The Jaguar Shark

It’s been a few weeks since I last posted. The usual bout with end-of-semester stress was a bit tougher than I’m accustomed to. I’m not special, though. Each of our lives carry natural crests and troughs of stress. Expectations ramp up, sometimes when we’re ill-prepared to rise to the challenge, and we spend a few frantic weeks scurrying about in a desperate effort to restore order to chaos. Time and time again, the wave rises and falls. Time and time again, we endure it because we must.

There isn’t a soul reading this that can claim to have always gracefully endured such moments. Part of what makes us human is the imperfectly adequate manner in which we meet these periods of stress. It’s seldom pretty and it usually requires a few apologies for bruised toes, but the job gets done. We promise ourselves that we’ll get it right the next time, knowing full well that we probably won’t. The cycle repeats and from somewhere deep in our cultural consciousness, Sisyphus mumbles an incoherent lesson about futility. The static in our heads sometimes splices the message with other sage advice.


You’ve got to know when to hold it, know when to roll it, know when to curse the gods, know when to slump.

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