Goal Tending

Have you ever felt like a one armed paper hanger or a multi-tasking mama?  The two share a certain incongruity in the way capacity meets expectation.

Here's a story about goals that needs help writing the ending (post yours as a comment!). 

Once upon a time there was a little boy who dreamed of a precious box.  It shimmered in his mind’s eye:  dark polished wood, carved curves, inset shots of enameled color.

When he closed his eyes at night he could see it, but when he woke in the morning, the box seemed to hover just out of sight.

The little boy sometimes practiced making boxes:  out of cardboard that he found and folded, or bits of wood from crates picked up behind the corner grocery into which he would crookedly pond nails.

His big brother poked fun, good naturedly he thought, at the little boy’s projects, so he learned to hide them away in his closet and chase after the bigger boys’ ball games. 

Still, his dreams brought glimpses of the precious box, even as he was increasingly aware that it was not real.

When it came time to choose a path through school, classes tempted the boy where he cold put his hands on wood, learn to measure and to cut it, how to join pieces, and create hinges. But his father, a handyman at the mill, and his career counselor, urged him to look ahead, toward a profession, which meant a full college prep schedule.  There would always be time for hobbies later, they said.

The boy did his homework, earned his scholarship, and headed to a good college.  Picking up his first semester books, he noticed a display of fine woodworking books. His hands itched a little.  Funny he thought, as he toted his bags down the hall.  In the Student Union, he passed a list of leisure time classes.  There was a picture of a beautiful cherry box, simpler than the one of his boyhood dream, but solid.  He could almost feel it in his hands.  Not now, he thought, but maybe after I get my first semester routine down, he thought to himself.

The dorm was full of new friends and new activities. Soon the boy had season tickets for football, and hockey and had been recruited for rec. baseball.  The guys played cards in the dorm to relax at night, and he had to keep up with his studying in order to stay on track toward his profession, which also took some time to consider.  He settled on business, which seemed like a secure future.

He did everything he was supposed to do. He met a girl, he graduated and joined a company; they married and had children.  His oldest boy spotted a craft kit in a hobby store one day, it was an awkward pine box embellished with wood burning.  “Daddy, can we make that?” his little boy asked. 

“Oh, son, take a good look, It’s just a big chunk of wood. Not worth the time.”  The next time they passed the history museum, The man took his son in to see finely crafted containers of all kinds.  He lingered by the boxes, which raised some kind of echo in him.

“Daddy,” he heard his excited son say, “can we make a box like that!?”

He saw his son pointing to a gleaming walnut chest inlaid with mother of pearl.

 “No, that’s difficult, he answered.” 

“It takes a master craftsman to create something like that.” 

“You could make one, Dad, you can do anything,” declared his confident son declared.

“ I don’t have the time or the skill, son,” the man replied, with a tinge of regret.

“Well then,” his son asked.  “Can we buy one?”  The man thought about it.  His business had done well.  “Yes,” he said. “Yes,” we will find just the right one and buy it.

So they began to search. 

They visited craft shows and shops. 

They met master woodworkers and watched them work. 

The man’s eyes and hands lingered over the tools in the workshops.

They talked about the box they would buy, and the man began to remember the box of his boyhood dreams.  But he couldn’t quite describe it to his son.  And each of the beautiful boxes they saw was different, not like the one that still rested in his heart.

Finally, his son went off to school himself, and their box hunting trips became a fond memory.

The years went by and one day the man, nearing the end of a productive career, found himself short of breathe, experiencing pain, and, in short order, in a hospital bed.  In the deep sleep given so that his body could heal, the man heard a voice asking him if he had any regrets.  He thought of the wife and children he loved and was grateful.  But there is one thing, he thought.  I wish I’d had time to learn how to make that box.

You had a life-time.

Yes, but there were so many goals to reach, I never the opportunity, mused the man.

Every time you imagined it, every time your hand itched, was an opportunity. I even led you to those who could teach you and put the tools at your hand.

How do you want the story to end?