It Wisnae Me

It Wisnae Me


Translation (It was not me)

I had a marvellous day yesterday with my daughter. It was just one of those days when everything just went right. I hate timetables, but my daughter likes to be organised so I had taken the time to find out bus times. I wandered down to the village, bought a paper and arrived at the bust stop just as the bus before the one I was heading for arrived. The bus driver saw me heading to the stop and kindly waited and I was off.

I arrived in Edinburgh to a beautiful sunny day. From there on, the day just got better and better. Over lunch we talked about how we could sort out the world problems. Amazingly simple! Teach people to stop blaming everybody else and take responsibility for the error of their ways.

I do not know what it is like where you are, but here there are so many stories of people looking to blame somebody, and nobody ever wants to take the blame. Of course sometimes an accident is just that, an accident, and there is no blame. Maybe we also need to learn that lesson also.

Here in Scotland we have this lovely phrase, “It Wisnae Me.”

I reminded my daughter that we learn that syndrome very early in life.

The day, I heard crying, and went up to my son’s room. My daughter was there also. Ross my son was in tears. Before I could say anything she said, “It wisnae me.” I asked why he was crying and was informed he had hit his head off a bat that was lying on the floor. “Where was the bat at the time?” I asked. “In my hand.” said my daughter.

There is a true story of a young girl who the week before her final exams at university went to a Buddhist monastery to ask the monks if they would say some chants each day to help her pass her examinations. The monk she spoke to did not believe that was how it worked but he did agree to do so thinking it might boost her confidence.

They never saw the girl again, but they did hear rumours that she was telling everybody that the monks were failures. She had failed her exams because their chants were no use. She forgot to mention she had spent all the academic year partying.

I heard a saying some years ago. It is a bit rough but it sure hits the right spot.

The Itch.

A man had an itch on his ass

He scratched his head

The itch never went away.

I apologise if that is too coarse but it does bring me back to where I started. We need to stop blaming everybody else before first looking and asking about our own part in the things that annoy us.

Lets start with who is holding the bat.



Have a great day.


This blog is linked to my other.  Secret Places

Complaints

One thing was sure about running marathons. You were racing against nothing but cripples and sick people, well so it would have seemed. As we all lined up for the start or gathered in the start area al the talk was about the injuries sustained in the last two weeks. I often wondered how some of them had managed to walk there at all. Yet the minute the gun went all the injuries seemed to vanish in a flash and you were surrounded by well trained athletes.




There once was a monastery that was very strict. Following a vow of silence, no one was allowed to speak at all. But there was one exception to this rule. Every ten years, the monks were permitted to speak just two words. After spending his first ten years at the monastery, one monk went to the head monk. "It has been ten years," said the head monk. "What are the two words you would like to speak?"

"Bed... hard..." said the monk.

"I see," replied the head monk.

 Ten years later, the monk returned to the head monk's office. "It has been ten more years," said the head monk. "What are the two words you would like to speak?"

"Food... stinks..." said the monk.

"I see," replied the head monk.

Yet another ten years passed and the monk once again met with the head monk who asked, "What are your two words now, after these ten years?"

"I... quit!" said the monk.

"I see," replied the head monk.

"Well, I can see why," replied the head monk. "All you ever do is complain."

How often have you felt everything was wrong, the paint, the brushes, the heat or the cold. The excuses I have made and the things I have blamed would make a wonderful collection.

I was reminded yesterday of the story of the American Indian and his wife. he introduced his with to a friend using her indian name. The friend asked what the name meant in translation. he was told it translated to, "Three Horses." "Strange name for a lady," the friend remarked. "Oh no," said the indian, "nag nag nag." (The sexes in this story can easliy be counterchanged)

I leave you with that thought to ponder.

This Blog is also connected to my other blog where the chosen painting is discussed it can be seen at:-The Yell