I got in my car after teaching lessons at King Elementary on Tuesday, still a bit flabbergasted (but much calmer than when I arrived) and checked my phone. There was a text from my friend, Maureen.
“Hi, Katie, I’m kicking myself for not telling you to take a photo of her license plate. Anyway, I got a pocket dial from you after you left and wanted to try you back.”
Ha! Pocket dial, that’s hilarious. Who says POCKET dial?
But, um no, that wasn’t a pocket dial, Maureen, I had actually called you, and then I had actually forgotten that I had called you, not remembering that I had called you until I heard a prompt asking if I was satisfied with my message. Shit! No, I’m not satisfied with my message, but I’m clearly not in the right mind to leave a message. I’ll hang up now and try again when I’m more composed.
Composed. To be composed I must breathe. I know this. I can certainly breathe, for that is what I’m heading to do in my car with a missing tail light: teach children to find their breath.
God damn it! How embarrassing. I am ashamed that pulling out of the parking lot heading to teach mindfulness I mindlessly backed up into someone. I am ashamed, and I am embarrassed that two people I know (and another I had just met) were sitting on the patio, witness to my blunder.
Damn it, damn it, damn it. I will breathe and I will feel my shame. I will feel my embarrassment.
Because I have a choice.
I can let this be a minor finder bender, or I can make this be BIG, HUGE. I can rip myself up and down. I can tear myself apart.
I am at a crossroads, and I have a choice.
I feel liberation peaking out behind the abating shame.