That's Life: Writeful Anger, Rueful Reading
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Since I do not live in a Utopia, there are also days I wish had never happened — the day a loved one died, never to grace my life again, the days I unintentionally uttered hurtful words in a heated moment that I later regretted.
It is not right to blame other people for our actions, saying "he or she made me angry" for we alone are responsible for how we react to other people's behavior.
A few years ago, I began following a suggestion I had read in a magazine article that addressed coping with negative emotions. Thus, instead of orally venting my displeasure with a person who has disappointed or irked me, I write a letter to him or her, revealing just what I am feeling at the moment.
Later, I review the letter, and find myself asking, "If I mailed this letter, would I ever again be able to face the person to whom I wrote it? Would she or he ever talk to me again? Is it really fair to complain about their shortcomings?"
After all, I am a human being, and none of us is perfect.
Of course, some people are under the impression that they are infallible, but I have noticed that such people usually lead a lonely life. Nobody likes a know-it-all, or someone who cannot bend for the sake of maintaining a friendship or a close relationship.I have destroyed letters in which I chided my children for failing to let me know they had arrived home after a plane trip, as they had promised they would.
The questions I asked in those letters would not have served any positive purpose, but only inspired my children to be guilt-ridden: "Do you know what it is like to lie awake in bed, starring at the ceiling as if it held the answer to the questions 'Where are they?' 'What has happened to them?'"
When I find out my children are safe and I am thinking rationally, I realize they did not intentionally cause me stress. Usually conditions beyond their control had prevented them from calling me. Sometimes, they admit that they were exhausted and forgot to call me before collapsing on the bed.
I believe most mothers never stop worrying about their children, whatever their age. It is the price we pay for loving them with all our heart.
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But as much as we love them, we do not own them. They belong to the world of the young, which we cannot enter. We should not expect them to stop exploring, accepting challenges, chasing dreams, because we want them to be safe. There are times when I invite stress into my life. You see, I am by nature a peacemaker, and I feel compelled to try, at least, to mend a breach between friends and family members.
It is a mission fraught with pitfalls, as there is a thin line between helping and interfering — forcing one's views on others rather than suggesting a course of action. Also, a number of people have warned me that peacemakers often end up being shunned by both parties they tried to reconcile. But, that does not deter me for it is, oh, so wonderfully rewarding when my efforts are successful.
I have reached the conclusion that life is too precious and short to waste time being upset. I best keep that in mind the next time the premiums on my health insurance are increased, or a check I receive bounces, or my children are unable to visit me as planned.
Oh well, if I need to I can always take a pen in hand and write a letter.
