The Impact of My Actions
Sometimes the most frustrating posts to write are those that are the most heartfelt. These are the posts that make me tear my hair out. They generally come in the midst of some sort of crazy moment in my life.
For a while it felt like the best way to describe my life was drama. And let me tell you, that is not how I want it. Although it may appear otherwise my desire has always been to have a relatively boring life. Give me and my loved ones good health, the ability to live the way we want to and Jack is a happy man.
I don’t need all of the craziness. I have had enough. Last week a friend of the family died. It was unexpected. It was shocking. It was just days after Yom Kippur. They had a major heart attack just after Rosh Hashanah. Unetaneh Tokef always affects me, but this time it had extra meaning.
Tom and I have had multiple conversations about his situation. Most of them involve the two of us shaking our heads about the absurdity of life and how naive we once were. It is not like either of us consider ourselves to be gurus or world class philosophers. We don’t. But as people who no longer think of middle age as being old it is clear that we have a little life experience beneath our belts.
As we share a moment discussing our thoughts I sit there and silently consider the impact of my own actions on those around me. I have a graphic imagination. Inside my head I picture myself skipping rocks on a pond. I can see myself dropping a stone into the pond creating little circles around its passing.
Everything I do impacts the people around me.
Fast forward to a conversation between my son and myself. I am trying to explain this to him. I don’t do a very good job of it. I am too busy trying to explain why people work and why you hope that you love what you do. It is a little beyond him. He wants to know what I do at recess at my office.
When I explain that we don’t have recess he tells me I should quit and find a job that does. If teaching paid enough I would have stayed in it. I don’t tell him that or even tell him that I used to be a teacher. I am not hiding it from him, just hasn’t come up yet. There are some things that a child doesn’t need to know, such as that I was once recruited to be a sex phone operator. In case you are wondering I didn’t do it. Didn’t pay much and wasn’t that interesting to me.
Confession time. If it would have paid enough I might have done it. It was tough being a poor college student. Then again, it is getting harder to say for certain what I would have done 20 years ago as I am not who I once was.
Someone out there is reading my posts with great attention to detail. In fact they are reading certain posts twice. Sometimes I leave hidden messages for them and sometimes they are overt. Sometimes I get notes from other people wondering if I am sending them hidden messages. I tell them to put on their tinfoil hats and to click their heels together.
Here is a secret message: M.L.B.F. Noah is an uncle and a monkey which is why the book started to cry. That is better than breathing heavy or getting pulled over by the police. It burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire which is why I keep a junebug close to me. Creamy delight coats the night.
Speaking of secret messages I haven’t ever sent a telegram, but I have seen it on television enough to know the protocol. See if I was in a movie I’d send my girl a message like this:
Trapped in an elevator STOP Thinking of you STOP Will Break Free STOP Coming For You STOP Our Love Forever STOP
Does anyone out there know Morse Code? How about Morris the Cat.
Ok, that should satisfy the seven conspiracy theorists that haunt this blog. It is kind of cool to know that they are haunting the blog. It warms the cockles of my heart. Every time I use or hear that word I think of my grandfather and his dear friend Molly Malone.
Full Stop. End of Post. End of Blog.