The last few days have been the occasion for a string of middling disappointments. Once promising engagements have refused to materialized or have downgraded their potential and my responses to the letdowns have been less than equanimous.
I think what makes it sting all the more is the fact that I’d come to believe that I was beyond the petty disappointment, the petty resentment, the petty annoyance.
(Pettiness is one of my pet peeves. I can forgive my foibles if they occur to me as dramatic and profound—like flaws on steroids. Pettiness galls me by offending my ego’s stubborn belief in its superiority. Because, yes, even my mistakes have to be grandiose and majestic.)
So while the rug hasn’t exactly been pulled out from under my feet, it’s been given a couple of vigorous yanks.
And here I am, resisting the swaying, resisting the shaking and resisting the tottering with as much gracelessness as I can muster (which is a lot).
There is a message here, though I will permit myself the space to ignore it (at least for the meanwhile).
Let it all sit.
Let it all pass.
Who knows, maybe I won’t even have to read the message.