Blue Stripes

When we turned on the computer this morning, we were alarmed to find that all of the backgrounds - in Word documents, in Explorer windows, everything - had a hue of blue.  Tiny blue stripes throughout everything.  Restoring the system to a previous date did not fix the problem.  Adjusting the colors did not solve matters.  It is strange.  It renders it quite difficult to read what one has typed.  It is VERY ANNOYING INDEED.

We shall keep you posted on our attempts to resolve the issue.

Happy One: Road Trip

Entry one for Finding The Happy.

When Herself was a sophomore or a junior in college, she had her first ride on a motorcycle as a ride home from the house of a friend with whom she and a roommate had dinner.  Her friend was a relatively new acquaintance, and Herself did not know anything about his driving skills, so she was a tiny bit apprehensive, particularly given the seemingly small bike.  "Lean into the curves," was the sole instruction she recalls.  Since she usually walked around the campus, the roads were unfamiliar and suddenly alarming.  It was a brief trip, and rather frightening. 

She did not get on a motorcycle again for twenty-five years.     

Over a long weekend at the end of May of this year, Herself had an opportunity for her second ride.  She, the Offspring, Beloved Husband, and Cherished friend went out to dinner, and Cherished Friend provided her transportation on his motorcycle. It was a completely different experience. 

Herself was anxious, but far more in an anticipatory manner than in a nervous way. The bike was comfortable, the helmet reassuring. She was quite familiar with, and had great confidence in, Cherished Friend's driving skills, so she knew she was in good hands.  The road was clear and open. And for a brief time, everything else was erased save for the rush of the wind, the headlight in the dark, the speed.

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

That was happiness.

Finding The Happy

With gratitude to the introspective individual who inspired this writing.

When one is a child, happiness seems to come in giant doses.  Walking about at the fair with a sticky, giant wad of cotton candy; drawing on the driveway with chalk; climbing the tall, tall tree and sitting perched way up high in its branches - all these things were true happinesses.  Through the lens of time, we see whole hours, days even, of what seemed like unbridled joy and carefree delight in all the childhood things.

When one is an adult, happiness seems much more elusive. 

Adults are self-conscious; singed around the edges by the fires of social interactions over the years, they tread more gingerly, lest they be found to be foolish or criticism-worthy.  Also, adults have ongoing worries and responsibilities.  We fret:  Are the bills all paid?  Have I taken care of all the pieces of that project at work?  Do I need to see a doctor, or am I just experiencing the expected aches and pains of a person my age? What am I forgetting?  Where is my motivation? Should I have done that differently?  Was that a stupid or insensitive thing to say?

And larger concerns still:  Who is running in this local election in my community? Why are those two factions in that country still at war?  Why are there so many antibiotic-resistant germs?  What can I do about poverty, murder, rape, human suffering, destruction of the environment, endangered species? Is there any way to save the earth from eventual cataclysm?

The view is complex, and it is impossible to understand it in its entirety. And as we try to do so, we find it more difficult to see those flashes of happiness.  They are obscured, perhaps even deliberately hidden, by Life, and seem quite minuscule in comparison to the multiple mundane moments of every day.

Our mission now is to call the happy out into the open, so that we may gaze upon it and cherish it for what it is.  In the upcoming days, we will do our best to recount stories of happy that we have found.  Perhaps in reading about ours, you will remember and catch glimpses of your own happy as well.  

Healing Hand

Herself had a vivid dream last night.

I was lying down on my stomach on a couch or bed, propped up on my elbows, either fiddling with a book or holding some small project in my hands. My lower back hurt, as it does when I am awake. I was chatting about inconsequential things with a person whom I apparently knew well and with whom I was comfortable. The person was sitting off slightly behind me to my left, just out of my line of  vision.

I put my book or project down onto the floor and lay down flat, my head on my folded arms, my eyes closed. The person continued to talk quietly and pleasantly with me, and simultaneously reached out a hand and placed it flat on my back beneath my T-shirt, right over the place that hurt. The hand was warm and strong, but not heavy.  I felt my entire body relax under the hand, and the pain in my back  dissolved until it was just a whisper of itself.  It was a marvelous sensation. I rested quietly, listening to the melodic and soothing sound of the person's voice, and hoping the hand would remain on my skin until the pain dissipated completely.

Would that she could, awake, have that hand.

Not Ready

Yesterday, Herself's father provided Uncle S.'s phone number and requested that Herself give him a call.  The family is coming together to make sure Uncle S. has regular contact with people who care for him, as he begins to learn to move through the days without Aunt M.  Herself's siblings reached out to him over the past few days; it was Herself's turn.

She stared at the phone for some time before dialing.  What does one say to the newly grieving? She wishes she were closer to Uncle S. To be able to arrive on his doorstep, to bring food and to hold his hand and listen, would be so much simpler.  She resorted to the plain and simple truth:  "I'm calling to check on you and see how you're doing, and to let you know I'm thinking about you."

Her first thought, when Uncle S. spoke:  he sounds so very old.  Then again, he is nearly 88 years of age.

It was a short but warm call.  He is doing as well as can be expected; he said that he keeps busy during the day, but that the nights are difficult.  I imagine they must be.  Herself promised to call again next week, and to send him a few pictures she'd recently found from a family reunion several years ago.  Hopefully, they will provide him with some good remembrances.

Herself's mother is taking the loss of Aunt M. quite hard.  At 75, Mother is no longer young; within the past several years, her close friends of decades have lost husbands and have been diagnosed with life-threatening illnesses.  Mother has her own age-related health concerns - osteopenia and high blood pressure, among others.  Herself always suspects that Mother feels the spectre of The Grim Reaper hovering nearby, watching, waiting, just behind her. Herself does not know what to say to help Mother be less afraid.

Herself idly contemplates her own mortality, too.  She knows that statistically, the odds are good that she will continue to occupy her spot on this globe for a couple of decades more.  Nevertheless, she knows that all of us may be struck down at any time - when one's number is up, one's number is up.  She hopes that all the Offspring will be launched into adulthood before she shuffles off this mortal coil.  She is concerned about how they would manage, should something untoward happen to her.  And how would Beloved Husband fare? So many little ordinary things that Herself handles for all of them.  They would have to attend to the details themselves.

She thinks that perhaps she needs to write out more specific information for them to use in the case of her untimely demise:  these are the bills, this is when they are due, this is the online banking password, this is how to access the college funds, this is the phone number of the life insurance person, this is the contact information for the maid service and the pet-sitting service, this is what medicine you take when you have a cold, this is how the new fancy washing machine works.  Would instructions even help? Or is she deluding herself that they would even need such instructions?  They're intelligent people; they can figure things out.

Truth be told, she knows they'd probably get along just fine without her, though he hates the idea of them having to do so. It is her job -- and her pleasure -- to look after them. She does not want to leave the task unfinished.

She's written brief notes for all of her important people, and put the notes into envelopes to be distributed if necessary.  Yet written words fall so incredibly short of all she would like them to know.  How could half a dozen sentences be sufficient to tell them how unique and wonderful they are, and how much they have meant to her?  Impossible task.

She hopes that somehow, they know.

Flack

This morning, we are listening to Roberta Flack: Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow, If Ever I See You Again, Jesse, and my personal favorite, Killing Me Softly. Sometimes, only Roberta Flack will do.

Image gratefully found at http://robertaflack.com/index.php.

Moon Over Mountain

These are my choices
This is the bed I have made
The path I've chosen

Step by step, each day
Delights and difficulties
The ebb and the flow

I do what I must
I am saved by laughter, love,
Kindness and friendship

Though I am alone
I am not; you are with me
And that is enough.