A famous aikido master says when you can learn to dance on a shifting carpet, you’ll never have the rug pulled out from under you again.
I actually used to say that. A lot. Well, part of it, at least: “someone pulled the rug out from under me!” I’d complain pitifully. It was colossally unfair, my bruises were humongous, my butt was in excruciating pain. I didn’t quite get the part about dancing.
Then, without my permission, without even being asked if I minded, I was transformed into a single parent with two kids, a dog, a hamster, three to eight cats, a bunch of perpetually imperiled parakeets, two mortgages, a seriously leaking roof, a disabled parent, and a law practice full of clients with problems ranging from incomprehensible to insoluble. All of which bred unpredictability faster than rabbits in the springtime. The rug flew out from under me more times than I could count. I stayed off balance, not infrequently on my ass, and, no surprise, I was really miserable a lot of the time.
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