Cheerful Monk aka Jean, a woman I respect for a number of reasons, asserted the following in her last post:
“I know some people who think life just happens, they don’t have much say in the matter. That attitude seems to work for them, but it’s against my nature to be that passive. … It’s more fun to be the painter than the paint.
If you want your story to be magnificent, begin by realizing you are the author, and every day is a new page
This last one points out how incorrigible I am, that at the age of 76, I still think I’m a creator in my life.
For me it’s a lot more fun than just being the paint.”
To which I replied in her comment box, and such is my purpose and sorrow that I vent same what I feel this moment on my own blog:
“My dear Jean, if only it were so easy. Yesterday (Sunday) evening, in a moment of misguided optimism and hope, I, the author of my life as you put it, took an initiative and “painted” and what did I end up with? A lot of paint on my face. So much paint on my face it will take a lot of resolve and tears to wash it off.
Say what you like: Sometimes we are at the mercy of others. And when we are at the mercy of someone else, you – the supposed editor of your life’s story – may take time off and go home early. Yes, I hit a brick wall. Hard.
I am devastated. Wish I could “re-write” that chapter of my life (into the future) but I can’t. Why? Because no man is an island. There are occasions, maybe few but nevertheless, where we are entirely dependent on someone else’s ability and willingness to communicate. And if that will isn’t there you may as well (metaphorically speaking) fill your coat pockets with stones and wade into water.”