The world turned last night, and autumn falls heavy on my home this morning.  Through the open bedroom window, crisp delicious air flows.  When I come downstairs, the dog skitters across the kitchen floor in her eagerness to dart outside and chase the wind.  I take my coffee out onto the porch and just breathe, filling my body with the heady  fragrance of the wild mock Rose of Sharon which overtakes my side-yard each fall.

Winter reminds me of everything I hate about myself, my failures and the dankness of  regret lurking below the pleasant veneer of my daily mask.  But just before the cold settles on the aging den in which I live, delicious days of autumn lure me onto the porch.  Wrapped in my shawl, I feel protected, a little girl under the eiderdown hand-stitched by her old grey granny.  I close my eyes, rock, and listen to the frantic barking from the side yard.  The dog has unearthed something intriguing, perhaps cornered a critter, or spied a threatening pile of leaves.  I pay her no heed for the moment, sipping my coffee, and delaying the time when I will have to get ready for work.

I didn’t build my world alone.  At every turn, in every crisis, someone came forward to rescue me.  For every painful stumble, I had a score of hands reaching to pull me from the pavement.  Here in the lingering darkness, as dawn breaks, I let their ghosts gather around me.  In this moment, I am content.  Any complaint to which I might give voice lies still within my breast.

It’s the fourth day of the thirty-fourth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.