Sunday, April 07, 2013

Wild Rice

Isn’t it delightful when life gives us a metaphor when we least expect it?

As I sat reading the Sunday L.A. Times and munching some left over backpacking gorp made up of puffed wild rice, I found my fingertips and my bodice covered with the tiny black messes of chaff, my fingers sticky from the tiny candies of lemon and orange.  

I rose to rinse my fingers, put the paper away, and remove the laundry from my two week vacation off the line. As I passed into the kitchen, I noticed the spills—deep black stains that my house sitter had hidden by covering them with an additional kitchen carpet.   

My first reaction was anger.  Was she going to leave and tell me nothing about her accident? She had taken no responsibility to clean her mess or to arrange for professional cleaning of the carpet. 
Had she forgotten she had left a major stain on the carpet for which I would later be asked to pay before I moved out of my rented space, a move that she knew was imminent?

Disappointed, I suppose I felt betrayed.  I had trusted her, acted with friendship and generosity. Her repayment, like the chaff from the puffed wild rice which soiled my bodice was to allow me to discover later that she harbored no particular sense of loyalty, that the sticky mess which could well cost me my $900 deposit should my landlord require the entire carpet be replaced if it could not be cleaned. 

Little messes on the bodice of my dress mar the enjoyment of the sweet treat much as larger messes scar a friendship. !