The Cocklebur of Criticism

“There they go boys! Don’t stop now!”

The raspy, tenor voice of my Uncle George called to me from the edge of the corn field.

I heard him, but I sure couldn’t see him. My cousin, Anthony, and I were in the thickest cane break and patch of brambles that ever grew along the banks of the Cumberland River where my uncle’s farm lay.

Anthony and I were sixteen years old and in hog heaven. We were quail hunting with our Uncle George — a thrill and a privilege for us both.

Growing up, I had been mesmerized when he would spin one of his hunting tales to the family. To be on a hunt with him was a dream come true.

One of my uncle’s traits I forgot that day was he was a huge practical joker. Whether friend or family, young or old, you were an eligible target.

I had started out that bitterly cold Christmas-Day hunt with layers of warm clothes. But after a couple of hours hunting, I was hot and sweaty. Layer by layer I stripped off a hunting coat, a jacket, and a sweatshirt, stuffing them into my hunting vest’s game pouch, until I was down to a t-shirt and pull-over sweater I’d received that morning as a Christmas gift.

Time after time Uncle George’s hunting dog pointed a covey of quail around the edges of the grain fields, and each time the birds were flushed they flew like F-16s toward the next available patch of thick cover. When the dog pointed on the edge of the canebrake, guess who got sent in to flush the birds. Me and Anthony!

I was out of breath, with the Cumberland River somewhere on my left and Uncle George on my right, walking the edge of the field. Even if I’d seen a quail, the brush was so thick I couldn’t have lifted my gun to shoot!

I am not Bre’r Fox, and I was not born and raised in a briar patch.

At the sound of snapping twigs and breaking brush behind me, I turned to see Anthony a few feet away. He was muttering under his breath and his face was as red as a cherry.

Gasping for breath, he asked, “Have you seen any birds?”

“Are you kidding?” I replied. “I can’t see five feet in front of me!”

“Then let’s get out of here!”

Just then Uncle George called, “The dog is pointed just ahead of you boys. Y’all just keep heading in the same direction. You’re nearly there.”

A shot of adrenalin coursed through our veins, and we plunged ahead, ignoring the pain of blackberry vines and briars tearing our hands and piercing our hunting pants.

Hours later, as the sun eased toward the western horizon, Anthony and I dragged our feet and joined Uncle George at his pickup truck.

The dog’s tongue was hanging so far out of his mouth it made me touch my mouth to be sure my tongue wasn’t resting on my chest.

Showing no signs of fatigue, Uncle George grinned broadly. “You boys did good today. You just couldn’t get a good open shot at those birds.” Pointing at my sweater, he added, “But you got a good load of cockleburs and beggar lice.”

So intent had I been on keeping up with Uncle George and the dog, I hadn’t paid any attention to myself. I looked down at my brand new Christmas sweater and saw it was completely covered with cockleburs and beggar lice.

Laughing out loud, Uncle George said, “If we’d been hunting cockleburs, I think you’d have caught more than the limit!”

Frankly, I was too tired to care and gave him a tired smile while I put my gun in the truck.

When we got back to the big house in Vernon where all the families are gathered, I had to endure the humiliation of walking into the crowded living room wearing my newly decorated sweater. Laughter and catcalls rang out, and I suddenly realized I’d been on the bad end of one of Uncle George’s practical jokes. More than likely there never were any quail. He just kept me and Anthony thinking there were and plunging us into the thickest places he could find.

Traveling home to Tennessee the next day, mother made it clear I would restore my sweater to its original beauty. For the next several nights I pulled so many cockleburs and beggar lice off the sweater that the tips of my fingers were raw and sore by the time I finished.

Not willing to let my uncle have the last laugh, I filled a fair-sized box with the cockleburs and mailed them back to him with a note of apology for taking such fine seeds away from him. (He had a good laugh out of that.)

Let me ask you a question.

Have you ever received a negative comment or criticism that got stuck in your head? The kinds of things said to us by spouses, children, parents, coworkers, supervisors, teachers, friends (and the list goes on).

I read somewhere that it takes thirteen compliments to overcome the effects of one criticism. For me, the ratio is more like 130 to 1, rather than 13 to 1.

Criticisms stick in our brain like cockleburs and beggar lice. They latch on and won’t let go! We obsess over them, lose sleep over them, cry over them, worry about them, become depressed with them, develop anxiety over them, get angry about them, become filled with self-doubt because of them (and that list goes on and on, too).

So how do we get the cockleburs and beggar lice of criticism to relinquish control our mind?

Here are five suggestions:

• Sit with the criticism for a few minutes to see if there is any element of truth in it. Is there something that you can learn that will make you a better person? Can it prompt you to make some necessary change? If so, be thankful for the criticism and get busy.
• Find a context for the comment. What was going on with the person who made the criticism? What does it say about them that they found this particular fault with you? Are they an unhappy, fault-finding person? If so, you shouldn’t be surprised they criticized you.
• Take several slow, diaphragmatic breaths. This will help ease your stomach and reduce your nervousness.
• As soon as you hear that criticism echoing in your head, smile. (I know that sounds silly but give it a try.) What we do with our body has a profound impact on how we feel and think.
• Immediately tell yourself five things you do well (and smile even bigger). This is not about being conceited; it’s about being honest with yourself and realizing you do have value and talent.
  There’s no way to avoid criticism, but there is a way to limit its power over our happiness

* Taken from The Wit and Wisdom of David Johnson, Volume 1: I Didn’t Know Donkeys Could Laugh.