In the quiet of my house last evening I thought of the variety of folks in my life.  The dog looked at me at one point and turned her head slightly to the left.  Yes, yes, I know, I said, outloud, to no one, and walked through the kitchen to open the back door for her.

I spouted with a mild level of fury at a blatant due process violation yesterday, sputtering indignantly at an administrative agency’s arbitrary policies.  I guess that’s “complaining” but it’s my job.  Otherwise, I’ve managed to stay the course.

But I listened to someone belly-ache for a half an hour the other week and wore a genuine smile the whole time.  Settling in my chair, I raised my coffee cup and kept the person’s gaze.  She gestured with her own cup, brown drops splattering on the table.  Her voice rose; her forehead pinched.  I sat and let her words roll over me.

I’m not complaining about complaining.  I understand not everyone travels the same path.  I hope my friend felt better for her tirade.  As for myself, I walked away from the encounter with a deeper understanding of her unhappiness.

It’s the eighth day of the twenty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.