In a slight twist on the Teaser Tuesday meme, where readers are invited to pick up their current read, turn to a certain page, and share a random paragraph, I like to take a moment on Tuesdays and share a meaningful passage from the book that’s currently propped open on my bedside table.
I spent the other evening at my church, helping to wrap gifts for the charities our church donates to each year. There were a group of us, talking and laughing, bemoaning all the things we had left to do in preparation for the holiday. Conversation turned to the topic of decorations, particularly collections. One of my friends has collected Santa Claus figures for years, and has a bevy of replicas of “the jolly old elf” collected in her travels ’round the world and now scattered happily all over her house.
“I don’t seriously collect anything,” I confessed, “although if I did, it would probably be angels.”
“Ha!” laughed L., with just the slightest overtone of a sneer, “why doesn’t that surprise me?”
The group giggled, and so did I, but I admit to feeling a bit nonplussed about their reaction. Do people consider me so much the “good girl” that my affinity for angels is part and parcel of my persona? And even if it were, why I was a bothered about being typecast as an “angel”? What’s wrong with that, really?
Then just this morning, as I sipped my coffee and watched the sun come up across the way, I read this passage in The Lost Art of Gratitude, the latest offering in The Sunday Philosophy Club series by Alexander McCall Smith, featuring Isabel Dalhousie, philosopher.
I’m naturally cautious,” Isabel said. Even as she said this, she wondered whether it was true. And if it was, was it something to be pleased about, or something to regret? Was natural caution found in people who did something with their lives, or was it a quality of those whose lives ran narrowily and correctly to the grave? The question depressed her. She did not want to be naturally cautious, she decided; she wanted to throw caution to the winds and …what?
Grace appeared at the door of her study, a duster in hand. “We’re almost out of dishwasher detergent,” she said. “I’m worried that we’ll run out. Could you get some more?”
Isabel looked up. “Let’s just risk it,” she said. If one was going to throw caution to the winds, one had to start somewhere.
Leave it to Isabel…