Through this entire journey to learn to live more joyfully,  I have received commentary, private and public, about myself.  The public commentary largely takes the form of messages from my personal fan club and cheering section.  These folks have seen me at my worst and my best and love me anyway.  Their fierce loyalty sustains me in my worst times and invigorates me when I need a jolt of energy.

Privately people feel more free to suggest ways that I have failed in my personal quest for improvement or in my conduct before I began this increasingly longer year without complaining.  Those people also give me valuable feedback, pointing out shortcomings which still require attention, moments of weakness when I conduct myself in less than loving ways, behavior which creates a wall between myself and others.

I need both groups, though truth be told, those who know my faults and abide with me despite them give me greater comfort.  I remain a work in progress, and I expect the gathering at my unveiling to be crowded.  Both factions will have a place at the table, though I admit that the seats nearest me will be occupied by the former group.  I’ll mingle with everyone — touching the shoulders of my harshest critics, thanking them for mincing no words and enabling me to see with unrelenting clarity the failings which require my closest attention.

I’ve been told that my best writing occurs when I write about other people, and I’ve tried to do that in these posts — when I observe joy, and human kindness, and precious moments that fit within my theme of living without complaint.  But I intend this blog as a chronicle of my path to joyfulness, and so, from time to time, I have to talk about the roadblocks which I encounter along with the efforts I make to overcome them.

I’ve never considered myself much of a poet, but occasionally I recall verses that I’ve written and think:  Ah, maybe that fits just — here.  This morning as I contemplated some of the more painful confrontations that this process has occasioned, I remembered a poem that I wrote while I was in grad school.  And so, please, indulge me. I can’t recall its title, but I do know that I wrote this poem in 1978, on the wall of an apartment where I lived in St. Louis.  Its words suggest to me that I’ve been treading water for forty years.  I hope I’m making progress now.

If I’m not real
behind this mask
which binds my mind
and sets my task
then those who work
on my behalf
should give in with
a weary laugh.
But if I’m real
it’s also true
that loyal friends
have much to rue.