Sunday, March 23, 2014

March 22: Gratitude Eighteen, Don't Understand, Uncertainty, New Cartoon

"I don't understand it, and I don't like what I don't understand."

I don't deal well with uncertainty.  Like the above quote from Charlotte's Web says, I also don't like what I don't understand.  I don't do well with negative capability.

I'm still remote-posting from Middleton, Wisconsin.  It's early afternoon.  Pretty soon, we're all heading out to do something.  I'm not sure what that something is going to be.  A movie?  Shopping?  Sumo wrestling?  We've haven't finalized our plans.  Uncertainty.

This evening, we're going to the Outback Steakhouse.  That's for sure.  I will probably order some kind of martini when we get there.  That's for sure.  Steak will be my entree of choice.  That's also for sure.  I'm grateful for all of those certainties. 

However, my life has been an experiment in uncertainty recently.  I have interviewed for two jobs, and I'm waiting to hear back about another position for which I applied.  In two months, I don't know where I'm going to be working or how much I'm going to be earning.  It's all about trust in God at the moment.  Let go, let God.  That's one of my least favorite sayings, but, unfortunately, it's all I got right now.

In the mean time, Saint Marty has a steak dinner for sure this evening.  And a poem.  And a cartoon.

My Daughter at 14, Christmas Dance, 1981  

by Maria Mazziotti Gillan 

Panic in your face, you write questions
to ask him. When he arrives,
you are serene, your fear
unbetrayed. How unlike me you are.

After the dance,
I see your happiness; he holds
your hand. Though you barely speak,
your body pulses messages I can read

all too well. He kisses you goodnight,
his body moving toward yours, and yours
responding. I am frightened, guard my
tongue for fear my mother will pop out

of my mouth. "He is not shy," I say. You giggle,
a little girl again, but you tell me he
kissed you on the dance floor. "Once?"
I ask. "No, a lot."

We ride through rain-shining 1 a.m.
streets. I bite back words which long
to be said, knowing I must not shatter your
moment, fragile as a spun-glass bird,

you, the moment, poised on the edge of
flight, and I, on the ground, afraid.

Confessions of Saint Marty

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