The first time I held a pair of scissors I was in first grade. My teacher, Ms. Bebe oversaw the scissor proceedings with solemn gravity.
“Children always remember to wrap the palm of your hand around the blades of your scissors. Keep the blades pointed away from your heart. Your scissors can be very dangerous, I don’t want you to get hurt or to hurt someone else. So remember to do what I say, close your fist around the blades, point them down. Oh, and extend your arm out so that your classmates can see that you have scissors in your hand when you move around the art tables.”
My arm was rigid, my fist tight around the blades, and everyone knew when I was carrying those dangerous scissors. (When I was in first grade, the scissors were not like the child-friendly scissors of today. They were child size and their tips were a bit rounded. Nevertheless, they really could take someone’s eye out on accident.)
I don’t know why Ms. Bebe sticks out so prominently in my mind’s eye. I can remember her necklace of white beads. She wore glasses, and she had black hair. Her advice on the care and handling of scissors floats around in my mind like a bible verse. It was the way she said those words I guess, with conviction.
Throughout the rest of my school years, her voice rang in my ears. I carried my scissors with care, just like Ms. Bebe said.
“Don’t run with scissors. Walk, always walk slowly. Keep your arm outstretched, keep the blades wrapped tight in your hand.”
Do not run with scissors.
Well, Ms. Bebe, I have an announcement to make:
I am running with scissors. I am R U N N N N I N G with scissors!
I am running with my sharp, dangerous scissors, and no one can stop me. I am running so fast that my scissors might just take an eye out. No longer am I wrapping my fist around the blades. The blades of my scissors are facing out and are ready to strike.
I am running with scissors because I can not walk anymore.
I am running with scissors because I need to slash away at all of the drama that surrounds me.
I am running with scissors because I want to cut the crap out of my life.
I am running with S C I S S O R S.
Walking slowly around the art tables is for the kid that I used to be. I am all grown up now.
I have run out of time for a slow saunter. I have run out of time to make any more mistakes. I have run out of time. There is not one more minute left for me to squander. I have a lot of trimming to do with my scissors. SNIP SNIP
Some wise person once said, “You can never outrun the mistakes of your past.” I will take that person on and say “Yes, I can outrun my past.” I will run faster than the wind. My scissors will cut through the fog of confusion.
My scissors are out; they are pointed straight ahead. Their blades are sharp. They shine, and they are my weapon of choice.
The opinions of others strewn at my feet will be cut to shreds. Insecurity, contempt, self-doubt and indecisive thoughts will be nothing but confetti when I get done with them—little, tiny pieces of confetti, colorful fluff, nothing more, but just enough to be more than dust.
Instead of just sitting here and watching the world turn to a freak show before my very eyes, I will use my scissors to cut out the perfect picture of what I want my life to be.
I will use my scissors to cut out a path that I will call “hope”. Hope for renewal. Hope for joy. Hope for love. Hope for security. Hope for sanity.
I will use my scissors to cut off the bags of crap that cling to me.
I am running through my 40’s with my scissors out. The blades are facing forward. They are sharp. They are ready to cut off and cut out who and what no longer serves me.
This is my new modus operandi. My new plan. The new me.
I am running with scissors, Ms. Bebe. Their blades are facing out. I do not care if someone steps in front of me. I warned them all, in advance to “Watch Out.”
I am running with scissors, and no one can stop me.