“It is what it is,” I told my dad weeks before his death. A phrase that had grown habitual coming from my lips… I found comfort in saying this as the bills piled up and the few hay bales accumulated in the hay yard.
My dad loathed me saying this and rebutted in persistence, “Like hell it is! I’m sick, can’t breathe, and have nothing to look forward to. The world is a wreck and I’m dying.”
I read these scribbles from back then, and the phrase that I had taken on, “it is what it is,” and chuckle inwardly. Now I realize what my dad was saying.
He was telling me, “It is what we accept.” And he had accepted his demise. I have a choice in accepting my bank account and my meager stockpile of winter feed for my critters. Or I can refuse to accept this and take action. Either way, the choice is mine. As was his, and is your own.
