My granddaughter has a sieve she uses to make rain. When we had a video chat during bath time Olly showed me how it works. Indoor sprinklers have been captivating children since her mother was the little girl holding a bar of soap, and there seems to be no end to the magic. First you scoop water up, then it shoots out of a hundred tiny holes in all directions. Sometimes she sets the sieve down on the edge of the tub to serve me tea in a plastic cup without cracks. I cannot actually drink it through the screen so Olly discreetly dumps it. But we can both pretend. 

 

Recently I have been resisting the urge to help other people arrive at decisions. Well, help is a misnomer. Assistance has nothing to do with it. I am simply weighing in. Which adds to their burden. The tendency to pour forth about another person's choices takes energy, especially with so many of them.

 

"Why are they letting their son do that?"

 

"She needs to stop working overtime."

 

"Come on, why don't they stay home instead of traveling hither and yon?"

 

Crafting conclusions about the doings of everyone on my street is draining. I only have a limited supply of brain power, and when I spill it on clucking over my neighbor, I run dry.

 

There is a song about this. Well, not the opinions so much as the drainage. A folk song we've oft repeated over a campfire, rues the futility of Liza and Henry's efforts to fix the bucket. When the verses swing back around to the beginning, there is a pathetic humor in it all. But it never does carry water. 

 

Plugging up my tendency to pass judgment makes it more likely that I can really serve people. Instead of just pretending to.