I don’t think that the Rug Doctor is a real doctor. He’s probably like a chiropractor or a podiatrist or an instructor in “Human Studies.” Judging from the crap that came out of my carpets he may actually be an exorcist. The more I think about it, he must have his degree from the same place as Dr. Phil.
My carpets were making me sad. All of those stains representing things we had done wrong. Each one cried out “What were you thinking?” And, of course, the answer was that we were not thinking. The juice just, well, it just spilled. So of course I could just sit there and feel bad about my dirty carpets, or I could do something, ask for some help.
But if I ask for help, I have to be willing to accept it. Help doesn’t always come in the form I imagine. To be “made a new creation” as the reading for today’s noon office suggests, sounds fine if I’m the Ferrari version of the new creation. That’s, of course, what I think I should be. Unless I think I should be a diesel Ram 2500 or a Fat Boy, none of which really matter because it’s not about what I think I ought to be.
Which might sound wrong, because aren’t we supposed to have a goal, make a plan, get out there and get it done? Practical experience has borne out that my plans, my goals are what the Brits might refer to as “shite.” It seems like the only time I make progress is when I try to get out there and get done some part of a plan outside of myself. Of course, it’s a little hard to discern the whole plan from my vantage point, but exorcising the demons from the carpet is a good start.