The writer Leo Buscaglia was once invited to be on the jury of a school competition to find ‘the child who cared most for others’.
The winner was a boy whose neighbour, a gentleman of over eighty, had just been widowed. When he saw the old man sitting in his garden crying, the boy jumped over the fence, sat on the man’s lap and stayed there for a long time.
When he went back home, his mother asked him what he had said to the poor man.
‘Nothing,’ said the boy. ‘He’s lost his wife and that must have really hurt. I just went over to help him to cry.’
I’m getting too good at knowing my moods and what needs to be done. Yes, that’s a very good thing, but I do miss the peaceful retreat of a good, long, quiet tantrum. My brain knots unravel too fast these days, and then it’s back to the things that need my attention. Sometimes I wish it took a little longer. Sometimes I feel like I could really use the excuse for a good rest.
I read a book yesterday, cover-to-cover, which is a rare thing for me any more. I don’t usually devote that much of my day to reading, but I knew I needed this. This book has been popping up in front of me demanding to be read for many weeks now. I think the crankiness yesterday was an intentional pinch. I get like that when I’ve neglected something that needs my attention. I finally picked up the book …
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