The Best He Could Do

As a child, I was told I could do better. I was smart and should never be satisfied with the status quo. I should imagine how I would feel if I got an A+ instead of an A. Maybe if I had spent more time, took it more seriously, stopped fooling around. This is how I became a perfectionist. This is also how I became one who expects others to be perfect, too.

Even in Jim's death, I have learned from him. He did his best. I can wish he lived his life differently. I can point out the many times he should have made different decisions and think about how is life, and death, would have been different. But, it was his path to take. It was his row to hoe. Just like I have mine.

Jim's funeral service was this past Saturday. Interestingly enough, the same date as my son's birthday. Two Marines performed the military funeral rituals. The flag went to Jim's young son. People spoke of what it was like to have had Jim in their lives. He did some pretty amazing things like stealing an airport golf cart with his buddy and driving around the airport in it, throwing airport security into a tizzy. He offered a different way of life to a drug addict living on the streets. He didn't know her, but followed the voice in his heart. Nearly twenty years later she continues to do well, is married, and runs her own business.

As I think about Jim, his life, his actions, his funny Jim-isms, (You: "What's that smell?" Jim: "That's your upper lip.") I realize more and more he just did his best and I have to be okay with it. Perfectionism is an unrealistic unattainable goal. It's also not necessary.

I have learned that even though Jim's best sometimes hurt those that loved him, it compounded his sorrow, too. Superman has his kryptonite. Why shouldn't Jim be afforded the same forgiveness?

Nature, Naturally

She walked down the path to the stream. Tired. So tired. Stopping, she lifted her face to the sun and breathed deeply. The smells of the field filled her.

Opening her eyes again, she decided the stream could wait.  Instead, she sat down in the soft tall grass, the earth's perfume surrounding her. Breathing it in again, she laid down. Now she had a pillow beneath her head. Stretching out her fingers, she ran them over the tops of the tendrils. Soft and strong.

Tears filled her eyes, ran down the sides of her face, and tickled her ears. A sob escaped from her chest and all of a sudden she was racked with cries from deep within. Over and over she let the waves take her as the sun continued to hang in the blue sky.

A sweet summer breeze rose up, from no particular direction, twirling. The grass swayed, danced really. The tender blades, gladly bending to the strength of the wind, tickled the girl's legs and arms. Soft explosive gusts dried the wetness from her cheeks leaving a salty residue, the only evidence she had mourned.

She was quiet now. Listening, she heard the grass and the stream, bubbling a few feet away. Hypnotized, at peace, she closed her eyes. It wasn't dark. The sun shone through her eyelids. Turning on her side, she eventually fell asleep.

Skating through life

I wanted to glide through this life. I came here wearing a well sharpened pair of ankle high ice skates. They didn't helped me, though. Whenever I built up any kind of speed I would run pell-mell into a stop sign. Literally. So hard I would fall from the impact, with no control I was a jumble of arms and legs spinning on the hard slick ice.

But, every time I fell, I rose again. With lacerated palms, I wiped the blood from the cuts on my knees. Sometimes still bleeding and definitely still in pain, checking my laces first, I forced myself to keep going,

Bruised and stained by my own blood, the healing took place with each new forward push. Eventually I learned how to navigate around sharp corners, stop without crashing, and easily cruise around dangers like thin ice.

Now my pace is an easy sail. No more racing, which makes for less stop signs. Or, maybe this less hectic stride just makes them seem further apart.