A spark catches on a dry leaf

A spark catches on a dry leaf, left over from fall, and catches fire.

Maybe it was the stamp machine that sparked it. One dollar in the
machine, I wanted to by $1.30 of stamps, the cheapest option, to mail
the $.63 letter and CD. I knew if it went home with me it would be
days before it made it to the mailbox. The machine finally took one-
dollar bill and continued to refuse my second bill. I patiently
tried and retried, determined. The machine then started to beep.
Great, it's going to explode. If I did not make a selection, my
money would be lost, it told me. No pressure. I make my selection.
Now it is upset I am short $.30. I shove the dollar in, it comes
out. I start cursing the machine. A woman walking out pauses,
probably hearing me mumble. At last the dollar goes in and out pops
not stamps, but postcards with prepaid postage.

"Damn it."

An old woman, who successfully procured her book of stamps from a
neighboring machine agreed to sell me two stamps.

"Oh, you only need the twenty-four cent second stamp," she informs me.

"That's ok, I don't mind the few extra." I do the math to see what
I owe her. "Here's eighty cents. Thank you so much."

"Here's your change," she insists, digging through pennies.

"No, don't worry about it."

"No, no, you already paid too much," she puts a penny in the pile of
coins I was sweeping back into my wallet.

The funny thing is she offered to just do this before, but in my
anger at the machine I didn't really understand her offer.

I know this by now -- let the anger go and answers will come.

Then, talking to my mother, now back home and unexpectedly very lucid
lately, this little spark of anger flared into a flapping heated
flame. Not about the stamps, but more about obligations that I
don't want to meet and possible resentment . . . towards whom.

I haven't felt this angry in a long time. Hurt, frustrated,
disappointed -- yes, but there was love and a centeredness to push me
over those humps. But this anger, though not unknown to me, felt
unfamiliar and unpleasant. I hated this anger, only making it angrier.

Oh, yeah, I remember, this is how it works.

"Where is all this anger coming from," my mother asked.

"Good question." I tried to consider this as my mother lectured me
about maturity and gumption.

I suspect it is rooted in fear and ego, though from what hiding
placed they suddenly popped out is a mystery to me.