flexibility

We all have these idyllic scenarios we run in our heads – at least I hope we do, or I am a weirdo – where we know just the right thing to say, or we have the answer to the problem that no one else sees, and we are proud… heroic, even. We rehearse what we’re going to say and we anticipate what the other person’s response will be, and it all goes so smoothly… and we win.

We do this in spite of the fact that it’s never actually gone the way we wanted it to, and ultimately nobody wins. We change nobody’s mind, and nobody changes our mind. We alienate people and risk coming across as assholes despite our best efforts to outwit the other person in the impending confrontation. Not only does our proposed scenario that we’ve rehearsed to death not play out as we thought it would, but the scenario has an ending, and real life has aftermath. For a real trip, try and have this confrontational visit with someone who’s completely fried their brain on designer chemicals and has little-to-no control over their emotions. It’s entitlement en masse, with a heavy dose of rage, and a penchant for blaming everyone around you for things you’ve done.

Perhaps maturity is realizing this in advance, or at least realizing it in the moment and showing some compassion.

The difference between schooling someone in a confrontational conversation, and being of service to their needs comes down to intention. Basically, do you want to wag your finger or do you want to help?

Me? I want to do neither… which is why being of service is such a massive personal sacrifice, and ultimately, why I keep droning on about it time after time.

This manifested itself in my life recently as looking after my niece in the event that her unhinged parent decided to cause a massive scene at my mother’s house. We deemed it best if my niece wasn’t there for that. Personally, I don’t think my mother should have been there for it either, but living in fear isn’t a thing we like to do, and my house is small.

The last thing I wanted to do was entertain a 10 year old. My entertaining-10-year-olds days are over, in my mind, but it was a need – not a want, and it was an act of service I was able to offer, regardless of the fact that I didn’t want to get in the middle of things any more than I already have in recent weeks.

But this wasn’t about me.
And it sure as shit wasn’t about my quiet evening at home, or the shitty sleep I got as a result of doing it.
But it was hard to let go of my quiet evening and my good night’s sleep.
It was hard to switch my brain back into 10-year-old mode.
It was hard not to step into the situation, lay out the facts as I saw them, and shut the bullshit down as I saw fit.
But I did those hard things.

I served.