Cultivating those Angels

Someone in my life is a control freak. She' always been, and probably will be till the day she dies. She's always engaged, always busy, but the funny thing is, few things get done. In her realm, there's many piles of paper scattered about, keys are lost regularly. Her idea of house work is sweeping five piles of dust in three different rooms and leaving them there until someone else picks them up. The bank card is never to be found when needed.  It's a revolving Easter egg hunt, but without the fun factor.

She has a great heart, but her help is often unwanted. What does she do? She does what she was just asked not to do anyways, often to the annoyance and frustration of the others. If you ask her not to help, she gets mad or hurt. She'll say that you're disparaging her, and why does she bother - no one appreciates her.

Just the other day, a person who helps her on a regular basis, confided in me. Now this guy has the patience of Job, and a fair amount of Mother Theresa in him, and even he was complaining. He confessed that she is constantly trying to help when he doesn't need her help. He smiled nervously, but I could feel his frustration.

Over the years, my frustration grew to resentment. I tried to talk it out with her, but, like all of us regarding certain foibles, she's never wrong. Before, I'd blow up, and argue, but now, I just smile and high-tail it out, making some excuse like I have a nervous colon, and have to run to the bathroom.

Yesterday, she said, we should spend more time together. Yes, I agreed, but after I walked away, I felt nervous, and thought, is that a good idea? 

As someone who is trying to cultivate the better Angels in me, it may be necessary. Why we behave in the stupid, ignorant, and appalling ways we do could be a reaction to some of the things we've suffered along the way. I've often wondered, after having experienced some of life's jolts, that, maybe, if there was someone there who could have listened, what a difference it might have made. Rather than point fingers, I ask myself, what can I do to make a difference?

Summer: heat and humidity, finally writing again

It's a sticky one. I sit upstairs in the t.v. room, box fan rumbling like a winded jogger, doing its best to blow the evening air through the room. Pepito, exhausted, lays on a blanket on the couch. I switch back and forth between The Dog Whisperer and The Yanks vs Texas. Down 4-1, now in the 6th, they battled back to 4-3. Joba's takes the mound - good luck. It seems every time he pitches, it's Christmas for the other team. Pop up. One out - maybe I can relax, and come to terms with my lack of writing output. I haven't been posting. Part of it is that I've been adjusting to my new contract, and so far, six weeks into it, things are good. Joba just gave up a two-run homer - when will the Yanks finally get rid of him? Anyways, it feels good to find my groove work-wise, but my writing output has been low. I could say writing is hard, and that it's even harder in the heat and humidity, but that's a lame excuse, and rather than make more excuses, I'm just going to say, tonight is the start of a new and lasting burst of expression, heat and humidity, Yankees win or loss - no more excuses.

Tuesday Morning Musing

Orange light
leaks through
that crack.
It glows sore thumb
bright
under the blind,
can't be ignored.
You try,
but it throbs
awakening you
beneath the blankets,
where you wish
to hold back
time.
It's impossible.
They say, anything's possible,
but that's just crap,
bible verse, Hallmark card
wishes.
Could it be true?
You know little changes,
but the garden grows,
so you anticipate August
like the end of a week
hoping, maybe,
in some
stolen moment,
there will be fruit.