In Which I Might Yet Live

As a child I did not embrace the inevitability of happiness.  I never perceived myself as the Cinderella type.  I accepted that if I ran from a ball, I would trip and tumble over my shoes.  Buttons would pop and scatter.  Silk scarves would flutter skyward.  Tucking my scarlet face into my trembling hands, I’d stagger home.  A whipping for disobedience awaited.  The prince would shake his head at the folly of the peasants and sail at dawn for a majestic kingdom with its delicate princess.  My little friends would gather round, chirping their sympathy, weaving wreaths of wilting roses to console me.

Most of my life went much like that fractured fairy tale.  Flashes of relief did light the dreary corners.  While I didn’t get the picket fence, the perfect marriage, or the ten children, my son never disappointed me.  I got to help a few people along the way.  I hosted some amazing art shows.  I collected a stellar portfolio of friends, even if most of them matriculate on distant paths.  I determined to allow myself the comfort of contentment.

The last five years changed my perspective.  I realized that I had not yet lived, because I had never been the first car in line behind the gate slowly closing for the lifting of a drawbridge.  I had not yet lived, because I had never strained to catch a glimpse of egrets resting on the branches of a tree in the quiet air of a sleeping marina.  I had not yet lived, because I had still to pull into a swathe of pear trees to watch the sun set over a mountain. I had not yet lived, because I had never tightened my lens to see a sweep of snow on that same peak, a lady who watches over us with her perennial grace.

A few years before I moved to California, a woman of my casual acquaintance started calling herself a “bright sider”.  The sound of that appealed to me.  I tried to wear that label for a while, but eventually it seemed too artificial.  But the deeper into the California Delta my roots dig, the more possible happiness seems.  The ocean will always draw me; and by and by, I hope to rest in the comfort of her lullaby.  In the meantime, though, I have a life, and I might yet come to live it.  As I stopped to photograph those egrets this morning, one of them looked right through my windshield.  I swear to you, he winked at me, before turning to strike a steady pose.

It’s the second day of the one-hundred and eleventh month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

Thank you for reading my blog.  If you have not yet purchased my book and wish to do so, February will be a good month as it’s the first month in my new campaign to raise money for worthy causes.  A percentage of all sales for the rest of 2023 will be donated to nonprofits, with a different charity chosen each month. 

Check out my website to learn about this month’s cause

If you have purchased my book, please consider visiting my shop and leaving a review. 

Thank you. 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *