Things I don’t hear anymore

At great risk to my well-being, I was thinking the other day; something I have not heard anyone say to me in a very long time is, “You’re just a kid.”

I used to hate that phrase.  I heard it virtually any time I tried to get ahead or assert myself in any way.  If I said anything about regrets, or missed opportunities, I’d be reminded that I was still just a kid;  I was continually assured that I had plenty of time to realize my dreams.

A few other things I used to hear all of the time, “You’ll understand when you’re older.”, and, “You’re still wet behind the ears.”

I found that condescension so frustrating.  I wanted to be taken seriously.  I had ideas and regrets that were real to me.  To have them dismissed as the whimsies of a child grated at my dignity.

Realizing how long it’s been since I have heard these platitudes, I can’t help but reflect upon my advanced age.

For better or worse, people actually listen to what I have to say these days.  Whether I am any more profound, accurate or even insightful is dubious.  I suppose that with greater experience comes greater wisdom, but I often feel that the only difference between the me of fifteen years ago and the the man I am today is a good deal of wear and tear.  If I were a used car, I’d probably sell below blue book value.

Then again, I recall my former self through the fog of all those years, and I suspect that I’d be tempted to slap him, and tell him to wise up.  I’d probably tell him he’s just a kid, and he needs to realize how little he knows about the world before he tries telling people how it should work.

But what about those grand plans?  Did I achieve the things I dreamed of?  Did I become the great man I always knew I was?  Of course not.  My life now is nothing like I dreamed it would be fifteen years ago.  But the interesting thing is that I don’t regret that at all.  One thing about being wet behind the ears is that I had no idea what I really wanted out of life.  It took years to figure out who I was, and what was really important to me.  Despite failing miserably at my grand plan for life, I am happy with who I am, no matter how accidental it may be.

As for regrets, I have more than my share.  I am sure that I am far from done accumulating them.  But those regrets, failures and shames are part of what has made me.  I can’t begrudge the fact that my failures are more a part of making me than my successes.  Failure has taught me where my real strength lies.  It’s shown what I can endure.  Failure has taken me to my limits, and forced me to exceed them.

All this reflection reminds me of something I wrote a few years back.  Some of you might have read this elsewhere, and I apologize for the repeat, but it seemed appropriate to my present musings.

Summer on the Great Plain

Summer enters the great plain like a reluctant idea. It tests for fallacies and misconceptions before settling into the tall grass for a season.

We set out at first light. The sun, a great fat china man, lounged laughing on the horizon’s frown. As we had traded our seven league boots for a kind man’s karma, we booked passage on dandelion spores. Tightly we clutched the throbbing seeds as their canopies of gauze lofted us on sunbeams.

The throngs of grass, grown brazen in summer’s company, contended to snatch us from our perches while grasshoppers and cicadas cursed us as interlopers. We take no notice; our concern is for the mountains. Will summer have knowledge of the secret word, and gain us passage? Will the season be equal to their towering gates, or will we languish in the foothills with Moses?

Where will we be if we cross the mountains without summer’s companionship? The mysteries of that distant land will be pale comfort without our dear china man to illuminate them.

How could we succeed at defying the stony guards? We’ll be dropped on their harsh slopes when summer forsakes us. The grip on our perch quavers with burgeoning doubt. What began as a carefree adventure has turned grim. The china man’s laugh now has an edge. He celebrates our lost bravado and we begin to suspect the grasses of stealing it while we were distracted. I turn to confront the culprit, and nearly fall from my stead. The grass whips frenzy at my feet while the insects shriek with ecstasy at my weakness.

Our ride through summer nearly past, the mountains loom in our future. How had the trip been so brief? How did we fail to carry more memories away with us? There must still be time to turn back for the goods we left behind.

We weep over our foolishness; cursing ourselves for forsaking the warm plains of our beginning. We cannot remember what promise has carried into the wilderness with the china man. But we recall the hungers that pushed us from the plain’s bosom.

The tears fall from our eyes, and we can see farther than we have all day. A dancing light becomes apparent on the far side of the mountains. Beams of golden light kiss the edges of a secret pass. No longer mourning our companion, who even now begins to linger behind as if hoping to slip through a side door and quit our company, we set our sights on the egress.

The remainder of the day will be devoted to weaving tales and speculation for use as barter in the secret cities before us.