Cattywampus on the Ground

Humility, by Sylvia A. Stocker

There was that one time in graduate school
when I showed up wearing mismatched shoes.
Not intentionally. I'm not that cool.

In my defense, they were both sneakers.
And one was a left sneaker and one a right.

But the left sneaker was so very gray, a shy maiden of a sneaker,
whereas the right had that shiny metallic teal streaking sweeping along each side –
a flamboyant dance hall girl of a shoe.

How I laughed when I noticed.
Laughed too loudly, if you must know.
To cover my embarrassment, if you must know,
red fanning out across my face, if you must know.
All day long at school, I pointed to my sneakers and laughed.

At a lecture the other day,
those mismatched sneakers flashed before my eyes.
The lecturer had such beautiful hair,
each strand lying perfectly on her shoulders.
Her clothing, chosen with the evident care to face the public,
communicated confidence, competence.

And yet, could it be?
Just one earring that perfectly matched her sweater dangled from just one ear?

How I worried about the missing earring,
while the wise words of the lecturer – she with the beautiful hair –
sailed right past my own ears without pulling into harbor.

Did she know?
Was the earring lost?
Maybe lying on the car seat, dislodged by the seat belt?
Had she abandoned it on the dresser at home
while combing each perfect hair into place?

Would she be embarrassed and laugh too loudly 
when she discovered her lopsidedness?

How I fretted over those questions,
visions of my own mismatched sneakers tumbling through my memory.

Until later, when I myself was standing in front of a mirror
gazing at my shirt tag, which, gauchely exposed, 
was staring coquettishly at me from under my chin.
What beauty of mine, I wondered, might counterbalance a shirt worn backwards?

I am a big believer in humility. That’s a good thing, because I have had many humbling experiences in my life. If someone is going to spill sauce all over her shirt at the spaghetti supper, it will be me. Likewise salad dressing. Just the other night I was lifting a pat of butter from the butter dish to the saucepan where I was mashing potatoes, and, yes, splat, that butter slipped off the knife and onto my shirt. My favorite shirt. Dots of fat staining the fabric.

That’s just the food department. So, so many times I have done the wrong thing, said the wrong thing, forgotten something important, felt judgmental or smug toward someone when a more charitable view was called for. I am Donald Trump climbing the stairs of Air Force One with toilet paper stuck to the bottom of his shoe. (Yes, I have walked around with toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe.) I am Joe Biden tripping up the Air Force One stairs. (Yes, I have tripped going upstairs.)

Once, when I was in maybe the third or fourth grade, I got home from school before the school bus brought my little compadres back to the neighborhood. I don’t remember why I was home early. I know I wasn’t sick, because I was outside riding my bike as the bus steamed up the hill.

“Why don’t I just ride down the street and wave to everyone,” I thought to myself. Off I charged, power to the pedals. And at the exact moment the bus pulled alongside me, I simultaneously lifted my right hand in a glorious wave...and slipped on a pile of sand alongside the road. Over I went, landing flat on the ground, bike tires spinning in the air. I was still waving when I hit the ground.

Talk about humbling.

The bus driver stopped to make sure I was okay. “Just drive away,” I wanted to say. “Just pretend you never saw that,” I wanted to say.

I could go on, telling stories about my own disasters, but here’s my point: Being human is a humbling experience. Every single one of us is a mess somehow, sometimes. Every single one of us has metaphorical toilet paper stuck to the bottom of our shoe at some point. Every single one of us trips going up the stairs, at least metaphorically, sometimes. We may think we are on top of things, riding our bikes along, when, whoops, we are suddenly lying all cattywampus on the ground, wondering where that pile of sand came from. One of my friends is fond of saying, “We are all bozos on the bus” — and we are! Better, then, to be humble rather than prideful, arrogant, or haughty.

Being humble has its advantages. For one thing, if I can recognize my own imperfections, mishaps, and mistakes, chances are I will be better at making allowances for yours. In short, humility allows me to better understand what it is to be human. And that makes me an easier person to live with.

Humility also paves the way to forgiveness when forgiveness is required. I can forgive you if you have harmed me, knowing that I, too, cause harm sometimes. I can seek forgiveness if I have hurt you. I can even forgive myself, which is often harder, when I have messed up. Apology and forgiveness can release the hold painful transgressions have on us. But recognizing the harm in the first place requires humility.

Then there is the gift of growth. Arrogance invites no self-reflection. Humility, on the other hand, makes room for me to learn from my mistakes — first by accepting I err in the first place, and second by inviting me to delve deeper into steps I might be able to take to do better in the future.

At the same time, humility, with its acceptance of imperfection, helps me to know when “good enough” is good enough — and that, too, can be a hallmark of growth. When I cared for my father during his Alzheimers years, for example, what pure relief it was to finally recognize there was no perfect way to bushwhack through the thickets of challenges we faced. No perfect way for my father; no perfect way for me. No amount of striving would ever make me a perfect caregiver, because perfect caregivers do not exist. So, I did my best, I tried to learn from my mistakes, and — hardest of all — I tried to forgive myself when I fell short of the mark.

I should clarify I am not talking self-debasement, which is harmful. I recall a little girl my parents often included in our rides here and there. Every time — every single time — she climbed into the car, her very first words were, “I’m sorry.” She was sorry about everything and nothing. Sorry about being late when she was late. Sorry about being late when she wasn’t late. Sorry she had to ask for a ride. Sorry, sorry, sorry. “I’m sorry” was her default setting. I suspect something terrible led her to that outlook, and I grieve for whatever that was. Like arrogance, self-debasement also prevents us from seeing ourselves as we are and discovering ways of learning and growing.

No matter who we are, our lives are punctuated with times of trial, periods of grace and relief, and – normally – the humdrum business that occupies our days. All of that involves making mistakes sometimes, tumbling from our metaphorical bicycles sometimes — and then righting the bike, climbing back on, and pedaling again. Stumbling, regaining our balance, stumbling, balancing again.

When things go right or I do something well, I hope I have the grace to be grateful . . . and the wisdom to remember the pile of sand I could drive my bike through at any moment. Whatever gains I make in life are often marked by the humility to recognize and learn from my mistakes. And that is one good thing.

Love,

Sylvia