At my weekly Rotary meeting, several folks greeted me by asking how I fared.  I can’t complain, I told each of them.  I then explained why.

I can’t complain because I’ve committed to living complaint-free.  They each laughed, at first; then got out their smart phones to enter “myyearwithoutcomplaining.com” into their browsers.  Wow, said one of them.  You weren’t kidding.

I’m not yet completely deft at not-complaining.  I find myself back-pedaling in little speeches to people who have not quite met my expectations.  Expectations!  Letting go of “expectations” in my inter-personal relationships heads the list of not-yet-there.

Yesterday, a judge remarked on my attitude by suggesting that his 23-year-old son might benefit from reading my blog.  Heck, I benefit from reading my blog!  I smile; I chuckle; I remind myself of each stepping stone in the road that I’ve chosen to walk.

If you’re here within the sound of my voice, know this:

Surrendering complaint does not mean “settling” for short-shrift.  I got on the phone yesterday and had a heartfelt dialogue with the supervisor of the optical department of my opthalmologist’s office.  She understood my concerns without my having to use harsh language.  I do backslide, but I hear the whine in my voice and the judgment in my words, and I change the way I speak.  I have not perfected this but I have not ceased trying.

I’ve been told that I’m not an “easy” person.  That might be so.  I am passionate.  I’ve had to slog my way through piles of adversity.  My hard edges softened only late in life.  I’m not complaining, because where there is life, there is room for change.

Happy Friday, my friends.  Today is the 6th Annual Suite 100 Holiday Open House, 5:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m., 4010 Washington, Suite 100, KC MO.  If you’re in KC, please join us!  We have  a  Harvester’s Food Pantry collection barrel on site, so consider bringing a nonperishable food item for the cause.  Put on a smile!  We’ve lovely art to view by photographers Anya Ivantseva and Albane-Ruiz-Campagn.  Good food, good friends, wine poured by Waldo Brookside Rotarians with a tip jar for the charitable efforts of my Rotary Club — all await you @ Suite 100!

Have a joyful weekend, wherever you are, whatever you do. Be well.

The party starts in our lobby, today at 5:00 p.m.!

The senseless shootings occurring every day in America and periodically around the world remind me of a dreadful evening in which two people died and vivid images indelibly stamped themselves on my psyche.

20 March 1981.  Pain in my side had increased throughout the day.  I finally called a friend who took me to KU.  Hours later, SWAT teams ushered each of us  to the parking garage.  When I finally got back to my apartment, I called my boyfriend in St. Louis, grabbed a bottle of scotch, and curled under a blanket, beneath my dining room table, shuddering, wakeful, still terrified.

I was lucky.  The first person killed that night stood in a hallway not ten feet from me.  I heard and felt the blast; I froze, watched as he fell, and then bolted around the corner to an eerily silent waiting room.  When I realized my reflection could be seen in a window, I darted into an examining room and shoved a table in front of the door.  I huddled in a corner until police demanded that I exit; even then, terrified, suspicious, I remained until my friend’s voice assured me that I could safely exit.

Assault rifles in the hands of police greeted me and I swear to you, I wet my pants at that moment.

A group of us crowded into one room then, for hours, waiting to be released.   A baby cried.  A doctor worked on charts, ignoring the tears trailing down his face.  He had seen horror; worse, he had seen horror visited on a colleague and a patient’s mother.

On the radio today, Scott Simon asked:  Does time heal these wounds?  

Does time heal any wounds?  I submit that it does not.  I still startle when a car backfires.  It took me years to be able to sleep in the dark again.  I cannot imagine how the families of those killed in California yesterday feel, but I know how I felt after experiencing some fraction of the horror that we see on the news every day in this country.

And now, for the tie-in: How comes this subject to a blog about not complaining?  Easy enough to explain — seeing the images of these horrific shootings, knowing how close I came to being a victim 34 years ago, how can I not be joyful?

My mother annoyed us by her repeated refrain that “God only gives you as much as He thinks you can bear, and evidently He thinks that you’re pretty strong”.  Well, that might be so.  The things that I have seen and borne might prove God’s regard for my resilience.  And time might have healed the wounds which those events levied on me; or perhaps there’s just a veneer of scab over those wounds.  But the life that I have led and the ugliness which I have felt and seen, could have made me cynical.  Inexplicably, I grow less and less unhappy each day.

I could be angry; I could be bitter; I could be afraid.  I could despise humanity in general, and certain individuals in particular.   Instead, I choose joy; I choose hope; I choose to let happiness shine from within me.

Read the Kansas Supreme Court opinion in the Bradley Boan case HERE.

A couple of decades ago, I had a gig as local counsel for the private prison company which managed — and injured — a bunch of Missouri prison inmates housed in Brazoria County, Texas.  As the court proceedings against my client progressed, my job became more about obfuscation than litigation.  I played by the rules but stonewalled while the insurance company negotiated a settlement.

During a teleconference involving about fifteen attorneys, one frustrated plaintiff’s lawyer snapped at me, Ms. Corley, if you don’t give me what I want, I will file a motion against you PERSONALLY.

I laughed.  Sir, I replied.  I’ve been shot at, run over, raped, robbed, and left for good.  I think I can handle a sanctions motion.

I meant it.  Each of those things had happened to me, and I had gotten through them.  But I mention this not to brag about my ability to survive.

I realized on the way home tonight that I have no capacity for hate.

I did not hate the man who shot at me, though if I had been a family member of the two people whom he killed, I might be tempted.  I shivered in the dark for years afterward, reliving the terror of that night.  Still, I could not hate him.

I don’t hate Maher Altalathina, the self-styled Persian who ran over me on 09 February 1982.  Technically, he didn’t “run over” me.  He hit me, causing me to fly three stories into the air, following which I landed on his hood, went through his windshield, and soared 82-1/2 feet forward, slamming to a halt on the street.  I didn’t hate him, though he had no insurance and tried to get me to sign a hand-scrawled release in the emergency room.

I don’t hate the St. Louis cop who raped me in an empty apartment in a complex which he managed as an off-duty job; nor the thug who stuck a hard metal object in my side and tried to take my pocketbook on a cold St. Louis day when my car broke down.

I won’t list the persons who left me for good over the years; but I’ll swear this:  I don’t hate them, either.

I have no capacity for hatred.  I still get perturbed, even agitated.  I don’t know that I can boil as far as anger.

My passion endures.  I won’t hesitate to rebel against injustice. I sat mesmerized, cheeks wet with tears, as the pictures of those killed in Paris scrolled  by on the screen.   But  I cannot — I will not — let the poison of hatred course through my veins.  I am shed of it.  Hatred has no place in my heart.

Surround yourself with objects and people that bring happiness to you, if you feel the least bit tempted to hate.  I share with you a glimpse into the loveliness in my home, the photos and mementos of a life with no regret.

Photos of people whom I love adorn the piano given to me to remember my mother-in-law Joanna.

A print from Billy McNamara reminds me of a serene, lovely untamed land in which I lived. Beneath it, more photos of people whom I hold dear.

Angels; souvenirs collected by my favorite curmudgeon and his bride; a bamboo from World’s Window; a piece of pottery made by the deft, gentle hands of a friend.

When I started “My Year Without Complaining”, I wanted to go 365 days without uttering one word of complaint.

Ha.

I didn’t make it past the first month.  My quest morphed into a plan to learn what constitutes complaint and change my way of living to abandon it.  I faced personal challenges that detracted from my mission but I also found champions and helpers along the way.

Today is the first day of the twenty-fourth month of My Year Without Complaining.  I have not eradicated complaining from my life, but I have come very far.  By the end of this month, I will decide whether to keep blogging about my journey to joy; or change the concept and direction of this blog.

Thank you, my friends and faithful readers, for making this voyage with me.  In the last twenty-three months, I have learned to value fidelity.  I know that having someone stand by you means more than having someone admire you.  Faithfulness counts more than material wealth.  I strive to be as steadfast in my loyalty to you as you are to me — and not just when it is easy — not just when it is convenient.  A port in the storm is still a port; when the storm passes, I will not sail away, but stay to gather the flotsam from the shoreline and make the place beautiful after the ravages of the hurricane.

In this twenty-three-month slog down the crooked cobblestones of my life, I have learned that “not complaining” translates to “living a positive life”.  I can, and do, speak when I see abuse — of me, of people whom I love, of my clients, of strangers by society.  But one can speak without complaining.

I appreciate those who read this blog  to follow my evolution. I especially appreciate those who tell me that something which I have experienced speaks to them.  I blog for two reasons:  First, to hold myself accountable; and second, so that someone else might benefit from the lessons that I learn.

If you’re reading this, and you have something to share with the rest of us, would you consider posting a comment?  Have you tried to live complaint-free?  And succeeded?  Have you decided to embrace joy?  What has been your experience?

I would like to hear from others on this path.  It can be lonely sometimes.

Be well, my friends.  Happy December!

My son and our Saturday brunch company had a lively conversation about carbonara sauce.

I have heard this term used on the Food Network but had no idea what it meant.  I distinctly recall Scott Conant saying, Oh, I see eggs, we’re getting carbonara sauce!  So I could smile, nod, and act informed when the four or five others at the table described the deliciousness of their carbonaras.

But I asked my son and he explained:  Egg over hot pasta; the heat from the pasta cooks the egg.

Simple enough, right?  So I tried it tonight and sent my son a photo.  Sweet, came the answering text.  But you have to put pepper in it.

Pepper?  Did somebody at brunch say anything about pepper?  I strained to recall.  The next text had me laughing:

Carbon = black = pepper.

Oh. Duh.

I’m not complaining, though.  It actually tasted all right.  A little bland, maybe.  And how often does your twenty-four-year-old son get to give you both a language lesson and a cooking lesson?

Sweet.

Don’t get too excited thinking that I ate a huge plate of leftover cranberries, green bean casserole, and pasta for dinner. I always eat on salad plates!

For Chef John’s carbonara recipe, click HERE.