I did not start this blog to debate or lament political views or happenings.  In blogging here, I strive to hold myself accountable for a decision which I made in the fall of 2013 after the death of my mother-in-law.  I decided that I would spend 2014 attempting to matriculate through each day without voicing complaint.

I did not make it through that year, so I’ve continued.  November 2016 marks the thirty-fifth month since I began my journey.  Along the way, I’ve formed opinions about what constitutes complaint, including words both direct and oblique; facial expressions; and actions.  The bark, the eyebrow, and the shrug.  The litany of that which I endure.  Even the  long period of silence punctuated by nothing more than a barely audible sigh.

Last night, I met a man who described himself as a Libertarian.  I laughed.  I’ve heard that line from others.  He put his hand on my arm and said, “No, really.  Really.  Not just a Republican in disguise, but a true Libertarian.”   I listened as he described his views, while the music of the band played and the enlightened few stared at the television screen watching what we’d predicted come to pass.

After a few minutes, the man put down his wine glass and we parted company.  I went into the night and home to let my little dog outside.

But this is not a political blog, nor shall I fall into the trap of sideways complaint.  I sat down at my keyboard to share this: a glimpse at my America, the loveliness of human kind which never fails to give me hope.

I stood on line for two and a half hours to vote yesterday.  On  my arrival, I saw that no provision had been made for handicapped parking or ballot-casting.  I called the voter protection hotline.  Wihin a half hour, while I still waited, moving slowly towards the door, election judges came to begin the process of rectifying the Election Board’s oversight, though not before  I saw two cars pull away with disappointed voters.  Several hours later, I learned that more adjustments had been made, and that voting continued to be heavy at that polling place throughout the evening.

While I stood online, I snapped several photographs.  Scrolling through them in the darkness of my Central Standard bedroom this morning, I paused at a particular shot of the group of people who had navigated the steep hill to join the line after I had been waiting for close to an hour.  I could not help but smile.   I found my kinship in that photograph.  I stared at it for a long long time.  Then I struggled out of bed and went downstairs to start my day.

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