The mother of my children, who died thirty-three years ago, would have had
a birthday today had she lived. Both my daughters are now older than their
mother ever was.
This day which started with the brightest of all possible blue skies has
turned into an occluded afternoon, the sky a dome of grey with not a spot of
blue showing through.
Sometimes we feel as though our lives have clouded over, never to see the
sunlight of joy again. This is not the case, for just as these clouds above me
now will lift or drift off to another realm, the feelings we hold in our hearts
will be assuaged and there will again be blue skies.
Living in a constant state of euphoria would be no more desirable than
living in a constant state of dolor. Neither is natural.
I had an acquaintance once whose every moment seemed to be filled with
joy. No one knew the pain he bore within. Now, he was either a great actor, or
a total hypocrite. You be the judge. There are those who will say that for him
to “let it all out” is the only way in which he could find true happiness.
Others might say that his actions are heroic, for he does not dump his ills on
everyone with whom he comes in contact.
Of course, we have all known someone who cannot corner us quickly enough in
order to tell us the panoply of woes with which he is encumbered. And we cannot
get around a corner quickly enough to avoid him. So much for “letting it all
out.”
I overheard a conversation a few years ago in which one of the participants
was told that her daughter had made the trip home safely. She said, “Oh, dear!
I forgot to worry about that.”
Were I inclined to “worry” I should be quite good at it, for I come from a
long line of worriers. I have yet to observe that the worries of these dear
ancestors ever accomplished anything in terms of “fixing” or alleviating a
situation. But they loved to worry. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil
thereof.” It is indeed totally unnecessary to borrow trouble. Everyone has an
adequate supply of his own.
My Beloved Beautiful has gone in search of a dentist nearby, for in
consuming a bite of candy which was a loving gift from a friend, said candy
knocked a crown off. No, really. She fished into her mouth, laid the beautiful
piece of porcelain or acrylic, or whatever the material is these days, on the
table. “And,” she said, “That was a thousand bucks.”
We never know what our “gifts” may do for another. Nor do we know what the
gifts we receive may do for us. Beware of friends bearing gifts.
If you draw anything useful from this, you are my guest. If you don’t,
well I can’t help how you spend your time.
Disclaimer: This is a Joycean endeavor. Flow of consciousness sort of
thing, you know. Sometimes getting into someone’s head isn’t all it’s cracked
up to be. And just so you know, I sort of feel that way about Joyce.
