I’m experimenting with a shorter blog post this evening.
Last night, a giant black Texas cricket got into the apartment. It was sitting there on the carpet, possibly trying to not jump because it saw the dog drooling. I ran over with a cup and piece of paper- the sissy way of getting a non-stinging bug outside.
I heroically (in my mind) moved the thing to the porch, and closed the door as much as I could while still getting my arm outside, and knocked over the cup while whipping my hand back into the house as fast as possible. As you can imagine.
While I watched it through the door to witness its fate, I saw that it was stuck in the bottom of the side-turned cup. All it had to do was to turn around and get out, into the open air, the free night, the huge field below. But it was obsessed with the bottom of the glass; with looking out at the barrier, and freaking out about it; jumping and struggling against nothing.
Huh. I thought. How often am I in that same position, without realizing it?
That is, that my world all of a sudden feels restricted and insane (someone putting me in a sissy cup & paper concoction), and then feeling trapped when all I have to do is turn around?
I’m not one to believe in the big-dude-in-the-sky God, but I do believe in something. At least, something that can nudge things into one direction or another. I couldn’t control that cricket’s every move; but I could get him outside of my living room. And I’m not a God, but I am bigger than him.
And that leads me to wonder:
How often do I need to just turn around in order to see the big open space, instead of assuming that the one barrier I see is the be-all-and-end-all of my freedom choices?
How often does a thing that acts as a trap in one situation turn into a simple shelter in another? What are the restraints that we get so used to, that we fail to even notice when they are gone?