So I sent my brother a text last night (got no love on the reply) complaining about the work that I was currently enthralled in. I was painting the north wall of the first floor stairwell. It is a tricky maneuver that requires a balancing act on a folding ladder. Granted, it is "technically" safe because the ladder has locking mechanisms to ensure safety... but while you're painting, it takes some getting used to... you know... you have to believe in the ladder... yourself... and in your ability to take short, shallow breaths. So I decide to take a break and I watched 60 minutes.
Man... I saw this story about a woman named Immaculee Ilibagiza She and 6 other Tutsi women spent 91 days hiding in 3' X 4' bathroom during the genocide in Rwanda 12 years ago.
...that’s 12 square feet.
So here I go complaining about my back hurting from the awkward stretching of this human cantilever exhibition I'm starring in... and these women were in a bathroom for three months.... I felt whiny. I felt ... guilty... I felt...unnecessarily burdened by trite circumstances.
And then it hit me... I've experienced this guilt before.... this was it.... this was the adult manifestation of the age-old, guilt-ridden parental staple lesson...
"Finish your dinner... there are children in the world starving."
In other words... There are people going without, so I should appreciate what I have and not waste it.
But in that recognition of the 8 yr old inside me who begot my current emotions, there was a secondary understanding that the lesson was incomplete. I realized instantaneously that should I ever embark on the mystical journey that is child rearing... I will add to the age-old wisdom.
"Finish your dinner... there are children in the world starving... and when you awake healthy and nurished in the morning, they will still be hungry...go fix it."