Brush off and try again
Oh, man what a day. I woke up with the sun today and as I write this orange rays work their way up through the mists of a fine spring morning.
Time to write some, to write some. What a to do? To write to publish today. At a minute or two to two. Uuuuuh!
Spring is the most amazing time of year. After long weeks of hibernation and torpor, nature awakes from its slumber in the first warming rays of the sun.
In an almost unreal, wondrous exultation birds sing again, green dots pop up everywhere and people are upbeat for no particular reason.
Hallelujah, winter is gone. Thanks winter, for providing us with the contrast that makes spring so magnificent!
Everthing new, everything afresh, everything everything.
Life goes on, as if nothing happened.
I will do the same.
I have not written an article in the past three weeks which is somewhat inxecusable.
But nonetheless, I will continue.
Because there is no value at all in beating myself up about this. Not for you, and particularly not for me.
I have not kept my word. I am sorry. From now on, I will keep it.
It is almost second nature to feel really really bad about ourselves when we break promises or can’t keep deadlines. Or to come up with really good excuses why it didn’t work out. Or to blame our parents. Or whatever.
When the only appropriate response is to brush off and try again. To say sorry.
To renew the commitment if you want to.
Feeling bad, or lashing out at others will never make any difference.
Like a tree who lost all its leaves in winter, just grow them back as if nothing happened.
It is a skill that can be trained, and I hope to get better at it asap.
Brush off and try again.
I want to leave you with a poem.
“The Poet With His Face in His Hands”
—by Mary Oliver
You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn’t need any more of that sound.
So if you’re going to do it and can’t
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can’t
hold it in, at least go by yourself across
the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets
like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you
want and nothing will be disturbed; you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched
by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.