Whether you’ve thought about it, or not, we all have one very important thing that must be accomplished each and every day. That thing is the same for each of us. How we go about it is influenced by a variety of things that are not within our control. Oh, sure. We can alter many aspects of our daily living, and each of them would play a significant role in achieving our goal for the day, however when it comes right down to it, it’s those things that we have no influence over that dictates our life more than most people think. How we handle those things determines our outlook on everyday living, and what our future may hold.
That was the thoughts meandering their way through my muddled mind yesterday morning as the sun was sidestepping its way through the aspen and pine trees growing between me and the horizon. That was a lot of thinking for so early in the morning. With my second cup of coffee, I moved on to wondering why I did not accomplish yesterday what I had set out to do. It wasn’t much. Maybe an hour or so of work. That’s all. There are some bugs on the windshield I tried to miss on my way here, but didn’t, that need to come off. A couple of squeaky hinges, and a sticky lock. Easy, peasy.
Well, looking back to whatever day the day before was (that’s right, I’ve lost track of not only the time of day, but the days of the week—another story for another time) it seems that a few things I have an influence over got in the way of what I have an influence over. Sitting in the shade of the aforementioned trees finishing Fatal Conceit by Robert Tanenbaum called heads when I flipped the coin to determine the winner between book and work. I had to toss that quarter into the air eight times to have the image of George Washington show itself in the dirt. Eight times. That quarter was beginning to get heavy. I’m just glad heads showed up when it did.
So, as I write this (yesterday, I think), just know that it’s been a busy morning. I’ve one less sticky lock and a squeaky hinge than I had when I got out of bed, but I still have those bugs—Do you think those bugs were committing suicide, or just playing chicken and lost?—to rub off the windshield, and a couple more squeaky hinges to take care of. Oh, yeah. There’s the decision of what’s for dinner—chicken, or left over pork fried rice.
I’m about on overload here. I just might have to step back and do what needs to be done, and nothing more. And what is that, you ask? Oh, just live to see another day.
How I go about accomplishing that very important task is greatly influenced by those things I have no control over today—mostly my personality and my past, however the color of my skin and the era in which I was raised play a very significant role.
So, for the time being, it’s me and the written word. I have to figure out how Achmed Morales plays into the story of Pinky Anderson. Or, does he? I have already written how it might end, but it’s the danged beginning that’s giving me trouble.
I think it’s going to be the pork fried rice for dinner, the bugs are safe for a little while longer, and I don’t open those squeaky doors very often anyway. Wow. That wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. Maybe as I fix another cup of coffee Achmed and Pinky will become acquainted. I can only hope.
Good night, Mrs. Jackson, wherever you are.