Fail by trying. That’s what I said, right?
Thankfully, my failure in writing about humanity was caused by small successes in being human. My best friend from high school married last week, and between the all-week festivities, last-minute needs, and physical therapy appointments on the other side of town, the driving and attending left time only for eating and sleeping. And a few conversations whose opportunities would not roll around again.
I took them.
But Friday came and went and the outdoor wedding didn’t get rained out and my dress didn’t split and I didn’t fall off my platform heels and by midnight-thirty I was tucking in for the night before leaving the house again at 7:45am for a flight to Charlotte.
There I visited my nearly 95 year old great aunt and soaked in stories from before private telephones and paved drives and ready-showers, hearing ever-so-slightly-mixed memories of army desertions, hat-tipping, and baby-doll scalping.
Yes, baby-doll scalping.
I’ve failed at 31 days, yes. But by succeeding at something else.
A multitude of similar tradeoffs exist in my life. I could succeed at status updates, but by failing at what? I might succeed at keeping up with my favorite blogs, but at what cost? And if I want to succeed at being present, at living and experiencing this very moment, what will I have to give up?
And what I’m really asking myself is, do I want to give that up?
If I don’t, what will I have to fail at?
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