The Quiet Wisdom

Bills unpaid, house a wreck, weight loss undone.  Twelve hour days are murder.  On the ropes, near defeat.

And then, in middle of a losing battle, some bits of kindness.  A gift for something you've done for someone, another remembering to you how you are remembered.

Glitter and gold.

You begin to relax and then--POP!--another right to the jaw.

You think you're clever, you think you're good / but you're not.
You think you're stupid / you think you're bad/ but you're not.

Categorical thinking, you know.

You get mad / you get glad.

In my hillbilly youth, one of my trailer park friends' step-father who worked in a canning plant ten months a year had some advice that I've taken as gold though I don't always follow it.  The man rarely smiled an open smile for he had a mouthful of rotten teeth.  But he was never afraid to give a closed lip grin.  Maybe the teeth were the reason he said so little, too, but everyone just referred to him as a "quiet man."  People believed him "thoughtful."  When he did speak up, though, the room usually got quiet.

One day my buddy was being a fool as we often were thinking ourselves funny.  Finally, having had enough "cleverness," the step-father offered up the words of wisdom:

"If you're stupid, keep your mouth shut and nobody will know it."

You don't know how many times I wish I'd followed his advice.

Lately.