He wears a suit coat, a trilby hat, and shiny black shoes. It gives him a rather matured air. He's been here a long while, rarely changing with the times. He walks with the powerful stride of a man who holds many uneasy answers. Sometimes he stays for longer than you'd like, but only because you, his charge, are having a difficult time understanding his presence.
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People are afraid of the word failure. The idea of it scares them so they avoid even using the phrase. But it's not a word to be feared, it just... Is.
I've failed many times. I've failed a class and I've failed to get positions I dearly hoped for. I've failed at making veggie stir fry that even remotely tastes like any kind of vegetable I've ever heard of. Worst of all I continually fail to love as we are called to love. The failure, however, does not define me. Importance, I think, should be placed not on the failure but on the acknowledgment of it's happening. Acknowledging failure, claiming it as your own, and gleaning knowledge helpful for the future conquers our fear. Most of all it conquers bitterness. Forgive others, forgive your failures, and forgive yourself.
I no longer fear failure, but I do try to respect it. I don't wish for it, but when it does appear I welcome it home.
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He knocks, but it's just a formality. He needs to be there, and he'll stay on the stoop until I answer. Patience is one of his finer virtues. When I open the door I sigh from the exhaustion of trying to keep him out for so long. I smile, mostly because just by opening the door I have managed to give him my weight. I ask Failure inside for dinner and talk with him like an old friend. I ask him questions- why did you come and how did you get here?- and listen quietly as he responds. Sometimes he answers and sometimes he doesn't, but every time I ask his eyes squint softly with a sad kind of smile. He touches me softly on the arm, knowing, I suppose, the emotional effect his presence carries. Before too long, I thank him for the knowledge he has brought to my table and bid him on his way. With a frivolous air but serious tone I say, "I hope I won't be seeing you again soon." He laughs, tips his hat, and replies, "I hope for the same thing." He walks out the door. I move back to the table and sit for a moment. Allowing myself some emotional breathing room, I stare at his chair. I mourn his presence as well as celebrate his parting. Then, finally, I cry from the joy of new found understanding. When my breathing moment ends, I clean up my answers and yet-to-be-answereds. Carrying them in my arms, I store them away for another day and always.
