I know that the wild beating of my heart does not threaten me and yet, I find it annoying.
But I scan through the news and think: You can handle a little tachycardia, girlfriend.
Mother used to say, “There but for the grace of God. . .”. The sentence dangled; we knew this meant that regardless of what we suffer, others endure worse. I turned this into my own personal sayings: “On a scale of Nirvana to Bosnia, I’m somewhere in between”, I would tell people, back in the day when Bosnia was the scariest place in American news. Back before 9/11; before Columbine, Charleston, Orlando.
People ask, “How are you today?” and though I might not say, “Blessed and taken care of,” I acknowledge: I woke up this morning, which is more than some people can say.
I squint through inadequate spectacles to see my words on the screen. I think: Inadequate, but tri-focals; a year old but only a year old; on my face, with a case, don’t complain. Life is not a competition, but if it were, I would certainly not be in last place. With all my trials, and all my failures, and all my sadness, I am still somewhere in the middle, chugging along, with Bandaids on my blisters and blood flowing through my veins, sweat on my brow, an extra five pounds around my waist. I’m huffing and puffing with wildly beating heart, Don’t be still, my heart, don’t be still.
It’s the twenty-first day of the thirtieth month of My Year Without Complaining. Here I am people. Alive. Alive. Life continues.