Perspective - again

In the several years since I wrote the below piece I've become more 'comfortable in my own skin,' as I once jotted on a scrap of paper. And even far more at ease if I have to say a few words in front of a group. This late-in-life 'bloom,' as it might be characterized, stood me in good stead a week or so ago as I led a sizable group in a writing workshop. I could not have imagined such a thing in my younger years. Of course, I had lots of support from a dedicated committee. We worked diligently for months to bring the event about and it was one of the most satisfying times of my life. I firmly believe God was with us, helping us, because we truly wanted it to be a help and encouragement for aspiring writers. Comments from those who attended lead us to believe we achieved that goal.

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To escape criticism––do nothing, say nothing, be nothing. That might as well have been my mantra once. I've written before about my crippling shyness during a lot of my life. I look back now and ask myself, why did I waste all those years worrying about what people might think about me. It's doubtful if the things I worried about ever even occurred to anyone. And even if a stranger on a bus did think an unkind or critical thought about me, so what? I'd most likely never see that person again. And if I did, neither of us would probably remember. I've no illusions that I'm a memorable person to most of those who cross my path. I do regret that most of them are not memorable to me either because I don't pay attention to seeing them instead of my own concerns. I value people more than I did in the past. People I meet through the years now seem unique and valuable. We may disagree on some fundamental areas of life, but that just makes them more interesting. Their perspective was shaped by the things they went through in their lives, as my own experiences shaped mine. I was born near the end of the Great Depression, as it's known. My childhood was during the years of World War II. We lived deep in the country so I was barely touched by the war. My father was deferred due to a medical condition plus he had a large family of children to support. Uncles, cousins served and we did hear of the hardships they endured. But my somewhat sheltered childhood existence was far different from someone whose family lived on one of the coasts or my English friend, Eileen, who lived those years in Cambridge, England. But she and her family survived. She married Ron, a Yank airman, and now enriches the lives of all who know her. Would that someday someone could say the same about me.