Caveat

Caveat: (n) a stipulation, condition, or limitation

A caveat is when we add honesty to a thought.

We come up with something to say, but rather than allowing ourselves to be misleading, we add a phrase–usually on the end–which better
clarifies our position.

It is what makes human beings human, and therefore powerful. We are only foolish when we try to be gods or wallow in the jungle, pretending we are mere animals.

It is hope mingled with the reality that presents who we really are.

Case in point:

  • I love you, but it’s not easy.
  • I will be there, if I don’t get lazy
  • I worship God until He confuses the hell out of me.
  • I am happy until I decide I’m not.
  • I am color blind–except when I accidentally see color.
  • I am reliable as long as you check up on me.
  • I am selfish, but every once in a while, escape the prison.
  • I am getting older, but still have a few steps left.
  • I wish you the best, and I hope I’ll be there to help you get it.

Perhaps a caveat is what we should lead with in explaining our true situation, but I certainly contend that a nice little jolt of optimism sweetens the deal before we have to tell the whole truth.

 

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Cabinet

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Cabinet: (n) a cupboard with drawers or shelves for storing or displaying articles.

It was my first apartment.

I point that out so you will not think I continue to be stupid or am perpetually lazy.

When I rented it, the landlord explained that the cabinet on the wall, wherein were kept the dishes, was loose, and he would be more than happy to send
somebody to fix it.

I was young, impetuous and wanted to come across looking like I had some ability, so I said, “Don’t worry about it. I think I can take care of this one.”

We will never know if my statement was true–because I never found the time to work on that cabinet, which was determined to come unhinged.

After a while, it began jutting out more and more and dipping. (Basically, I never had to reach in to get the dishes–just opened the door and they fell out.)

I actually became adept at putting a hand on the middle of the cabinet, getting it to latch enough to look as if it was repaired.

It was not. Repaired, that is.

It did cling for a while, but then one day, when I was loading dishes and all of them were stacked, it gave way and fell from the wall, scattering plates in every direction–of course, breaking each and every one.

Being the mental giant I was and the essence of true wisdom, I yelled at the cabinet.

I told it where to go.

It did not care. It had given sufficient warning of its dismal intention.

I could have fixed it, but then I would have lost all those days of procrastinating enjoyment.

For you see, procrastination is very fulfilling until it catches up with reality–where payment is demanded.

 

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Busybody

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Busybody: (n) a meddling or prying person.

There is a danger in turning vice, immorality or even sin into charactures so as to escape any referrence to these pieces of nastiness being associated with our actions. So we tend to make sexual immorality broad-stroked–as prostitues, whores and gigolos–and lying as gangsters or Congressmen.

But when am I immoral? When am I a liar?

I’m immoral when I don’t follow the morality that is healthy for humans and I’m a liar when I don’t tell the truth.

God, I don’t like that definition.

I do not like being lumped in with the more decrepit and deceitful members of the human race. It’s much easier for me to believe that a busybody is an old woman sitting around her house frowning at all the joy of the young people around her, secretly jealous because they continue to be optimistic, and she is now old, dried-out and bitter.

I wouldn’t want to think that my personal jealousies, which cause me to throw a little bit of a negative comment about other people, to diminish their character, would have anything to do with being a busybody.

Certainly the member of a political party who sideswipes a person from an opposing political party is not a busybody. Right?

Refusing to understand the changing trends in society and insisting on trying to preserve the old ways doesn’t make me a busybody–even if I tend to criticize those who disagree with me.

A busybody is someone who’s old. And as long as I don’t think I’m old, I couldn’t be a busybody.

Actually, the name is rather ironic–because those who gossip,. refuse to change, are inflexible, judgmental or selfish tend to have very lazy bodies.

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Broom

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Broom: (n) a long-handled brush of bristles or twigs used for sweeping.

I know what a broom is.

I have seen one.Dictionary B

I could even identify one at a distance.

If sent into a large room to find it, I would be successful in no time at all.

Yet I really don’t know anything about a broom.

I’ve had one thrust in my direction with belligerent orders to “help clean up.” But I’ve always been a little bit of a loss as to what the correct process is in “brooming.”

I’ve seen people take short, brusque strokes–like they were angry at the floor or infuriated with the dirt.

Then I’ve seen people take long, easy passing with the broom, sweeping up the dirt gently in front of them.

There are brooms that work sideways.

There are brooms that work up and down.

(I guess that’s it.)

But I am a little embarrassed to admit that my “broomsmanship” has been lacking, partially because I’m lazy, but mostly because when I tried to use one, a nearby competitor (normally a female) would snatch it from my hands because I was failing to be reverent.

She’d demonstrate and then hand it back to me, and rapscallion that I am, I would realize that if I could simulate an additional failure, in no time at all she would insist I was incompetent and do the job herself.

It always worked.

I’m embarrassed to share it with you.

But I must be honest–I have no great stories about “brooming”–only being able to tell you that I can identify one.

 

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Bramble

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Bramble: (n) a prickly scrambling vine or shrub

Is the Universe a sporadic series of incomplete evolutions, or a well-constructed and defined object lesson?

It’s a damn good question.Dictionary B

Because if I were to believe that everything is spawned by chance, then I might be completely unable to make sense of anything around me.

But if there is some sort of reason, purpose or genius behind the way things are placed, then I have the glorious task of unraveling the mystery.

Why do roses have thorns?

And why do bramble bushes have prickly parts that make it difficult to pick the berries which often inhabit their vines?

What’s the message?

Is there a need for us to be discouraged in the pursuit of beauty and nutrition?

Are we to understand that blessing is achieved, rather than guaranteed?

Is the Creator trying to separate the perseverant from the lazy?

Because plucking a rose is risking a prick.

And hunting for berries might tear at your skin.

Is there a message here? Or am I reading deeper thoughts than intended into an evolutionary mishap?

I’m not sure.

But I can tell you, the pursuit of wisdom never fails us … even if there’s very little information to be uncovered.

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Berry

Berry: (n) a small roundish juicy fruit without a stone.

Dictionary B

I find it mentally erotic to allow each of the words that I write about every day to leap into my memory and drag out the stories.

The word “berry” has two significant meanings to me.

First of all, I love berries. They are something I can eat without guilt, even though they tell me it is possible to consume too many.

I don’t know if I’ve ever eaten a berry I did not like. Some berries do grumble my stomach a bit, but that doesn’t keep me from enduring the growl.

But I also have a memory of berries which is less satisfying–maybe just a little bit frustrating.

When I first got married, my wife and I were very poor. To complicate our poverty, we were also lazy. The two don’t work well together, for when they arrive at the same time, they can leave you really hungering and thirsting.

My parents had a small parcel of land outside of town–a farm which had some blackberry bushes. (I think they’re called bushes. Maybe they’re vines, but I’m too lazy to look it up.)

My wife and I had the brilliant idea of going out, picking blackberries, and selling them door to door. It was not going to guarantee us a lot of money, but it would definitely succeed in buying a loaf of bread, some bologna or even the more coveted peanut butter and jelly.

It was an arduous task.

The berries are small, so it takes a lot of them to fill up a container. We got hot, stung by bugs and poked by thorns. It was not what I would call pleasant, even though we rejoiced in the opportunity and turned it into a lark.

We picked for about three hours and got seven little baskets, which we sold for fifty cents apiece. It was a long time ago, but that still was a good deal.

We were so overjoyed over the process that we decided to do it again two or three days later, but when we went back to the houses to sell our berries, the customers began to complain about twigs in the baskets, and the fact that some of the berries weren’t quite ripe.

Suddenly we had become a $3.50 corporation, which apparently needed a customer relations department. It took a lot of joy out of the experience. One lady even demanded that we return a quarter as a refund.

So as I sit and enjoy my berries topped with a little Cool Whip, I am grateful for those souls who have to pick them … being careful never to complain if I discover a twig.

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Bedevil

Bedevil: (v) to cause great and continual troubleDictionary B

Word has it that you are not allowed to pick and choose.

That’s too bad.

Because I will tell you, I would certainly love to have entertainment without sensationalism.

How about voting without politics?

I definitely would enjoy faith without religion.

Food without calories.

Marriage without gender bias.

And conversations without one-upmanship.

This especially becomes troubling to me when I consider that which bedevils us the most…that being the devil himself.

I am told that you cannot believe in God without acknowledging a counterpart–a Dark Lord named Satan.

Sometimes it almost makes atheism look appealing–not so much that I want to get rid of God, but just to eliminate the instinct to be preoccupied with his nemesis, Beelzebub.

To me, Satan has become the “Great Hall Closet,” where everything we don’t want to deal with gets thrown, hoping that by springtime our inclinations will improve.

Unfortunately for God, He receives surface praise for goodness and full responsibility for tornadoes.

Satan, on the other hand, seems to have greater power by manipulating evil empires and causing your boss to fire you, even though it might have just been a by-product of your lazy efforts.

I guess the worst thing of all is the darkness that bedevils us with fear and keeps us from our better angels.

So I don’t have an answer to this quandary, but instead, an abiding apathy.

In other words, I am one of those ridiculous realists who chooses to commune with God while ignoring the troublesome neighbor … with the pitchfork and horns.

 

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