Reflections

I knew someone was having a hard time.
I wanted to say something without pretending I understood it.

I wrote:
“Your experience is yours.
The pain it brings is shared.”

Then I sat with my thumb over send.
Nothing in me became more certain.
A better version never arrived.

Eventually I pressed it.

The phone buzzed a few minutes later.
I was nervous to look.

The reply thanked me.
No mention on how I had worded the message.

We never know what our words will mean to someone.
Sending them is the only way to find out.

The engine is off and the song isn't finished so you sit there in the driveway with the keys still in your hand.
Two minutes. Maybe three.

Volume up. Head banging.
Singing the wrong words with total confidence.

Then the song ends.
You go inside and become normal again.

Three minutes is the allowance.
Then the hand goes to the dial and you turn yourself back down to a reasonable level.

Nobody set that limit.
You've been quiet on your own authority this whole time.

Take a compliment and watch what you do with it. You file it away as proof, evidence you're owed more of the same.
Lose something and the same instinct logs the loss.

Pride and attachment sound like opposites.
One swells, one clings.
But they keep the same books.

Pride records what you're owed. Attachment guards what you've banked.

You think the calm ones have simply let go. That they care less.

They haven't. They've closed the books.

Nothing is lost from a life you never logged as profit.
There's nothing to defend when nothing sits on the ledger as yours.

Receive it clean. Let it pass through.
An empty ledger is the only one that can't be robbed.

Goodness doesn't stay lit on its own.

It needs feeding. Not once. Not when you feel inspired.
Every day. Even the flat days.

We talk about character like it's a monument.
Something finished.
Something to point to.

Built once. Permanent. Yours to display.

Leave a monument alone and it holds.
Leave a flame alone and it doesn't.
It just goes out.

It started when you slept in.
Or that's what you told yourself.

By afternoon the list had grown.
The people who texted. The noise.
The day that never really found its footing.

Then you turned it on yourself.
Which felt like accountability.
That part was wrong too.

But a bad morning ends.
That's its full size. A fixed point.

What doesn't end is the story you keep telling about it.

The morning cost you the morning.
Everything after that is a choice.

Five doors.
You've catalogued every one.

What's behind this one.
What you'd lose with that one.
The one on the end you keep circling back to.

You've been so thorough.
So responsible.

Meanwhile the hallway just gets more familiar.

Here's what you haven't named:
standing here is a choice too.
Not a pause. The choice.

You're not waiting to decide.
You've already decided. To stay.

The wrong door has an exit.
The hallway doesn't.

Pick one.

You say yes.
The words leave your mouth before your brain catches up.

"Yeah, sure."

And just like that you've crossed off your own plan.

The thing you wanted to do sits there.
Quietly erased by someone else's need.

You help. You smile. You act fine.

But underneath you're running a tab.
Not tracking their time. Tracking yours.

Every minute logged.
Every interruption noted.
The bill climbing in silence.

We think the frustration is about them asking.

But they didn't make you say yes.

You charged yourself for your own generosity.
And now you're collecting.

The stranger who let you merge.
The conversation that planted a seed you only recognised years later.
The door that closed and sent you somewhere better.

We receive constantly.
But we only count the gifts that arrive with fanfare.

The quiet ones slip past.
Ordinary moments doing extraordinary work while we wait for something dramatic.

We want rescue with trumpets.
Meanwhile, the small adjustments keep adding up.

A word at the right time.
A delay that kept you safe.
A no that made room for a better yes.

The universe doesn't always announce what it's doing.
It just does it.

Most of what saves us never signs its name.

Waiting for a coffee at my cafe.
A mother impatient with her server, walked up and grabbed her bowl of chips.

Their table all took a bite and were met with a burnt mouth.

How often do we do that?
Rush the moment.
Skip the wait.

Some pain doesn’t come from the task.
It’s from not letting it cool.