By Jenny Morris
Scott is always warning me about the dangers of public writing. “You never know who is reading it,” he says. “We don’t want to burn any bridges”—his version of “even if I did ask you to blog with me we still have to live in this town.”
You’d think I’d listen to him since I failed swimming lessons three times.
Colleagues from my high school teaching days passed on their gentle warnings, too. Fearful of the resulting increased workload should I get fired, more than one co-worker cautioned me by saying, “Jenny, we’d like you to keep working here. Watch what you say.”
That’s the problem, I told them. I do watch what I say. I watch the words form in my brain and fly out my mouth or onto a blogpost, depending on the medium of the moment.
Still I try to avoid any Rubicon’s, bridged or not. But some seasons are more difficult than others.
One December a scheduled visit with my homeopathic doctor revealed that I was suffering from an inability to speak my mind. (For those of you who only go to a traditional M.D., you don’t know the diagnoses you are missing.)
In response to my homeopath’s words, I looked at her in bemused fear. I explained that I thought I had a natural immunity to the condition, but she persisted in treating me for it anyway.
Let’s just say that’s one family Christmas party I won’t forget.
Currently deep in the midst of a holiday schedule that includes six birthdays between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day, I have ample opportunity to practice keeping my mouth shut.
A recent Saturday morning found us at a family breakfast where people would persist in asking me questions. At the risk of sending my septuagenarian in-laws scurrying to urbandictionary.com I answered them as succinctly as possible. Then I thought perhaps I should revise my Christmas list.
Forget the bathroom remodel and the stack of books. I will accept any self-control the rest of you have to spare. Your generosity will be appreciated. And should you cut yourself short by your donations? Well …
Come on in — the water’s fine.