Humility and the Motorcycle Mechanic

I really am a Motorcycle Mechanic. Back in the days before the Women’s Liberation Movement, I was working in my father’s diesel garage, cleaning parts and putting together – or taking apart – the things that I could physically manage. At home, I worked along side my brother, building motorcycles. I went to school for the trade and graduated with degrees and certificates and a box of cool tools. However, that was in the early 1970’s and “girls” did NOT work in the larger motorcycle shops. They could be pinup girls or parts girls, but not mechanics. Well, I am not now, nor was I then, a pinup girl, and I wanted to work on the bikes, so I never did get a job in that field. Compromise wasn’t in the cards for this woman who wouldn’t be dissuaded from her plans. I was twenty and allergic to humble pie.

Thank goodness I survived the ensuing years and managed to learn some useful things, too. I’m blessed in more ways than I can tell you and most days, I’m at peace with who I was during the day.

But this week’s been different. This week’s been about humility and surrender. I’ve exercised neither of those things with grace, this week.

I was pulled out of a job I’ve finally mastered, and plunked down into a brand new one that is loaded with challenges. While still stewing over that curve ball, a good buddy of mine died of his Vietnam-service related lung disease. While trying to stuff my attitude about the job and my friend’s illness, and be of some use to a grieving family, I lost my sense of humor and any wisdom I may have gained in the past forty years. Incident after incident occured on the job and by yesterday, I was thoroughly entrenched in self-righteous indignation.

Like a child who slams the cabinet door, only to have it rebound and hit them in the head, my self-indulgent tantrums blew up in my face and I made the mistake of making assumptions. Which of course, turned out to be quite erroneous.

Enter, humilty. I did not seriously damage anyone and my apologies, humbly proferred, were accepted. Once again, I was blessed with someone’s forgiveness. Humbling experience in and of itself.

And, it stopped me cold. Made me sit back, slow down the indignation and discover that I should have taken the time to grieve my losses. The loss of my comfort zone and the security that comes from doing one’s job well. And the loss of my friend, though I’ve known it was coming and have hoped he would not suffer on much longer.

So when your sense of humor is gone and you find yourself tettering on the edge of rage and insanity, stop. Strength doesn’t come from hanging on longer, it comes from being humble enough to admit we don’t have to hang on at all.

Love, Diva Nancy