Happiness Surrounded

A friend took pictures of me the other day. It was kind of a wild experience. I'm *ok* with pictures, but it's not something I do all the time. The last couple of weeks, it's happened a lot. I feel exposed. Even though I know I'm just one little light in a grand sky,  I'm often worried I won't look right. People might see my flaws; I'll be found out. I'm playacting. This is my friend though; she gets me. I trust her. I'm thankful for the joy, creativity, compassion, and wisdom she brings to the world, and curiosity peaked, I went with it. It's all over now;  I keep looking and thinking back to one in particular. I don't know what she calls it, but I've taken to calling it Happiness Surrounded. Nestled among a few favorite instruments, dozens of memories float past. I try to catch them for a second, but then, I just breath and feel their companionship and  resilience. I don't sing or play spectacularly well. Twelve years ago, I didn't even *have* an instrument of my own.  At best, I'm fair to middling. If I'm in a group setting, I can almost guarantee someone or maybe even several someones will be better at everything than me. Although I try not to dwell, I can still remember some painful moments when I've been given helpful hints by people. Or even silenced. And yet, here I am.  Still plugging away. Making mistakes; finding my way. Adding new instruments. Stringing together the moments when it turns out right. When it fits. When I wobble but I walk anyhow.  When I can't.  When I crash. When I'm so raw, imperfect, and judged that I can barely breathe. When I'm still trying to figure out things I saw/heard months out even years ago. Here's the thing though: I don't think it matters exactly what our wish list items are or how well we do it: painting, writing, sportsmanship, careers, relationships, adventures...  I could go on.  We could wait a lifetime for someone else to tell us when we're good enough to do it--when we've earned it. That would be a waste. In case you haven't noticed, the days aren't getting longer. We can't pause time. It's hard to wish our way past the losses and fear. My uncles says we have to bushwhack our way past sometimes. He's right. So go. Find your perch. Find your people. Jump. Fly. Walk. Crawl. Live. String your joys together like a bazillion stars and let them guide you through the darkest moments. Name your constellations; tell your stories. Live them. Mourn them. Celebrate them.  It's risky; I know. The world is not always an easy place for Dreamers. Doubt *is* sticky. Falling *is* hard. *Living* is hard. Whatever you do, don't waste any more time waiting for someone else to open the cage. You have always held the key.  Your happiness is waiting to surround you. Don't outsource it. 

  

Cohabitation

There’s nothing quite like returning home after a long absence to discover mice have moved in. To be clear, this wasn’t the first time, but in retrospect, the last time, they were so darned polite. Sure, they’d partied a little, but aside from a few mouse droppings and scattered leaves, it was almost like it hadn’t happened. With barely any clean up required, I was lulled into a false sense of security. That’s how they do it--those sneaky boogers.

Plain and simple, I let my guard down. I got cocky, and now, I almost hummed as I unpacked and wallowed in my suburban nesting rituals. Oh sure, there was that one suspicious bit of something that could have been mouse poop. Really though, who’s to say it wasn’t a random grain of black rice? It was nothing I couldn’t ignore, and so I continued on in my self-induced haze. Isn’t that what life is all about? 

It was all going well until I went to turn on the washing machine.  It was the ramen noodles in the make shift wash closet pantry that tipped me off. They really are zealous little beasts. As my hand pushed past what should have been a solidly reassuring rectangle of individually wrapped rations, my fingers closed around a noisy vat of stickiness. It was only then that I realized the box was empty save a few packs of those glorious foil enshrined squares of MSG goodness. As my hand withdrew, my eyes focused on the mouse poop. The droppings were *everywhere*. My eyes rolled back into my head as a sigh escaped.  Of course this was happening. While my inner twins Petulance and Ironically Amused dueled for top billing, I pulled out all the shelves and started a 9 pm cleaning spree. Forty five minutes later, with visions of a hot shower dancing through my head, I made my way to the sock and underwear drawer to fish out clean clothes. And ramen. So much ramen. 

I’m a naïve soul though, and I just wasn’t ready to give up hope. It wasn’t until the next day that the true scope of their clever industry hit me. As I slid my feet into a pair of boots, I did not have to look to know the lovely crunchy debris was ramen. I did not have to look as I shook the boots empty, but like driving by a traffic accident, I did. Even so, I kept the hope. It wasn’t until the second night that the full scope of my defeat and lost territory hit me. For there, in the darkness, I heard the little fugitives running.  I imagined them living it up through the house. Prancing. Cavorting. Eating all the snacks. What was left of my fire and optimism sank into the mattress. From beneath my sanctuary of covers, I could only murmur, “Don’t stay up too late. Some of us have to sleep.”