There’s an old coffee mug on my desk full of pencils. Long pencils with full erasers, waiting to be selected. Short pencils with used-up erasers, waiting to be retired. But the pencils that interest me most are the variants. The long pencils with worn-out erasers. The short pencils with un-used erasers. They remind me of people I know.
People who, like long pencils with worn-out erasers, don’t say much and, even so, are constantly correcting themselves. Second-guessing and apologizing. I want to reassure them that their contribution is valuable, that no disclaimers are necessary.
Maybe they grew up with a critical parent or teacher who made them reluctant to speak their minds. I had a father like that. Maybe that’s why I’m fascinated by the short pencils with un-used erasers—people who never hesitate to speak up, no matter what the topic. Who never seem to doubt the rightness of their opinions, even when a review might have been beneficial. Sometimes I envy people with this much confidence—to go through life without erasing anything!
I reach for a pencil and select a long one with a full eraser. Starting over, again.