2024/11 OH. (SPILLED MILK)

I paused in the kitchen and watched spilled milk work its way around the dishes on the counter. It quickly found the edge of the countertop and took the long plunge to the kitchen floor, like a creamy white waterfall. I surprised myself with my casual response, just standing there watching, allowing the milk to take its own path. Isn’t it human nature to rush to grab a dishtowel and stop it?  Yet there I was, a good chunk of the way into adulthood, frankly pretty experienced with wiping up spilled milk, curious about its course. The only word that came to my mind or my lips was “Oh.” (Not even with an exclamation point.)

I vividly remember that moment. It’s become rather pivotal for me. One of those moments where you were a different person before than after. I call those thin veil experiences, where our angels are more present than usual and the gravitational pull of this earthly realm has a hiccup. I felt like my little team; my assigned angels and I had a spontaneous heavenly huddle and decided it was time to let go of unnecessary panic. 

This must have happened to other people before because “Don’t cry over spilled milk” is now cliché, and things don’t become cliché unless they are repeatedly true.

I have found myself whispering the word “Oh” many times since.  I crunch the bumper of my car into a curb… a friend’s teenage daughter ends up pregnant… I hear someone whisper that they don't care for my music? I find myself calming myself with a little “Oh.” (with no exclamation mark.) Even when someone I cherish dies. "Oh," I think to myself. The lift and the lilt of the way I say it may change slightly. If you don’t understand the depth of the meaning, the comfort of a single vowel coming out of a swirl of emotion, you might think it heartless. That’s logical. I mean, if I heard someone simply say “Oh” at tragic news, I might judge.

I suppose that little revelatory moment when I let the spilled milk hold its proper place in the long-term importance of things continues to manifest itself in repeated lessons. There is so much I cannot or should not control, or want to control, in the way life unfolds. Getting worked-up about what is meant to be is likely a misuse of energy. Of course, the brain is more often powerless against the strong arm of the heart. But I guess my angels decided to toss me that single syllable as a reminder. Sometimes, often times, I get crazy worked up about stuff. That’s my nature I suppose. But sometimes I comfort myself with little “Oh’s”. They are, in slightly more focused terms, my way of saying “Let God prevail.” or “Don’t rush to get in the way of yourself.”

Sometimes, when my imagination gets the best of me and I conclude that I am either going to die, someone I love is going to die, or my faith is going to die, I can stop the panic by simply verbalizing the word “Oh.” (Sometimes I allow an exclamation mark for emphasis, out of respect for the severity of the imagined situation.) It’s amazing to me how effective the practice is. It doesn’t solve everything, but it kind of puts the pegs in their proper place while life figures itself out.

So, now I’ve been ruminating all morning on O, the roundness of it and the eternal nature of it. I roll my wedding band around my ring finger and ponder the endlessness of it. And then I get to thinking that good is God with an extra o. 

Maybe I’ll ease my way to God by just allowing myself to be good.