3 Parables Involving 2 Daughters

True-life stories of little happenings within my family that seem to point to larger ideas:

1. Swirl Cookies

It was Christmas not that long ago. My two daughters were baking cookies. They make sugar cookies and gingerbread cookies, each shaped using cookie cutters that come out once per year, each decorated with frosting and candies. And then, of course, there is some leftover dough. With this remaining dough, in the absence of anything better to do, they smash each of the two types of dough into one last big pancake, place one flat cake on top of the other, roll the two dough cakes together into one cylinder, and then they slice the cylinder into discs that make an additional batch of cookies.

And everyone loves them! They have come to be called swirl cookies. They are visually interesting — two types of cookie coiled together. They taste interesting for the same reason, the interlocking flavors. These cookies could only come about this way, as an after-project following the “main” cookies. Otherwise, why would anyone set out to make two different and separate types of dough, only to smash them together into one? Yet the swirl cookies are the unforeseen payoff of the cookie-making endeavor, to the point that now some dough is made solely for swirl cookie production.

Question: How far do you need to get with the thing you think you are doing before you discover the big thing you are actually doing?

2. Muddy and Icy Trails

With one of my daughters, I share hikes. We are working through a list of hikes in our area —whenever we can, we go to another hike on the list. “Whenever we can” gets lean during busy times, so seizing opportunity means we sometimes hike in sub-perfect conditions. Recently, we took to one trail just after rains, only to discover the trail was deeply muddy — each step took forethought to keep from sinking in; the three or so miles we had planned would be a long way. I seriously proposed we consider giving up and not doing the hike that day.

But we kept going. And we discovered a rhythm of striding through and around the muddy stretches, as well as the peace of walking in muddy shoes once you accept you have muddy shoes. After a time, and I do not know at what moment that time came, we were walking briskly and happily without a care about the muddy trail.

With my other daughter, we are not sharing a hike adventure, but we have a more established and consistent weekly appointment to take a long walk. Recently, during a winter day, temperatures had risen then dropped, so that the snow on the walking path had briefly liquefied then turned to ice — each step took forethought to keep from slipping; we would have to proceed more slowly than expected. I seriously proposed we abandon our walk that day.

But we kept going. And we discovered that the way was easy if we just walked slowly enough to avoid the slippery spots. We simply reduced the distance we expected to walk before turning back.

Question: When you resist the way before you, and want to back out, is this because the way is not right, or not a fit with your plan? Maybe. Or is it instead because you fail to account for your capacity to adapt? Or is it that you do not see the extent to which your plan can adjust, and still be good?

3. The Worn-Out Recliners

We have a room in our house called “the quiet room.” It features two matching recliners for quiet pursuits such as reading, thinking, and (alas) doomscrolling. I sit in this room at least once per day, in the recliner nearer to the window. One of my daughters I have been mentioning here was away at college, but returned after graduating, and she has been sitting in the recliner farther from the window.

The chair near the window began to crack and peel in its faux leather surface. The other chair, its twin, did not. I believed the window to be the culprit. Specifically, the sunlight — and I faulted myself. I thought: There is something I should have known about treating these chairs to protect them. I even purchased a bottle of protective treatment when I bought the chairs, which I never used. In this, as in so many other things, I thought, I am a poor homeowner. Other, more responsible people must know how to care for their furniture better, how to protect faux-leather chairs from sunlight.

Then my college daughter came home. The chair out of reach of the sunlight began to wear out, too. It wore even more than the first one!

The time came when we had to replace these chairs. They looked terrible. My wife and I went chair shopping. And the salesperson at the furniture store told us something interesting: The material our chairs were covered in (it was the same furniture store — he could see our chairs in the computer) is not sold anymore. That material had proven to be too prone to wear. My chair near the window had worn first not because of the window, but because I sat in it more. The other chair wore as soon as it started to get more use. A lack of protection against sunlight had nothing to do with what happened. The store confirmed: These chairs were unfortunately known to let down their owners. I had not let down the chairs.

Question: Not everything that fails you, or fails near you, is evidence of your personal failure. What are you ashamed of, or faulting yourself for, that is not actually your fault?