Three hours ago, I wrote a blog entry in my head.

In it, I revisited my first published essay, “The Virtues of  Pain”.  I rewrote the essay and titled it, “The Politics of Pain”.  I don’t recall the first one word-for-word as I wrote it 45 years ago.  The one I composed this morning seemed bloody brilliant.

But then I had only had three hours of sleep.

I finally drifted back to something resembling unconsciousness at about 6:00 a.m.  The alarm sounded from my cell phone at 7.  The hour of sleep did nothing for my disposition but managed to vaporize the blog entry that I had composed in the dark of the bedroom, while trying to recall why I weaned myself from prescription painkillers two years ago.

But here I am:  awake, cheerful, coffee at my side.  It’s Christmas Eve.  The furnace hums; the dog occasionally sighs but otherwise rests comfortably on her bed under the window.  In an hour or so, the prodigal son and I will help deliver Meals on Wheels and then have lunch with my stepson.  Today is the first of four days of celebration.  How can I not be joyful?

Seven days left in the twenty-fourth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

My son’s first Christmas ornament. It plays “Silent Night”.