An Unfinished Life

An unfinished life

Only forty and some think we should be a finished product,
efficient, well-oiled, proficient … at paperwork? With people? 
Sure, we know what is expected, but at what cost? Sure
we know the rules, but experience dulls the compulsion to comply? 
and failure anesthetizes us from the fear of unmet goals.

And how can we measure the value of one's work
if not against the impossibility of getting it all done?
Speaking doubts casts doubt, so terrified, so reluctant
most of us are of displaying the weak spots. 

When one finds a leaky pipe, its best to patch it;
a weak beam of steel, best to reinforce it. 
Yet, when we voice the need for a patch of structure,
a reinforcement of reminders, we are ridiculed,
treated as a child asking for help with a task
long past the time it should be mastered. 
“You are too old," the voices whisper,
"to need help with that, dear child.”

Sometimes, I can sense the limp pat on my crown
as I read my email, sarcasm dripping from my screen
“Do you need an incentive to get your work done?,”
or, “How can be so bright, so educated, and still ,
you do not know how to prioritize, socialize, organize,
whatever-ize, or all of the above.)"
If I knew that, I truly would be a genius. 

But I’m as bad at reading time as others are at reading people. 
That is my cross to bear and I do not deny it.
I often wonder if one can be taught to be comfortable around others,
to be tactful, to be kind, when they were not endowed with these gifts. 
Can you write someone up for social ineptitude? 
Is it a crime, any more so than being temporally oblivious? 

Wonder what would happen if we all could simply admit
that we are living unfinished lives in an imperfect world. 
Ever notice that we can polish our exterior but we remain 
the same tree underneath.  We can paint over the knots,
but they do not disappear.  We could cut out our imperfections 
but wouldn’t we then be hobbling about, leaking from our gaping holes,
unable for our vessel to be filled completely…by anyone.

There is a beauty to being unfinished, a sense of faith in the human spirit
that we will someday learn how to distinguish between
that which we can change and all the other imperfections
which never asked to be fixed in the first place…

only to be understood. 


SWPoet
6-13-12