Up on my high horse.
I'm a day late writing this week, but I have a good excuse: I went away for the weekend on a silent-yoga-meditation-juice-cleanse retreat in the remote desert and have returned with the answers to all of life's questions.
Well, not exactly.
Smitty and I went on a last minute trip to Scottsdale, where we hiked for miles fueled only by iced coffee and pastries because who needs protein or water or sunscreen? We ate my favorite New Mexican food and my favorite Bruce Lee burger, and found a new top five pizza. I had a great service at a below average spa, and I came back with more life questions than ever:
[Traipsing through the 1.4 billion year old granite boulders of Pinnacle Peak] - "If we look at the history of the earth compacted into one calendar year, and we humans showed up at 11:36pm on December 31st , how in the actual and literal world did we decide this planet is somehow ours and should bend to our whims and sustain us with comfortable life here forever and ever? We're a strange and hilarious species."
Plus, I don't really NEED one of those retreats, because I've got this life lesson s*** locked down. I'm fully evolved. Case in point:
A couple weeks ago I learned my high school senior nephew was going to be reading Toni Morrison's Beloved for English class. Ooooweeee, did that give me a chance to saddle way up on my high horse and deliver an impassioned diatribe about how that book changed my life as a teenager, when I learned the hard and important lesson that I can't judge other people's actions without knowing their perspective/experience/story. And that I really CAN'T know their perspective/experience/story because I am NOT them and there is no way to say I wouldn't do exactly the same thing if I were them and in their situation.
No less than three hours later, I watched the debacle that was the end of the KU vs. K-State basketball game and FLEW OFF THE HANDLE with so much righteous indignation about "what a disgrace" and "no excuse" and "never put on the jersey again". Geez Louise that outrage feels good, don't it?
Last summer I had a failure-to-thrive fern at my house and decided to bring him to Milagro. Plants love it here. Someone commented recently how sad it looked and said maybe I should move it to a different spot. But as the person who's been caring for the little dude since day one, I know how much better he's doing now than before. I see the the bright green fronds of new growth. Yes, he still has some yellow leaves. No, the bare brown branches didn't disappear overnight. But he's mid-transformation and for some reason, it's super inspiring to witness.
If it's a process for the fern, maybe I should let it be a process for me, too.