I felt justified being mean, but I’m sorry.”
No. No, no, no, no, no!
It’s not that the “Why” doesn’t matter. Sure, there are reasons for our behavior. Not that we ever really want to admit to all of it. I mean, if the reason is, “I was a real shit!” then, yeah, it’s not so fun to look at that! But in truth, there will be plenty of time later for the reasons. Tacking them onto an apology dilutes the emphasis on our contrition.
If you’re listening to an apology riddled with explanations and qualifications, it can be difficult to hear that contrition. Oh, it’s there. It’s just buried beneath a pile of “yes, buts”. It seems a bit cheeky on the part of the penitent to require you to dig through their denial for your apology. “Here’s a shovel, you’re going to need it, because I’m sorry.” And beyond cheeky, it’s presumptuous to assume those we’ve wounded are interested in our “whys”. We hope they will want to hear our explanations; but tacking them onto an apology is rawest form of entitlement.
No, instead, I would suggest that when we find ourselves in the wrong we choose courage. Courage to admit we screwed up. Courage without qualification. Courage without excuses. And it does take courage to face those we’ve injured and not explain our actions away. It takes a great deal of personal fortitude to face the consequences that come with such an apology. It is possible there will be no easy fix, no fix at all. Qualifying our behavior does not abate the risk, it only lessens the blow for us. And in the process, we side-step being responsible. I’m not sure we can actually call it an apology if there’s a caveat.
We cannot go through life without injuring those we love. It’s just not possible. What marks us, what lays claim to our character, is what we do AFTER we realize we’ve been, well, a shit! We can only strive to be courageous. We can only hope to claim our inner eight-year old self with pigeon-toed feet and hesitant smiles and simply say, “I was mean, I’m sorry.”
IZ: You need to eat more protein.
Somehow, I don’t think this is what he had in mind.
Bring the light.
It’s Saturday and I should be doing something instead of sitting here cruising Etsy. But I’ve got words all jumbled up in my head. Knots and knots of words refusing to come unloose, no matter how I pick and pry at the individual threads. I’m not trying all that hard to unravel this mess, either. There just isn’t any meaning to be made tonight.
It’s a diversion tactic; as a way of distracting myself, I mindlessly flip through pages upon pages of vintage items. We’ll just ignore the fact that I’ve been neglecting my own store front. Yeah, add that to my word problem. “Things to do! Things to do!” blares through some mental megaphone in my head. I not only own property in Denial, I’m the town’s mayor—click, click, click.
Problems can be self-sufficient. And persistent. And mind-numbingly tedious. They also tend to solve themselves when you step away. Or, at least when you find some perspective. But perspective can take time and distance; commodities in short supply at present. What perspective is to be had on the reality that my etsy store is deplete of merchandise and I’m ambivalent about that, is beyond me. The word problem is more complex.
I don’t enjoy writing posts like the one I posted to Anonymous. As a rule, I ignore that garbage; it’s in the town’s charter. As mayor of Denial, I have a civic duty to uphold. However, sometimes you have no choice but to look the bully in the face and say, “Boo!” And now that I have, I’m not all that energized to untangle the words that are jumbled up in my head tonight. I fear, if I start writing on words like “Responsibility” and “Forgiveness” and “Grace” that I will be preaching to the choir. I fear the words that have held my anger and frustration will come pouring out, that I will not be able to stem the tide. I fear I won’t want to stem the tide. I fear I will write a book in the process. I already use far too many words.
I’m pretty sure if I start, I won’t get past the word “Responsibility” to tell you that grace is not cheap. Or that there is no point seeking “Forgiveness” in private for transgressions committed in public. I know I won’t make it to “Grace”.
So, here I sit tonight. Click, click, clicking through countless pages of vintage. Avoiding making meaning. Using more words than necessary to tell you, well, nothing. And pitching my competition to boot. There’s a reason I was elected Mayor.
And you know, I don’t even like salt.
city girl waiting
tall buildings of memory
a matter of time
For the rest of you who aren’t anonymous: I guess this should have been the 7th bullet point on that last post; because I’ve been laughing all night. People never cease to amaze me—even the crazy ones. 😀 Blessings to you all… back to normalcy tomorrow. Feel free to run amok in the comment section.
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It’s a gray day here on the edge of the world. I feel sorry for all those people with Spring Break plans that included a trip to the beach. Unless your idea of wonderful is storm chasing or being curled up in front of a fireplace watching yet another wet system move in—this week is not the week to be here. It’s drizzly snowy! and gloomy and cold. Really cold.
I took last week off from blogging and in truth, I should be taking this week and next week too. My pile of “to do” has reached a “must do” height. I find myself overwhelmed by it all and honestly, any spare moment I can garner would be to my benefit. It’s that bad. Partly, because I am traveling a great deal in the next three months. Leaving home creates this urge to have everything in its place and my ever growing to-dos in order. But also because I’ve let some things lapse; entropy has ensued. And you know how sometimes you let things go to the point of no return? I feel like I might be on the edge of that with a few projects I’m not emotionally ready to let go of just yet. So, busy, busy me.
You don’t have to read this blog long to discover that I’m no fan of “busy”. In the midst of chaos, it’s important to breathe. It’s also important to laugh and not take yourself quite so seriously. And if you’re going to ponder, then to ponder the really important stuff. Not things like, “When did you last shower, huh? I don’t want to talk about your underwear.” Or “Excuse me, but this floor? This floor looks like the floor of a barn. WHY?”
No, no, in the midst of chaos it’s important to stop. Breathing in I calm my body. Breathing out I smile:
So, what is making you smile today? And I’m sure you have an opinion on that last question. Sound off in the comments, m’kay? Because I’m never too busy for comments.
Snickers doesn’t get much face time on this blog. Mostly, because she’s IZ’s cat and torments my dog enough to keep me in an almost perpetual state of peeved. It’s an unfair relationship, really. Because if Sophie responds we have no choice but to crack down on her. She’s a terrier and her instincts are intact; she’s genetically predisposed to hunt and kill vermin. Snickers certainly behaves like a weasel, but up against the snapping jaws of an enraged dog, she doesn’t stand a chance. You’d think that be enough to stop her wily ways.
I like this about my dog. I am a city girl through and through, but I harbor delusions of living “out” and having a whole pack of terriers to call my own. Like my dog’s instincts, my fantasy life is intact; I have visions of plaid riding jackets and leather knee-high boots (What?! By now you people should know my fantasies come with wardrobe options.) and five or six lovely, black and tan Welshies jumping at my feet. We spend countless hours roaming the vast expanse of our country estate nosing out assorted vermin. We come home, hot and sweaty and tired and triumphant, having once again cleared our fair land of weasels. (Hey, if you’re reading metaphor here, good for you.)
A Welsh Terrier is no slouch when it comes to nosing out a vermin. Just ask my Miss Sophie. There’s not a garbage can or telephone pole she doesn’t growl at when we’re out walking. Never mind our neighbor cat out for a midnight stroll. No, she has bigger prey in mind; namely her own shadow! Clearly, I’m not the only one with a rich fantasy life.
Now, I don’t believe in letting a person, or dog, dream alone. So, I can’t resist whispering, “Kill it, Sophie. Kill it!” even though it’s perfectly obvious that the only vermin in her life is the cat. Vermin she can’t kill. Vermin she must tolerate.
Which brings us back to Snickers. Lord only knows what goes on in her fantasy life.
