Close up Hands Tea x

Sit a bit and hear some observational stories I’ve been steeping.

Buttons & Bullseyes

Why is it that some people get such an evil pleasure out of pushing your buttons?  What is that about?  There are those who approach you as if you had a glowing control panel of dials, switches and meters displayed on your chest that directly interface with your heart.  They know full-well the areas or subjects you’re sensitive about and find a way to shove those subjects up to the surface for discussion or public presentation.  Ah!  Emotional guts on display. Not nearly as exciting as fireworks, but they can be just as colorful what with the purple and greens of psychic bruising.


Or maybe that’s just me.


See, I have been told that I have a chip on my shoulder and I’m not gonna try to hide it from you, good people.  I do.  But this chip has a label and a history.  I know exactly which Sisyphean boulder it was split from.  As a rule, this chip is tucked away, impossible to see by the average bear.  Then along comes a spider, who sinks its fangs into my left shoulder (it’s where the chip lives, see… directly above my heart) exposing this flaw for the world to see.  I’m not proud.  I rather wish I was better at concealing this weakness. 


I am not.


Which leads me to ask, what’s the point of pointing it out, Mr. (or Mrs.) Pointy-point pointer!? [Feel free to infuse that sentence with your own expletives.]  Really?  What is the big appeal of extending that bony finger of yours out beyond your normal reach just to push my buttons?  Aren’t there better buttons to be pushed?  You know, ones in the name of politics or all that is fair and just for the children or underprivileged of the world?!  Just asking.  I’ll wait, if you want to take a moment to try and answer that.


Nothing?  Didn’t think so.


For the sake of all that is holy, there really is no reason for pushing someone’s buttons if you already know the subjects they’d rather avoid or ignore.  For Pete’s sake, it’s not like it’s a big ol’ pink elephant wandering around the room or anything.  Why, it’s just a simple lil’ ol’ chip that could and should, if you would, be left alone.  Let the chips fall where they may.  Then walk away and leave ‘em alone.  Chips ahoy, Matey! 


The hidden bullseye however, is whole other issue.  Now and again something will come along and remove all the oxygen from your lungs because you’ve received a direct hit to the center of your secret target, a place in your soul that nobody else knows about.  For me, it can be a song, a phrase, a scent or sound that can stop me dead in my tracks and I find myself glancing around to see if anyone else saw or felt that cosmic ripple in the atmosphere.  More often than not, nobody else is aware of the moment and I move on with my day, my errand, my task, my life… usually with a smile on my face and laughter in my heart.  When something, or someone, crashes into your hidden bullseye – there is an indescribable joy that fills your heart and makes you whole.   [Unlike the button pushers who, psychic vampires that they are, can deplete you to your marrow.]


Buttons are usually pushed with purpose but, on occasion, folks bump into ‘em by mistake.  Hidden bullseyes are mostly hit by accident but can be targeted by those with a keen eye and intuition.  There are days I wish I could interchange these panels at will, so I could tuck away the buttons connected to the chip on my shoulder and expose the hidden bullseyes for all to see, to invite more joy into my life.


I’d like to think that in a perfect world, people would stop hitting the easy target and make more of an effort to aim for each other’s hidden bullseyes, even if it took a time or two to reach the goal.  There is a term in darts called Barn Dart, which means “the third dart of a throw that hits the target you were aiming at that the first two darts missed.”  Well, it’s no hat trick but it should be motivation for us all to try-try again, in attempt to hit the soft center of someone’s hidden bullseye.

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