I am no expert….

Daily Writing Prompt: Expert

Knowledge can only take one so far. To be knowledgeable about a certain subject will give you the title of expert. I have been told that I like to argue and should submit to authority and respect their expertise. I ask too many questions, looking for a better way or a better explanation. I threaten their title of “expert”; or do I do this because I am threatened by their “expertise”?

As my life evolves I find myself searching for experience instead of researching for knowledge. I have found the lessons are in every situation – in every moment, if I am open to it. The simple act of sitting down and writing about the word expert, has taught me a lesson on how I relate with some people. I now realize I am fighting a war that is not worth winning.

I do not want to be an expert. I want to approach life with a hunger for experiences and to be on the look out for the lessons that will make me aware of how precious life is. I want to share these experiences and I want to hear about other’s experiences. As we share each other’s stories we gain insight from the listening as well as in the telling – to be both student and teacher. If I could discipline myself to approach each relationship this way – I would not only gain wisdom, but friendship.

The need to be the expert gets in the way of this kind of lifestyle. If one needs to be an expert then someone else must be the inferior. If one is an expert, what else is there to learn? I want my life to be a never-ending lesson and experiences that will fill me with wonder and excitement. I will ask many questions and I will try and fail at many things and at times I will look foolish – but it is a price I am willing to pay – it is probably the cure to my need for perfection.

Already a burden seems to have been lifted. I have nothing to prove.

I am learning how to live – if I become an expert, the learning stops.

I apologize…

Daily Writing Prompt: Apology
I am sorry, Momma, for not being the perfect daughter. I didn’t try hard in school and I was unpopular. I am sorry for all the mistakes I made growing up – all those bad choices. I apologize for my pouts of depression. I am sorry for all these things and more.

I am sorry, my dear husband, for not being the perfect wife. I apologize for my fail attempts of cooking and of keeping an orderly house. I am sorry for being a day-dreamer and for loving books. I apologize for times I was so afraid and for those times of great sadness. I am sorry for not being strong enough. I apologize for all those arguments. I am sorry for being too proud to admit when I was wrong.   I am sorry for all these things and more.

My sweet children, to you I offer a thousand apologies for not being the perfect mother. I am sorry for losing my temper and ranting on and on. I am sorry for not being able to work, parent and keep house effectively. I am sorry for those days of sorrow. I am sorry for butting my nose into your business and for all those embarrassing moments when I made a fool of myself. I apologize for making you eat things like kale and Brussels sprouts. I am sorry for all these things and more.

I apologize for being human.

And you all forgive me for everything I deem a failure; you all continue to love me with all my flaws and imperfections.

Why do I feel the need to keep apologizing?

 

Regret

I burst into tears the other day. I was watching old episodes of the tv show Parenthood with my youngest who was recuperating from his wisdom teeth being pulled. He was lounging in the chair, half-sleep, when the weekly scene of the family gathering in the garden for dinner came on. In a dreamlike voice, he muttered through swollen checks, “I wish we could have dinners like that.” I watched the family laugh and toast each over flickering candle light. It was so perfect and I too longed for that experience. I have longed for it for as long as I can remember and now my son has inherited the longing. I  was suddenly filled with such disappointment that I could not contain it, tears flowed and sobs broke. My poor son, sat up in his chair, fully awake. “What is wrong?” a fearful voice asks, as if he did or said something horrible. I could only shake my head between gulps of air, trying to reassure him that this outburst was not caused by anything he did. Continue reading