Gratitude
I come from the school of the dropping shoe; I feel its impending thud all the time. With fingers crossed, I studiously ignore my many blessings, as I know they would immediately be withdrawn should I ever acknowledge them out loud. Luckily, I do not speak these words aloud, so I believe (and most sincerely hope) they are exempt from the tragedy clause.
I often wonder where they came from, these last 15 or 16 years of plenty after the meager 20 some that came before. There are times when I think I know. I have been (and could be again) atheist, agnostic, and believer. I would not say I am of the personally involved Mother/God camp, but neither would I say I am not. I do not feel God's presence, though I often see evidence of it. But my husband, in whose word I place great faith, has had concrete, intimate experience with Him or Her; so, generally speaking, I believe that he believes. And that's been good enough for me. That, and the many aforementioned blessings.
I often wonder where they came from, these last 15 or 16 years of plenty after the meager 20 some that came before. There are times when I think I know. I have been (and could be again) atheist, agnostic, and believer. I would not say I am of the personally involved Mother/God camp, but neither would I say I am not. I do not feel God's presence, though I often see evidence of it. But my husband, in whose word I place great faith, has had concrete, intimate experience with Him or Her; so, generally speaking, I believe that he believes. And that's been good enough for me. That, and the many aforementioned blessings.
posted by Shannon at 10:23 AM
2 Comments:
Best post ever.
Honey, I spent most of my life keeping hope in reserve and joy undercover, just in case I'd jinx things otherwise. It was truly a lack of trust in the universe and in the availability (to me) of goodness and love. I figured out, at one point, that there was an attention seeking part to it too. By being, oh, a bit melancholy, I left open the door of sympathy ("oooo, I've had such a hard life and more problems threaten..."}.
When I got that letter from Kentie, I was instantly hesitant. I realized later that I'm afraid to think of myself as recovering or surviving. If I get my hopes up, they'll just be dashed with the next round of intestinal whatever or drug reactive hoozits. But that's a terrible way to live. Actually, it's not living at all; it's waiting to die. What do we have to lose if we welcome joy wholeheartedly? me
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