Reachables

–Charles Barsotti, New Yorker Collection

Maybe I can’t keep myself from being nervous, shaky even, about driving around other people’s kids for a field trip (“Precious cargo! Precious cargo!”). But I’ve been able to contain the worry to a little bit over a couple of days rather than an agonizing amount starting the week before. That is a victory.

Maybe the house won’t be transformed into a palace of tidiness and efficiency, ever. But I can neaten one closet to make things a wee bit easier. That is still a victory.

Maybe the program I’m studying won’t lead to anything substantial, or lucrative. Maybe I’ll find I kind of stink at it. But it’s on someone else’s dime, and I won’t have regrets about not trying it, and I’m keeping my mind engaged (and probably away from ruminating). I’ve earned the right to stumble, and stink at something.

“Possible, but not probable.” This was my high school geometry teacher’s pet phrase, and it comes back to me sometimes when I am stewing and fretting over something silly. Will I drive the classmates into a lake? Will HGTV show up unexpectedly at our home as part of a new reality show called “Hideous Hovels & the Freaks Who Dwell There?” Will my instructor do some distance learning equivalent of pointing and laugh at my assignments?

Possible? Always. But probable -?