Saturday, June 21, 2014

June 20: Versatile, Using Gifts, Once Upon a Frog

"Certainly not," said Charlotte.  "'Versatile' means I can turn with ease from one thing to another.  It means I don't have to limit my activities to spinning and trapping and stunts like that."

Charlotte has many gifts.  She can spin a web.  She can write.  She can sing.  She's smarter than any other animal in Zuckerman's barn.  And she's a great friend.  Charlotte uses all of her talents to save Wilbur.

I like to think that I'm a versatile person.  I can write.  Sing.  Play a musical instrument.  Act.  Teach.  Program computers.  Unplug a bathtub drain.  Fix a leaky faucet.  Cook a mean quiche.  I like to think that I have a lot of gifts.

I don't think I'm like Charlotte, however.  I don't always use my gifts to help people.  I think I spend too much time feeling sorry for myself and being angry.  Slowly but surely, I'm getting back to being thankful for the blessings in my life.  My kids.  Wife.  Home.  Jobs.  Blessed, blessed, blessed.  That's what I am.  In the fall, I'll be back in the classroom, talking about movies and poetry and literature.  I'll officially be the Poetry Editor of the university's literary magazine.

I'm a little tired of my versatile existence.  Three jobs.  One full-time, two part-time.  During the course of one day, I may collect money from patients and lecture about Citizen Kane and rehearse with the church's praise band.  Or I may clean a house and correct a pile of essays and attend a poetry reading.  Some years, I've had four to five W-4 forms at tax time.

Sometimes, I wish I had one job that made use of all my gifts.  But I haven't come across any classified ads for a poet/organist/teacher/clerk/editor/actor/singer.  At least, none that include health insurance.

Once upon a time, a frog lived in the middle of a swamp.  The frog was very talented.  He could dance and croak opera arias.  He recited Shakespearean soliloquies at night to the mosquitoes.

One morning, a snake came along and swallowed the frog whole.

Moral of the story:  frogs taste just like chicken.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

That's me

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