I had to go back and reread it — the lesson I had “learned.” The lesson I re-learned and wrote down on paper. The lesson on paper that I typed onto the computer. The lesson I shared with you, more than once.
“Each rock seemed to give birth to another. I was so tired. But Grandpa didn’t seem to be. He just kept picking those rocks, one after the other. He seemed to get stronger. There was precision in each movement. I watched carefully. It was like an oil pump that didn’t have a beginning or an end to its motion, but just kept going. I had been throwing the rocks with anger, but he moved them with purpose…and that was the difference.“
I was pulling weeds yesterday in our backyard. Powerful weeds that I struggle with every year. At first I just pulled them. Strong, I thought, but nothing I can’t handle. Then slowly I started to give them the weight of my anger. Stupid weeds. The weight of my bent back. You’re killing me! The weight of forever, like I was never going to win this battle. The weight of I’m going to have to do this every year again and again, and…. OH MY! I could barely lift them at this point. I started to cry. Oh, good! I thought. Now I’m watering them!
It all sounds so ridiculous after a good night’s sleep. I read the words, again, and I know, again, there is no need to give more weight to the rocks in our life.
I smile and tag myself with the familiar words — “Something will grow from all of this, and it will be me.” Thank you, Grandpa.