Today I spent 75 minutes looking for papers for which I previously searched over a six-month period in two separate states. I found them today inside a book which I had put in the under-bed storage compartment of my tiny house. Last time, I found them inside one of my mother’s sewing manuals in a box of books at my Kansas City storage unit. I sense a trend.
Insanity being defined as doing the same thing repeatedly expecting different results, I can honestly admit that I must in fact be insane. Every mistake that I’ve made in my 62 years and 11.5 months comprises a repeated pattern. This applies to every level of error, along the spectrum of significance. I don’t learn. I keep failing at the same endeavors in the same sad way.
I can handle other people’s problems with acumen and objectivity. My own difficulties pose seemingly insurmountable challenges. I admit that. I don’t even shrug anymore.
But I did find the missing items. They sit safely in an obvious and accessible location. I need them on Wednesday. I’m shopping for a fire-safe lock-box, into which these papers shall be placed after they serve their current purpose. Can one teach an old dog new tricks? Possibly not, as I’ve recently observed. But I aim to keep hammering away at the iceberg, hoping to push it out of the way and sail unimpeded to the open sea.
It’s the twentieth day of the fifty-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.