Years ago, exhausted by my mother's oyster and pearl analogy, I declared myself done with being an oyster and on to my well-deserved Life as a Pearl. It was a bold move. A claim I had no real authority to stake. But I was tired of being the oyster. Tired of that craw full of sand. Tired of being told that the only way I'd ever be a valuable gem was to suffer the endless slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Or at the very least, to be deeply annoyed all the damn time.
Now we all know the pearl life is just an illusion. It's your curated Insta pictures and your boastful holiday cards. Your color-coordinated outfits and your whirlwind romances. We know those things aren't real, but it doesn't stop us from looking at our real oysters and going: What's this garbage? Where's my pearl?!
That's where I found myself this fall. Deeply annoyed and saying the word garbage a whole lot. OK. Maybe it was the F word. Or perhaps I was taking our Lord's name in vain on the regular. It's really hard to say. There was a lot of swearing and a lot of comparing happening in my heart.
And I'm prepared to defend myself on this point. We moved. We started a new school and new jobs. We transferred pharmacies, which shouldn't even be on this list but you can trust that it was. But worst of all, we tried to rent out our home which was the kind of epic disaster the BeeGees would write a ballad about if they were still doing business. A ballad with verses about an unstable former Marine, a frightening arsenal, and threats of bodily harm to our property manager.
It wasn't just garbage. It was a dumpster fire. A steaming pile of...oysters.
Well phew, you're thinking. She's using the word "was," which means this whole alluded-to disaster is over and we're going to get our pearl of wisdom.
Isn't that why we share our stories after the fact? Because we've learned the lesson and we want to spare others the pain of making our same mistakes? Well, I can tell you not to be a landlord. That shit is not worth the pain. I can also tell you to manage your pharmacy business before you move so you're not stressing about EVERYTHING while also going cold-turkey on all your most important meds. I can even tell you that you should just quit your job because the abuse is not worth the money. These are all lessons I've learned in the past three months.
But some people (mostly jerks) believe that life will keep handing you the same problem until you actually learn the lesson. If that's a real thing, I have to admit I've got a lot left to learn about dealing with bad luck. No matter how much of it I run into (too much!), I still don't want to be an oyster. I still think I'm owed the pearl life. And I still tell myself other people are living it, even when I know that's bologna.
I'm not saying I've learned my lesson and we won't be having this discussion again. But I am saying I have a new perspective here--something that should have been obvious to me all these years and I just never saw it.
Oysters don't become pearls; they produce them. Oysters eat grit and spit out grace.
All this time I've been endeavoring to be the creation when life keeps giving me the opportunity to be the creator. Sure, that sounds more romantic than it is. That's what writers do. We see the beauty in the words, often forgetting that life doesn't exist on a page. Life isn't genre fiction and people aren't oysters.
But we do eat our share of grit, and we do have a choice about what we spit it out. My vote? Spit it all out. Spit out the F bombs because they're proven to reduce stress. Spit out the tears because people want to care and they want to help. Spit out the indictments on the wicked, even if they fall on deaf ears. Just, you know, keep on spitting. Spit till you finally see that pearl of wisdom and go, huh, I wonder if I learned something after all?
That's where I found myself this fall. Deeply annoyed and saying the word garbage a whole lot. OK. Maybe it was the F word. Or perhaps I was taking our Lord's name in vain on the regular. It's really hard to say. There was a lot of swearing and a lot of comparing happening in my heart.
And I'm prepared to defend myself on this point. We moved. We started a new school and new jobs. We transferred pharmacies, which shouldn't even be on this list but you can trust that it was. But worst of all, we tried to rent out our home which was the kind of epic disaster the BeeGees would write a ballad about if they were still doing business. A ballad with verses about an unstable former Marine, a frightening arsenal, and threats of bodily harm to our property manager.
It wasn't just garbage. It was a dumpster fire. A steaming pile of...oysters.
Well phew, you're thinking. She's using the word "was," which means this whole alluded-to disaster is over and we're going to get our pearl of wisdom.
Isn't that why we share our stories after the fact? Because we've learned the lesson and we want to spare others the pain of making our same mistakes? Well, I can tell you not to be a landlord. That shit is not worth the pain. I can also tell you to manage your pharmacy business before you move so you're not stressing about EVERYTHING while also going cold-turkey on all your most important meds. I can even tell you that you should just quit your job because the abuse is not worth the money. These are all lessons I've learned in the past three months.
But some people (mostly jerks) believe that life will keep handing you the same problem until you actually learn the lesson. If that's a real thing, I have to admit I've got a lot left to learn about dealing with bad luck. No matter how much of it I run into (too much!), I still don't want to be an oyster. I still think I'm owed the pearl life. And I still tell myself other people are living it, even when I know that's bologna.
I'm not saying I've learned my lesson and we won't be having this discussion again. But I am saying I have a new perspective here--something that should have been obvious to me all these years and I just never saw it.
Oysters don't become pearls; they produce them. Oysters eat grit and spit out grace.
All this time I've been endeavoring to be the creation when life keeps giving me the opportunity to be the creator. Sure, that sounds more romantic than it is. That's what writers do. We see the beauty in the words, often forgetting that life doesn't exist on a page. Life isn't genre fiction and people aren't oysters.
But we do eat our share of grit, and we do have a choice about what we spit it out. My vote? Spit it all out. Spit out the F bombs because they're proven to reduce stress. Spit out the tears because people want to care and they want to help. Spit out the indictments on the wicked, even if they fall on deaf ears. Just, you know, keep on spitting. Spit till you finally see that pearl of wisdom and go, huh, I wonder if I learned something after all?
A shiny gem for sure. (Always a handy prop for a writer when an "Ex-Marine" joins the cast.)
ReplyDeleteI have a feeling most former Marines know how to compose themselves better than this fella. That's certainly been my experience with your kind ;) But he had the training and weaponry to back up his threats, which most of us normal jerks don't have.
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