"And You Have No Choice."

This is the entry I had planned to post last night. And just so you know, one of the first things I did when I got to the office this morning was to go find the young man I wrote about last night. I found him and told him how sorry I am that I didn't ever notice the pain in his eyes until yesterday. I found him and told him that I will be there for him should he need to talk again. I found him and told him I care about him and that I'll do whatever I can to help him bring some light into the currently very dark and lonely place that is his heart. And he hugged me. Hard. And he thanked me. A lot. And he smiled ... he smiled at me.

Now on to tonight's post ...  

One of the things I learned after my son Matt grew old enough to make certain decisions for himself was that giving him more than a couple of choices was never a good thing. For example, if I asked, "Would you like cereal or eggs or pancakes or toast or bacon for breakfast?" Matt's reply was usually, "No." Or if I placed four shirts on his bed for him to choose from, he would inevitably go to his closet and get a different one or refuse to get dressed altogether. We had more than one or two tangles when it came to choices, my little blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy and I, until I finally figured out that if I only gave my son two items from which to choose, it usually made the process easier ... usually being the key word. I don't know if Matt learned any giant life lessons from that time in his life ... I didn't realize until just a few days ago the enormity of the truth that I needed to absorb all those years ago. 

Choice is a fascinating concept, you know, especially when you think about the things we can or cannot, or do or do not choose. The truth is that sometimes I have a choice and sometimes I don't ... sometimes I have a say in the way things go or the way they turn out or the way they take place, and there are other times when I quite simply have no choice. Take this morning, for example ... I chose to get out of bed, take a shower and eat breakfast. I chose to wear jeans, a gray and white striped sweater, and gray Converse shoes. I chose to go to work, and then I chose to come home and feed my dogs. I willfully and deliberately chose all of those things. But ... I didn't choose for my eyes to be blue today, or any other day since the day I was born for that matter. I didn't choose to be short when I woke up this morning instead of tall. I didn't choose for my feet to be small or my chin to be pointy or my skin to be white. I didn't willfully or deliberately choose any of those things. The absolutely inarguable truth is that sometimes I have a choice and sometimes I don't.

Last Friday, I received a note from a friend with the following words ... "You can do this. You will do this. And you have no choice." Throughout the last year I've thought about, talked about, dreamed about, written about, tossed and turned about, prayed about, listened about, cried about, wondered about, asked about and worried about the concept of "choice" in regard to certain things about myself ... oh, yeah, I've done all of those things a whole, whole, whole, whole, whole lot over the last year or so. And for all my thinking, talking, dreaming, writing, tossing and turning, praying, listening, crying, wondering, asking and worrying, it took a short little note from a friend to help me truly understand and fully comprehend that truth from all those years ago when I offered up choices to my young son Mattie. It took a little note to cause me to know to the very core of my soul ... I can't go back to the life of pretense I once lived ... I have no choice but to be real ... I have no choice but to be me. 

So, thank you, my friend, for reminding me of who I am and what I must do. I can do this. I will do this. And I have no choice.