I hope I never see it coming. I would rather be betrayed a thousand times than maintain a single cynical callus that might deflect any mean defection. Looking over my shoulder trying to catch a glimpse of someone trying to catch me inhibits my progress. I’d much rather lose any race than live so defensively.

Of course this outlook seems naive in a dog eat dog, pup eat puppy world. Is this a dog eat dog and pup eat puppy world? The worst we can say about the world responds with a definite sometimes. The best we might muster would recognize rarely as the more accurate description. Yes, mean-ing exists, but rarely. People seem most often kind, at least indifferent, rarely mean.

One act of pure mean seems to overshadow a thousand acts of kindness and ten thousand experiences of genteel indifference. I always feel blind-sided because mean-ing enters from my blindest side. I believe it should enter from my blindest side. Sure, I suppose I could maintain constant vigilance for that one black swan assault. At what cost? A cost I could afford, but won’t.

It’s not that I have not been wounded by blindside mean-ing. Everyone has. It’s not that I do not anticipate future violations, because I do. I work hard to engage innocently anyway because my work, my life depends upon this. Should I decide to dedicate myself to absolute security from The Big Mean Guys, I’d quickly find that I had no self worth defending. The terrorists would have already won.

My heart breaks when I hear your story, how the mean-ing swamped you, how someone you trusted sideswiped your good will. It could happen again tomorrow, but under The Rarely Rule, it probably won’t. Yes, your benefactor preyed on you. Your lover reneged. Your intentions meanly interpreted then force fed back down your gasping throat. Your heart should be broken. Mine’s cracking, too.

We might be here not to avoid breaking our hearts but to help heal our broken ones. Nobody who’s heart has not been shattered at least once could possibly qualify as any help in such a crisis. I sometimes even recognize those tell-tale signs of rapidly evaporating confidence in myself, so I might notice when it happens to you. I have no good advice then. I cannot even help myself fix my past. The mean-ing already came and went, scorching a soul more usefully focused upon fixing its future than failing to fix that one sorry story about its past.

The world has not changed. It’s still the same old one half of one half of one percent dog gnawing presumed doggy and ninety-nine point nine percent secure.

I whistle in the dark because it beats cursing the darkness. Darkness will pass. Cursing sweetens nobody’s spirit.

©2013 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: Working, Writing, Living