My mother liked to tell me that I was a "good" baby (in contrast to my older brother, anyway, who was apparently colicky and cried a lot), one who didn't awaken crying, and who seemed content entertaining myself in the crib until someone discovered me awake. I like that story of myself as it bolsters my confidence and reminds me of that basic goodness we all have.
Yet I'm also aware (especially understanding my mother's propensities in tale-telling) that it's simply a story, one that clears away like smoke in the wind, leaving me----still----with. . . well . . . me and all my fears and anxieties and depression . . . and happiness!
Lately I have felt so grateful, so filled to bursting with happiness that I'm frightened. Happiness is so fleeting and our typical response is to try to clutch it dearly to our chests and shout "Mine, mine!" (like those seagulls in one of the Toy Stories). To be able to breathe deeply and feel peaceful and content amazes me with its simplicity and wonder.
Why is it difficult for me to write of these good feelings? Is it a kind of superstitious avoidance of looking happiness in the eye for fear she'll disappear sooner? Is it because so many are suffering and I don't want to rub their noses in my own (current) happiness?
Yes.
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| Smith River's high now at Panther Flat, and we hear the constant hush of its rushing by |
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| RWin, our faithful camping steed |
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| A peek inside. . . |
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| Gingersnap/toasted pecan crust sweet potato pie that will cap off our meals |
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| Picking huckleberries for a cobbler |
