Cumber

 

Cumber: (v) to hinder or hamper

Pellets of energy.

Think about it.

I know some folks believe that human beings are good, and others insist that we are naturally evil.

This has not been my finding. I would be hard pressed to describe the human race as good, and equally distraught to characterize them as only devious.

Actually, every single day, each one of us is bestowed pellets of energy. Energy doesn’t come with character specifications. It is neither hellish nor celestial.

It’s just energy.

And because it’s energy, it can be useful, and it can also be squandered.

Every morning when I rise, I yearn for my pellets of energy. I’m careful not to make too many promises, just in case I turn into an asshole between breakfast and lunch.

But I am fully aware that my value to other folks lies in realizing that if I don’t use my pellets of energy well, I’m just hanging around cumbering the Earth.

We don’t use the word “cumber” anymore.

It’s an Old English term, often associated with Biblical quotes.

But it fascinates me that we struggle for longevity without demanding that it be accompanied with purpose.

There has to be something more than gardening.

We can’t expect to sustain value merely from arriving on time to our doctor appointments.

And for the younger crowd, simply passing a test does not qualify anyone for superb consideration.

I don’t want to cumber the Earth. I don’t want my family to be ashamed of themselves because they wistfully wonder when I’m finally going to croak.

I want myself—and hopefully everyone else—to be fully aware of why I still hang around and notice the by-products of my hanging.

I do not want to cumber your life.

I do not want to cumber the Earth, filling it with carbon dioxide instead of sucking some of it back out.

I do not want my friends to feel responsibility to me today because of what I did yesterday.

I do not want to cumber the ground, the Earth, my surroundings, my loved ones or the cosmos.

I would like to take my pellets of energy and turn them into goodness instead of mediocrity or darkness.

What shall we do with these pellets of energy?

Get ready—it’s coming around again tomorrow.

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Cork

Cork: (n) material used to make stoppers for bottles

Long before there were screw-on caps, people had to figure out a way to keep their wine from spilling. After all, it’s unrealistic to think that the wine bottle will remain upright since we, ourselves, are incapable of the  maneuver.

I don’t know who suggested the cork. But little did they know that centuries later, they would institute a phraseology which encourages funny wisdom on words that begin with a C
control: “Put a cork in it.”

As soon as this genius—whoever he or she was—carved a piece of cork to fit into the top of a bottle and was able to pull it back out, to open the vessel once again, he or she made it clear that if you don’t want to spill the contents, you’ve got to make sure the exit is dammed.

That covers so many subjects I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

For instance, every morning I wake up stuck with how I feel. Sometimes washing up, getting some breakfast or just moving around might improve my energy, but often the contents of my “bottle” is either ready for pouring—or needs corking.

I have to know the difference.

Bluntly, there are times when I am not suitable for human consumption. No matter how many aspirin I take, push-ups I do or cups of coffee I may ingest, what is inside me needs to be corked.

Then there are days when my internal splashings can pour forth like crystal blue water. Those are the occasions when I can pull the cork, and make myself available for the party of humankind.

“Put a cork in it.”

And when you do—be grateful to the person who decided to cease accepting spillage and found a good way to keep it bottled up.


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Coot

Coot: (n) a foolish or crotchety person, especially one who is old

I have officially become old enough to become a coot. I’m not sure what age qualifies you, but age is certainly a factor.

There are other considerations:

Coots always talk about “how good things used to be.”

Coots tend to refer to society as using a “handbasket on their way to hell.”

Coots pine for a time when they were younger and full of energy.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

I honestly don’t feel any of that whatsoever.

Many of my growing-up years were filled with ignorance, prejudice, anger, self-righteousness and bloodshed in an unrighteous war. So I don’t yearn to go back—I just insist that there are two things the human race can’t live without, and we should cease deleting them from our browser.

Human beings must have empathy and self-deprecation. If you don’t like the idea of self-deprecation, then insert humility.

When we stop feeling empathy for the man or woman next to us, we become enemies to our own species, similar to a bee who plots with the flies to steal the honey.

And when we don’t produce adequate humility, the obnoxious odor that comes off our being chases people from the room.

I’m not an old coot.  I don’t care who you sleep with. I don’t care what your political party is. I don’t care what your faith or lack of faith might be.

But when you mess with empathy and humility, I will dig my heels in, because then you’re plotting the destruction of the human race—of which I am proudly a member.


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Cavort

Cavort: (v) to jump or dance around excitedly.

There was a time in my life when I did not feel as if I was having fun unless I had completely lost control.

I remember being twelve years old and arriving at church camp, running into the cabin, knocking over all my friends and wrestling on the
floor as the counselor looked on in horror at the tangling, giggling mass of melee.

That’s back when I had more energy than brains.

I had more naughty ideas than I did conscience.

And I felt if every part of my body was not moving toward pleasure, I was cheating myself out of the joys of being young.

I cavorted–I really did.

And I’m not so old that I’ve forgotten the sheer random joy of the endeavor. Even in discovering my sexuality, doing it in the back seat of a Mustang made it much more dangerous and therefore, appealing. (Nowadays, I couldn’t even get into the back seat of a Mustang.)

We become better adults when we remember the joys of cavorting, recalling those times when saving our energy was not necessary… because it seemed limitless.

 

 

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Burnish

j-r-practix-with-border-2

Burnish: (v) to polish something by rubbing.

An important exercise:

Add up all the hours you and I have spent complaining, resisting, avoiding or diminishing the need to improve something. Now compare that to the number of hours it would have taken to do the job.

Every single time, the amount of energy expended in bitching exceeds the required minutes necessary to burnish up the situations in our lives.

Case in point: when I was much younger and rented an apartment, my parents gave me a beat-up coffee table. It was light brown wood, so every little scrape, nick and stain was very noticeable. Bluntly, I did not care. I was a punk.

One day a girlfriend of mine came in and told me that if I took some furniture polish to the table, it would look a hundred percent better. I nodded my head, simulating interest, but inwardly dismissed all her claims. She made the point three more times before she finally walked in, polish and cloth in hand, and quickly–no more than five minutes–transformed that piece of worn down trash into a burnished surface.

It was so shiny that I could actually look down and see my face.

I didn’t know whether to be grateful or angry over her interference. Before I could decide which profile to select, she gave me a quick hug and said, “You’re a man. You’re often too dumb to do what’s necessary.”

She left the room.

My problem was not being a man. My difficulty was that I did not believe I was worthy of a polished table, so I decided to leave it as ugly and unkempt as I felt myself.

 

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Boost

Boost: (n) a source of help or encouragement

I am not “happy as a clam.”Dictionary B

I am more like an oyster who knows when it’s essential to close down my lid and work on my pearl.

But since I still wear skin and sometimes it’s too thin and gets offended, I certainly require a boost.

A boost is a piece of encouragement which is just short of a lie–because if a boost is a lie, it eventually plays out and makes you look like you’re pandering or flattering instead of helping someone through a dark hour.

How do you boost the prospects of another human being? By telling them how much they mean to you and how they’ve benefited your life in the past forty-eight hours instead of trying to steer them in the direction you think they should go.

Sometimes I need a boost … or I find myself clamming up, with no energy to make pearls.

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Bombshell

Bombshell: (n) a very attractive woman.

Sometimes it’s just not enough to attract.Dictionary B

Even though we spend a lot of money and too many hours trying to become more attractive, we also expend equivalent energy insisting that we are loved for something other than our outward appearance.

I guess there’s a great advantage to being ugly–because you know if you attract anyone in your direction, it’s legitimate.

From time to time I think about the life of Marilyn Monroe.

Whatever she truly wanted to achieve, she failed to accomplish, causing her to misuse drugs and end up the victim of an overdose.

What did she want?

She wasn’t totally innocent–in the sense that she certainly did use her sexuality to gain prominence. But once that was acquired, she was stuck with the perception that she was nothing more than a blithe, flighty, unaware female with a good body, tempting every man to prove that he could be her supreme lover.

The smirks, the snickers and the lascivious smiles that trailed her probably exhausted her already-burdened spirit, and made her wish for anonymity.

Or maybe she was just a spoiled brat, who wouldn’t have been happy with anything.

I don’t know.

Does anybody know?

But since human sexuality encompasses such a small amount of space in our lives, to give much effort to blow it out of proportion is tiresomely vain.

Yes, I imagine the true problem of being a bombshell is that you just never know when it’s going to blow up in your face. 

 

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