A sweet little rant about ranting

The Rant.

Yes. I can be a ranter. Yesterday I walked with my friend and spilled on about everything that was on my mind for fifteen minutes, like I was Rick Mercer walking down the road. This and that and the other thing. An expulsion of words all said with a combination of indignation and righteousness.

It releases something in you and most likely bores the person you are ranting to. Alas, what are friends for? What is walking for if not to release all that pent up dull drama. Oh yes, those two words can be used in the same sentence. Sometimes life is full of dull drama.

Ranters repeat themselves. The passion can be heard in their voice again and again. And yet again. And I fear I can be a ranter. Last night I was thinking about my rant during the day on my walk and I was slightly embarrassed. It was a mix of exaggeration and truth. I thought of my friend who was probably redoing her laundry in her mind as I droned on about not much. And I thought I am not going to do that again. 

But I know I will. It's like saying I won't ever eat too much cake again or have a second glass of wine. Some evening you'll find yourself going back to the fridge for another sliver. Or the mood will be right and you'll be sitting around the fire with friends and you'll pour a second glass. And there is nothing wrong with either. But you would just like to be someone with perfect control, and you aren't.

That is how a rant begins. You just lose a little control after being pent up for a bit and you let her go. You let her rip. I can still see my father, well actually hear him, going on and on about someone or something that had gotten on his very last nerve. I have ranting in my DNA. I see threads of it throughout my family on my fathers' side. Love them all but there are times I too have replayed folding my towels in my mind while they fiercely told me their perspective on religion, politics, or the kid next door.

And yet I still catch myself doing the same. Save me. Save my friends. Let me hear myself. Shut me up. For the love and honour of the saints, shut up. That's what I told myself as I went to bed last night. I prayed I would be quiet and listen. Or at least be more quiet and listen more. Only so much can be expected.

Listeners are so lovely. Saints themselves really. I think St Francis of Assisi would have been a lovely friend. Just standing there in his brown robe feeding all the birds while you got everything off your chest and yakked furiously away. And then when you were done he'd take his thumb and make a little cross on the top of your forehead and you'd feel so much better. And he'd pat you on the back and send you off on your way. And when you were gone the birds would be all relieved and sing even more sweetly than usual.

So some days I need that friend who'll listen, and lucky me I have them. And sometimes I can be the catcher for their rants too. I know I owe them.

Today is a new day though, petitions have been made that I may listen more and talk less. Probably by others as well as myself. And so I will begin again. Free from all the pent up yak yak of yesterday. Ready to receive rather than deliver. We can hope. Sweet hope.