Crest

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Crest: (n) the highest part of a hill or mountain range; summit.

Somewhere between self-deception and self-motivation lies reality.

Of course, we’re no good when we’re lying about our well-being, pretending we’re something we’re not. We can become very obnoxious, making proclamations that slip away nearly as quickly as they’re spoken.

I think the problem may dwell in one area:

Life is not a mountain—it is a staircase.

If life were a mountain, we would continue to look above us and realize how much more we must accomplish, and honestly, become despaired with the task.

Here is why I believe life is a staircase:

About every ten steps of climbing, there’s a landing.

Take a minute. Catch your breath. Look where you’ve come from. Don’t wait until you get to the top.

I will decide where the crest is.

Every single day, I will determine the quality of my endeavor and the victory in my effort.

Mountain climbing is not only dangerous but offers very few plateaus for celebration.

I (and probably you, too) am human. We need many victories to motivate our continued climb. Without this, we can grow very weary in our well-doing, losing our grip on the rock above our heads, and fall to our failure, dashing our hopes on the rocks beneath.

Life is not a mountain. It is a staircase.

Unfortunately, it is not an escalator. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?


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Bandstand

Bandstand: (n) a covered outdoor platform for a band to play on, typically in a park.Dictionary B

Summertime in Middle America is a collision of tradition and revision.

Because right in the midst of the Internet generation are the simple pleasures of small towns, gathering a handful of local musicians to hold 25 rehearsals to play 12 songs in a bandstand in the center of the town square, to the delight of the old folks, and an opportunity for the younger generation to meet together on summer vacation outside the confines of the local school.

It is a sight to behold.

The musicians are a little nervous, uncertain of themselves, yet self-possessed with the importance of the moment.

The director has dressed for the occasion and struts around like he’s Leonard Bernstein at the premiere of West Side Story.

And the old folks sit in rickety wooden chairs, turning to one another and conversing about as many inane topics as possible before being silenced by the orchestra tuning up (and never quite achieving pitch.)

The little kids run and play, and the teenagers yearn for dusk, when they can slip away from their parents and investigate the pleasure of one another’s bodies in the alcove of the staircase next to the local library.

It is America.

It is the blending of the old with the new, in some sort of temporary agreement over a poorly performed Sousa march.

It is something we must never lose, although we should never regale it as being more important than mercy and justice.

The bandstand sits quietly the rest of the year, part of the time covered in leaves and on other occasions nearly hidden by snow.

But when it is ready, and when it is time, it encircles the warmth of feelings which can only be expressed by those who awkwardly care for one another.

 

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