Being a parent is a wonder and a privilege. I hope to be my children’s guide and inspiration as they prepare to enter the adult world of demands and responsibility; however, I’ve found they can sometimes be teachers to me, too.

For this reason, I consider my kids as partners in development – I grow and learn as they grow and learn. They attribute much of what they are to the example and teaching they’ve received in my home. I attribute them with making me a better man. We learn, love, and laugh together (sometimes at the expense of one and other!), but we do have fun.

As a boy, my father and mother were my guides and inspiration. They supported and encouraged me when I felt alone. They gave me the freedom to challenge and test boundaries and logic. Sometimes, I questioned their wisdom. Sometimes I questioned their kindness. But, I never questioned their love.

After I left their home to establish my own home and identity, I found true friendship with my parents. I began to see the wisdom in so much of what they had said and done. My dad and I had never got along better! I found he had an incredible sense of humor, and we were always trying to upstage each other. Once, after a particularly good laugh, I said to my dad: “You’re a funny guy! Why were you never this funny when I was living at home with you?” He simply said: “That’s why.”

My dad is now 89 years old, and he’s still a source of strength and inspiration to his kids and grandkids. This short entry is a tribute to my father and my mother. They may be old in body, but not in mind or in spirit. They are still an inspiration. I hope to be the same for my children when I reach their age.

I recently attended the Adobe Photoshop Seminar Tour, sponsored by the National Association of Photoshop Professionals (NAPP). It was well attended. The content was worth the price and time; however, that’s not what I want to write about.

I want to tell you the story of Saint Victim . . .

At the seminar, I happened to meet the greatest victim I may ever know. I won’t be mean in telling this story. I’ll simply tell it, then wax philosophical.

We packed the room like sardines in a tin. The convention center had provided light weight, narrow tables — enough seating for 400 people. They were placed end to end with very narrow spacing between the rows. Many who sat in the center of these rows struggled to get by the people already seated.

My seat was third in from the end of my row. Waiting for the seminar, I noticed many people had bottled water or bottled pop at their tables. My table-mate showed up with coffee. Not having a screw-down lid like the bottled drinks, I envisioned his coffee spilling all over me and my stuff. Fortunately, he recognized the condition of the wobbly table and quickly drank it down. I respected him for that.

At the first break, I left the room to visit the vendor booths. In climbing out of my seat, I noticed a woman sitting on the isle in the row behind me. She had an empty foam cup that had once contained water. Upon my return, the lady was already back in her seat with her cup — full to the brim and begging to be spilled.

I moved carefully behind the gentleman at the end of my row, trying desperately not to bump the table and topple the lady’s foam cup. Didn’t work! I bumped her table! Her cup spilled over and spread onto her papers. She and I both flew into action, she to save her materials from saturation, me to save her neighbor’s materials (who’d not yet returned from break).

Very quickly, working together, we were able to mop up that spill. Still, she was visibly upset, but remained gracious although mostly silent. I apologized profusely. I felt horrible.

After the lunch break I saw the same scenario: same lady, same location, and same cup. Again, it was full to the brim and aching to be spilled. I patted the gentleman’s back who was seated on the isle of my row, asking him to slide in tight while I passed. This, he did and I passed safely. I smiled, inwardly, for having avoided a second spill.

Just then, I heard the spill lady gasp! I turned to see her water cup over turned and her table-mate horrified as water spread across both of their materials. The returning neighbor had jostled the table just enough to tip that top-heavy cup.

As the neighbor lady was scrambling to help clean and save their materials, she muttered a heartfelt apology. I was overcome with déjà vu. The spill lady addressed the apology curtly, “I’m getting used to it!” Then, pointing to me, “He spilled it earlier.” Shaking her head in reluctant acceptance, the spill lady offered, “I’ve just had some bad luck, today.”

I was in disbelief! The spill lady had knowingly created that situation a second time and blamed it on luck?!! Then it hit me: she had done nothing wrong. She held herself blameless . . . In her view, she had contributed no behavior making her vulnerable to that double lightning strike. Judging by her final comment about luck, the spill lady truly believed she was simply an innocent victim of bad luck. There was no lesson to be learned from that first spill. There was no lesson to be learned from the second spill, either. Time marches on . . .

Unfortunate, isn’t it? On the train home, I continued to ponder the spill lady, our Saint Victim.

I do recognize this is an extreme example. That’s why it struck me as it did. Most people aren’t that incredibly naïve – especially at her (or my) age. As I pondered over the spill lady, I began to see other faces. I saw the faces of family, friends, coworkers, and casual acquaintances – all who occasionally sip from the ever-full Styrofoam cup of our lady, Saint Victim.

But here’s the troubling thing. I wondered: is there a little Saint Victim inside of me? Am I sometimes reluctant to take the lessons offered from unfortunate circumstance? I’m embarrassed to admit it. But, I am. Having recognized this about myself, I now hope to better see life’s lessons while they’re still subtle, before they spill all over my table and saturate my seminar materials.

May you, too, have eyes to see . . .

Wishing you all the best,
-Mike.