A lot happened yesterday regarding which I could complain, were I complaining.  I could also list all of the things about which I’m not going to complain, and the litany would very much resemble complaining tinged with self-righteousness.

But I’m going to do neither of those.

I sit here reflecting on the four or five glimmers of light which broke through yesterday’s clouds.

One ray shone from someone whom I know would not want accolade or mention, and who in fact would prefer that I tender neither.  So I will let that stand unnamed though it might be the brightest of the bright moments in  my yesterday.  I’ll just say: Thank you.

Another came in the form of a huge hug from a man who taught me a lot about law and living, and who called me “daughter” last night as he enfolded me in his embrace.  Later, a young man with whom I’m connected through the first walked me to my car so I would be safe.  En route, he thanked me for acts that cost me nothing in service to the Waldo Brookside Rotary Club to which we both belong.  Thank you, Tim Emerson: You treat this grumpy old lady with decency and kindness beyond any moral obligation.

I drove home in a light rain.  Halfway through the center of Brookside, I noticed a sodden piece of paper swiping across the glass stuck to my windshield wiper.  My heart sank to the pit of my stomach.  You know what a note on your car means — someone backed into it in the parking lot.

The penned telephone number had survived the rain.  I called it; I reached voice mail.  But in moments, an actual person — a law student, no less — called back and acknowledged having scraped my car.  “We will make this right,” she promised.  “We will pay for any necessary repair.”

I let the dog into the house just before the start of the eighth inning of the second game of the Kansas City Royals v. the New York Mets World Series.  As the dog settled into her bed, she cast one suspicious eye towards me, no doubt because I had not returned home until ten o’clock, well into the cold autumn rain’s drenching of the backyard.  You’ve got a house out there, you know, I told her, as I switched on the television.

I waited for the picture, which, like Godot, never came.  A half-hour later, Chris in the Idaho office of Google Fiber reported on the game for me from the television in their call center headquarters, after concluding that my Google Fiber storage box had died.  Look on the bright side, he encouraged me.  At least we’re winning.

Indeed.  The clouds might crouch over me as I rise each day, but the sun pushes its beams through their greyness.  That might not seem like much goodness to some, but I’m not complaining.