I know I’m strange, but I’m not the only one. I take comfort in this. Though I’m not uncomfortable being strange. My wife gives me sideways glances a lot. “You’re weird,” she states, as if she’s just now noticed after 12 years. “Do you know that you’re weird?”
And I’m not doing anything all that odd when she declares my strangeness as if it’s something to be examined. I hold my coffee mug with two hands. She says I look like a turn-of-the-century poor child begging for soup in the cobbled streets of England. I say that’s a bit of a stretch.
“Beware the barrenness of a busy life,” said Socrates. When we are rushing from one task to the other, we leave no time for reflection, no time for gratitude on what we have in our lives that enrich us, that build us up, that which makes us whole. But we also leave no time for the people in our lives. Even if we’re rushing around with the people. Say, little people, like our children, bussing them from soccer practice to gymnastics to school to lunch to birthday parties. We say we’re doing it all for them, but are we? Or maybe you’re a corporate climber, constantly bouncing to meetings, smartphone glued to your hand, waiting for the next break, always improving your network and social reach, eyes bugged out, needing to be on 24/7 or else.
“There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self.” — Ernest Hemingway