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The older I get, the less patience I have for advice.
I wish I could tell you what to do, but any words I might
offer could only ever come from my own way of thinking,
my experience and how preposterous to think that would
serve any good outside the ritual feeding of my own ego.
Instead, I will arrive with arms filled with wildly fragrant
blossoms. Hyacinth and lilacs and wild pink peonies. We
will pound the lilac stems together and laugh when your
cat jumps, and would you prefer coffee, or Earl Grey tea?
Go outside, Mama used to say. Feel the sun on your skin.
Smell the flowers. Let the trees tell you what to do and I
think how wise those words even if I was too young to
understand that I everything I needed, I already had.
The older I get, the less patience I have for advice. How
preposterous to think I know what you should do when
I stumble along the path myself. But I will listen while
you talk, and never once interrupt. Caring is a verb.
