Mike Sukowsky stood
Over a rough hewn table
In his backyard,
His 74-year-old
Left arm in a sling,
His body in
Everyday pain
From old wounds.
Next to him,
Fifteen-year-old Zack
A neighbor, stood holding a
Sharp and slender
Filet knife
Above two
Lifeless rainbow trout
Caught earlier that day.
Zack awaited Mike’s
Tutoring –
How to filet a fish.
Mike Sukowsky
Spends his retirement
Helping out family,
Friends, and neighbors.
He gets a kick out of it,
So he says.
Outside his neighborhood
And his small circle,
No one knows about
Mike Sukowsky, and
likely no one else
Of his ilk.
They do what they do
Happily,
Without hoopla.
When you go about your
Chosen purpose
Without fanfare or self-promotion,
When your actions do not need
Defending,
When your beliefs preclude
Evangelizing,
You move towards
True humility
And don’t even know it.
“Not knowing it”
Marks the humble,
A departure from
Comparing and measuring,
Or striving for
External recognition.
Or carrying the
Constant stress of
Image-positioning.
Claiming or
Professing humility
Raises suspicions
Of “Un-humility."
To wit,
Declarations of humility
Have become the calling card
Of social media,
The masqueraded
Hubris of credit-seekers.
Call them what they are:
“The Un-Humble”
You’ve seen the posts:
“I am humbled to be the
Featured presenter…”
“I am truly humbled to be named…”
“I am proud to be selected…”
“I am humbled to have been awarded...”
The humble do not,
By definition of the word,
Announce their humility.
Eons will pass
And still you will not hear the
Mike Sukowskys announce:
“I am humble.”
Humble individuals do not
Think of themselves as
Humble.
That would be prideful.
Let me be clear:
The province of the humble
I do not know well.
I can only guess.
By my reckoning,
The for-real humble
Function without need
Of notice,
Seem more interested
In progress than plaudits,
Avoid like poison
Red carpets and selfies.
I wonder if
The humble of the world
Have a keener
Appreciation for
Human smallness:
That we scurry like
Ants on the floor of a
Single planet,
In a galaxy of
200 billion stars
In a Known Universe of
200 billion galaxies.
Do they know
By uncommon sense
The lie of “I am special,”
The comforting hallucination
Of the ignorant Person,
Group, Nation, Idealogy?
What would it take
For me to notice
That all real and
Imagined differences
Float
In a vast sea of
Sameness, and
Even those I judge
As bizarre or
Beastly
Resemble me?
Perhaps the humble
See themselves
As they really are:
Nothing more,
Nothing less,
Accepting and applying their strengths,
Acknowledging their weaknesses,
Going about their days and nights
Without the pretense
Of self-elevation,
Or self-deprecation.
Tuned-in as they are
To the Luck of the draw,
The humble affirm
The randomness of Life,
Giving fortune its due for
Both progress and pain.
Somehow, they hold
Personal responsibility and
Respect for the unknown
In never-perfect balance.
Seeing
The knife-edge
Between themselves and
The convict,
The sinner,
The out-of-control,
The irresponsible,
Awakens in the
Truly humble
an ancient,
Uneasy Truth:
“There but for the
Grace of God
Go I.”
This mantra,
Accepting
the mistakes,
Inconsistencies, and
Character defects
Of others, rests on
A quiet assumption:
“They’re doing
The best they can.”
Not standing above
Or lurking below
The humble see themselves
In all deficits,
Unseparated.
In contrast,
I speculate
One synonym for
The superior:
Deceived.
I plead and pray
For taming the
Prideful parts of
Myself and whoever
Fits the shoe,
Who care
More about credit
Than credibility,
And more about
Impression
Than impact.