But it’s my birthday today, and with that in mind, I’ve chosen a word for the year. It’s not what I think will happen. It’s not exactly what I hope the year will be. It’s my commitment to myself. And perhaps to the people who either live around me or depend upon me, or just hope for me. The world I’ve chosen is “Satisfied.”
This is not about prediction. It’s about predilection. It’s about choosing to find the satisfaction in the day, the month, the year. Last year had a lot of losses. Most of them too personal to try to talk about. I have been, in my life, a championship whiner. I’ve decided that’s not improved even by cheese. I’ve spent the year searching for a way without whining. what I’ve done is to pull in. I’m waiting for the story to flip.
There’s a day for story tellers, when the awful awful thing that happened to you becomes Awe Full: A thing full of some kind of odd gift, odd humor, deep humility and true silliness. Tragedy flips into comedy simply by how we tell the story and where we end it all.
I think satisfaction might be a kissing cousin to grateful, with the difference that there isn’t a need to dig for more, more more. Just an understanding that something in the now is in it’s own way, enough.
One of the things I lost this year is one half of an inch in height. It doesn’t sound like much but if you’re only five feet tall, your measurements become more significant. I’ve grew up in a short family so tall people just seem sadly alien to me. And to be pitied. They must hit their heads a lot in airplanes. And they need to buy more fabric for dresses. And it’s so far down for them to reach the floor.
But the other truly sad thing for them is that they look serious. They look like they need to be taken seriously. No short person suffers from this. Short little legs, tiny hands and feet, a round head, a head below other people’s head. No wonder people laugh at short people. It’s like having an odd wise child at your feet. It’s probably the juxtaposition of a childlike physique and wisdom earned by age.
And what a soap box! Short people have, for centuries, been able to say the unthinkable, which really needed to be thought about and said. It’s the position of the fool, the clown, the wit. And though I’ d die rather than put on a red nose ( my rosacea is plenty bad enough on it’s own), I find myself loving that part of myself that is waiting for the flip. And is willing to tell the story. Waiting to think of the way this will be funny in time. Or at least cautionary. And while I’m waiting, I’ve decided to choose a satisfaction in what is where it is. Just for right now.