Say what? The malady of malarky

There's always more than one way to view a situation. Take this photo. It could be saying any number of things to you, including:

Come to me, and I will give you rest.
I'm letting go.
Go in peace.
Kill the fatted calf.
I want what's rightfully mine.
I give up. I can't get through to you.
I'm going to wring your neck.
It was this big.
Hocus pocus.
Hubba-hubba.
Come give your Auntie a big, slobbery kiss, you darling boy.

I know you'll come up with some good ones.
(And when you do, share them in the comments section!)

It's a wonder we understand half the things people say and do when we have all these filters to warp the message.

That's why I think writers and professional communicators are vastly underappreciated. Ditto lyricists. The good ones manage to craft a message that slogs through the muck of our mindset at the moment. The excellent ones even make it look easy. The slimy ones churn out steer manure and call it a compliment.

Since the professional message-senders have such a tough time, there ought to be a reciprocal career for professional understanders. Not merely interpreters, but honest to goodness understanders. Maybe they're already employed, but their titles obscure what they do. Some are called shrinks or spiritual advisors. Or mothers, best friends, soulmates — the latter group unpaid but no less skilled at what they do.

Assigning meaning is a human ability. It's usually exercised in snap decisions, first impressions, and unfortunately, gossip-mongering. Discovering true meaning is a function of the intellect working in harmony with the soul, usually over time.

How to reverse the pollution of misinterpretation? I'd say we start by practicing two clichés that have undeservedly earned a bad rap.

The first is, "Give the other fellow the benefit of the doubt."
The second is, "There's always two sides to a coin."

I promise to pause before deciding to believe that So-and-So said Such-and-Such. I commit to considering what else the other person could have meant apart from how I took it to mean. I will make the effort to run my strong opinions through the sieve of "Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary?" to choose how and which ones I do express.

And if I forget, leap to conclusions, take instant offense or swallow a flatterer's line, I promise to view a poorly dubbed martial arts movie. The mouths not matching the words will serve to remind me that the pollution of misinterpretation will persist unless I do something about it in my own small way.

How did you choose to make your mark today?

Nerve endings, originally uploaded by scrollwork.

You can make your mark on the world with the sizzling, searing force that brands cattle. If you crave dominion over people with a herd mentality, that might work for you.

Or, you can weave your mark into the warp and weft of conversation, interaction and transaction. You become integrated and integral to the fabric, and ripping you out will mean destroying the fabric.

Consider your approach as you go about your day.

Looking in windows

There's a pile-up of coffee filters on my kitchen window sill this week. It's a signal (SOS) to the joggers and dogwalkers that the person who lives here is on deadline. Panicked by my procrastination. Fighting the sleepies. Coffee to the rescue.

Didn't housewives of old put pies on their sill to cool? At least that's what I remember from cartoons. My poor passersby will have to settle for used filters. I'm recycling them when they're dry.

Do you glance into people's windows when they leave the drapes open and turn on the lights at dusk? I do. My husband's usually at the wheel, and I have the luxury of rubbernecking. I like to project myself into what I imagine life might be like in their homes.

When they see the coffee filters, what would my life seem like from the outside looking in? Would they want to trade places with me?

One thing for sure, our house seems like a friendly place to dogs and cats who are passing through. One morning we awoke to find four plump puppies on our porch. They'd been dropped off across the street, judging from the crate that lay on the curb. They made a beeline for our house.

The neighborhood cats lounge on the lawn, slinking off when we appear at the door. Everyone is welcome. I logged the visit of one of them here.

Five Septembers ago, the cat who would be ours for life showed up.  We didn't know it at the time. He was a few notches higher in feline beauty than the rest. But it took a gunshot to the chest to prompt me to claim him.

I'll tell you about it when I get my head above the pile of compositions awaiting my editing.