I’ve reached the point in My Year Without Complaining where I expected that life would be all roses and bliss.  It’s not; but I’m not complaining.

I’ve had a few personal setbacks that don’t bear discussing but which would make good material if I ever decide to take up comedy.  All the good jokes are already taken, though; so I’m shelving that thought in favor of saving a discussion of these little roadblocks  for my memoirs, to be written at a time when I’m wearing purple and a red hat that doesn’t go, if you catch my drift.  In the meantime, I’m scribbling here, almost as a small child might from her place on a stool in front of a chalk board:  “I promise never to complain again…I promise never to complain again…” a hundred times, each line more wildly written than the one before it.

I’ve learned a lot in six months.  For one thing, when one embarks on a personal quest for self-improvement, blogging about it might not be the best idea.  Those who read one’s blog about an undertaking like this divide themselves into two camps.  It’s important to understand each faction and their potential impact on your mission.

The first group remains steadfastly disbelieving.  That bunch theorizes, usually loudly but sometimes in little nagging whispers, that any appearance of change represents an attempt on your part to fool all of the people all the time.  This group tends to act the role of a humongous wet blanket thrown over the passion of your resolve.

Avoid these people, should you find yourself in my position.

The second group, though, more than compensates for your detractors.  This group not only believes in what you’re trying to do, but encourages you, daily, with the most sincere and often lofty praise.  These people shower you with compliments, sincerely meant and deftly phrased.  They seem to know when you’re at your most discouraged, and pop by, comment-on-your-blog-wise, with just the right antidote for your temporary loss of belief in the possibility of success.

Seek these people out!  In addition to giving you the shot of B-12 that you need at the precise moment of your greatest need, these people shine their lovely lanterns on all the darkest corners of your personal quagmire of self-doubt, and show you the most phenomenal aspects of yourself.

I have supporters like that second group.  They know who they are; and you might, too, if you regularly read this blog.  You’ll see their posts.  To name just a few:  Cindy Cieplik, Linda Overton, Kati Behan Bishop, Katrina Taggart, Pat Reynolds, Trini Horsford Pelligrino, and Marcella Womack all stop by several times a week with words of joyfulness.  Thank you — and thanks to everyone who reads, whether you comment or not, whether I know you read or not.  Your love and support keeps me moving forward, day after day, “putting my best foot forward”, as my Nana would always tell me to do.

Yesterday I saw my neurologist, and among other things, he mentioned, as he does every year, that I should consider using a “walking aide”, his euphemism for a cane.  I laughed, and told him that I appreciated his advice but that I already had two legs which didn’t communicate with my brain and never quite managed to coordinate that third mindless stick.  He briefly put his hand on my arm and smiled.  “You just keep going, Corinne; that’s really good to see.”  And in that moment, I heard my mother’s voice giving me the best advice a child with “a walking problem” could ever have received:  “If you walk every day of your life, you’ll walk every day of your life.”

And so, Mom, here I am:  still walking.  Approaching six months in; and heading for the downhill stretch.