Wednesday, August 14, 2013

you are the story i should write

"My lucky thing!" Cecil said delighted, clutching the Angus Dei. "Where was it?"
"Father Robert gave it to me for you," said Rickie.
"That's not a lucky thing, Cecil," said Teresa, "it's a sacred thing."
"What's the difference?" Cecil asked.
Teresa smiled. 
"Roughly this," she said. "A thing is magic if you get what you want through it: but if it is blessed you get what God wants through it."
- Sun Slower, Sun Faster, Meriol Trevor

I ran out into the violescent twilight, and leaped up as if I could almost hug the little half-moon shining up there between the last clouds of daytime and the first stars of night.
My Writer's Block was washed away like the dust and dirt of the day meeting an evening shower.
The air was still holding onto little remnants of sunlight, the night was young and fresh, and the wind was ever-so-slightly chill, my mind was clean and clear, and it was the perfect night to be alive under an oak tree with bats flying overhead, catching mosquitos.

The most magical three words in the entire world are those that compose the tantalizingly intoxicating phrase: 
"You are right."
Their heady magic makes my mind spin, leaping into hypothetical atmospheres with gravity-defying somersaults.
I. Am. Right. I think to myself, barely believing my good fortune.
Could it be? Yes. It is. I have become right. I am essentially an embodiment of all right-ness that ever was.
I have just become an unstoppable, unparalleled channel of Right.
There has never been anyone more right than I. I AM IN THE RIGHT, my brain practically shrieks with happiness.
My soul does cartwheels of joy, my heart leaps and prances like a young satyr in the throes of spring romance, my ego throws myself a mini-parade in my head, complete with floats sponsored by insurance companies, brass bands from local high schools, and lots and lots of confetti being thrown into merry-makers' hair. 
After the ego-parade is done, my self-esteem plays the benevolent fat-capitalist benefactor to my soul and sits the young thing down in a nice leather office chair, pops open a bottle of bubbly, hands it to the impressionable, overjoyed young soul, saying: "here, son. you've earned this--you done good. You were right."

And then it all ingloriously comes crashing down, once I find out that I inevitably got something wrong.
I was wrong
I realize, barely able to register this information through waves of shock pulsing through my brain.
Those three words are definite rain on my pride parade, which has mutated into something more akin to a pity party.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, ring the lonely echoes in my brain. 
Will I ever be able to live down the ignominious, abject horror of being wrong?
Candidly, no. I will not.
I was wrong. 
I was not right. 
I am not the source of all wisdom and knowledge in the universe.
This realization is a sad blow to my heart.
I am a worm and no man.
I have become a laughingstock to all my people, the object of their taunts throughout the day.*
It's like getting a B on a paper, or unimaginably awful--a C.
It's a haunting reminder that you are not perfect.
It's an inescapable obvious indication that we all are, as a four year old thespian reminded me the other day: "Born to make mistakes."
C'est vrai, mon petit chouchou.
What God has hidden from the wise and the learned, he has revealed to four-year-old thespians.

*Lamentations 3:14

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