Last night, anticipating a quiet evening with Tim and a sunset-invoked sense of relaxation, awe, space, and peace, I reached for a beach chair hanging from a high hook in the garage.
Bam! The contraption crashed into my nose – the aluminum arm scraped a half-ince of skin off my Barbara Streisand schnoz. Shocked by my initial exclamations, I stood there and wondered about people who don’t swear. What do they say when they whack themselves?
Oh my, oh my.
Oh boy, oh boy.
Oh shoot, oh shoot.
Oh my goodness. That hurt.
Oh man – didn’t see that coming.
Suddenly, the sting was gone as I laughed about a different way to be – gentler, forgiving, oh-welling, it’s okaying. Language matters inside and out.
I’ll spend the next week with a scab reminiscent of a toddler who wipes out on the sidewalk – not a bad way to be at almost 60. And I’ve got a reminder in the mirror to be more mindful. . . in many ways.