Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Old Man Lear Sends Cordelia in Search of Herbicide

We humans are not perfect. The mistakes that we make are many and every one made becomes a tale for the telling. It's the opportunity that got a way; the road not taken; the deal that soured. It is our infallibilities that make us interesting. And in my case, I can embellish the tale and make my mistakes ever so deliciously entertaining.

But then there are those that never learn from their mistakes. These are the people that live angry lives. Sometimes they hurt others for no other reason except that they require your pain to soothe theirs. They are the toxic people of the world and to know or love one is one of life's trial. Like weeds in a garden, they persist in your life, wrapping their grasping tendrils slowly around your soul like bindweed curling around the stem of a hydrangea. You can yank on them, pull out their roots or spray them with herbicides, but they come back. I have a bitter, sad person in my life who tries hard to make his sorrow mine. His world is never hopeful. His disappointments are many. Even the highlights of his life are subsumed in his bitterness. And as he comes to the end of his life, his demons grow, and they wrestle with, and choke, every moment where a tiny bit of joy might seep in. Slowly, now he alienates one member after another of his family.

Recently, I let him have another opportunity. Ever hopeful that change would come, that a life lived should be about growth and learning, that eventually some wisdom and compassion might be his to own, I made the mistake of trying to forgive him. Maybe in the forest, he'll meet his Gloucester, but this Cordelia is in search of the herbicide and the weeding tool to banish him again from her world.

Another of my mistakes, but this one is a sad tale to tell and there are no embellishments that will make it any more palatable. The Putterer


  1. I know of whom you speak and hope this anger doesnt ever seep into your soul.
    I love the way you write by the way.

  2. Thanks Wayne, I think writing this made me feel better. Nothing worse than a pissed-off Putterer. Beth