I will tell you what Allister would do when he was frustrated. And I do mean really frustrated. In fact, let us go ahead and say ‘when he was MOST FRUSTRATED.’
(Please make sure to say the capitalization of the phrase when re-telling.)
He would sit or stand wherever he was and that black cloud of frustration would sink down from his head and up from his heart, swelling and searching for a way out.
And it would collect and bubble and attempt to overflow in his chest until it shot down the tunnels of his arms.
At the end of the tunnels, of course, the frustration would be stopped at Allister’s clenched fists. Some would trickle down to his legs and make him pace. But, for the most part, the frustration would stay in his fists.
And Allister would hold his fists up to his face and look at the back of his hands-at the skin and the wrinkles and the lightest-green W shape that his veins made over his metacarpals. And he would trace through the cracks and the wrinkles with the dark frustrated light from his eyes. He would weave and wander and try to find a path up to the top of the mountain range that was his knuckles.
And it would take time, of course. It always took time. Air would come in and out as his eyes traced higher up the summit (more oxygen is always necessary at elevated heights).
But, he would get there. The path always led to the top of his knuckles.
And that was a very good thing.
When frustrated, one needed to continue moving, one needed to continue reaching.
And, if one never ventured over the top of one’s knuckles, how would one ever know that the fingers could extend to reach out even further?
(Please make sure to say the capitalization of the phrase when re-telling.)
He would sit or stand wherever he was and that black cloud of frustration would sink down from his head and up from his heart, swelling and searching for a way out.
And it would collect and bubble and attempt to overflow in his chest until it shot down the tunnels of his arms.
At the end of the tunnels, of course, the frustration would be stopped at Allister’s clenched fists. Some would trickle down to his legs and make him pace. But, for the most part, the frustration would stay in his fists.
And Allister would hold his fists up to his face and look at the back of his hands-at the skin and the wrinkles and the lightest-green W shape that his veins made over his metacarpals. And he would trace through the cracks and the wrinkles with the dark frustrated light from his eyes. He would weave and wander and try to find a path up to the top of the mountain range that was his knuckles.
And it would take time, of course. It always took time. Air would come in and out as his eyes traced higher up the summit (more oxygen is always necessary at elevated heights).
But, he would get there. The path always led to the top of his knuckles.
And that was a very good thing.
When frustrated, one needed to continue moving, one needed to continue reaching.
And, if one never ventured over the top of one’s knuckles, how would one ever know that the fingers could extend to reach out even further?
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