“For every tear of sorrow you have shed there will be a thousand tears of joy.” Joseph B. Wirthlin
Let’s face it, I have had my share of sorrowful tears and have no doubt there will be many more, but yesterday I felt the tears of joy were finally starting to take over. Not to imply in any size, shape or form that getting a good review (BTW, did you read my good, um, great, review?) is where it’s at. There are so many more things to feel joyful about, like children. (Of course children, especially if they are your own, have a tendency to dry up those tears of joy just as they start spilling) Yet, there is something very joyful about having the opportunity to do something you really love and to be recognized for that in some way.
In fact, yesterday was the first time I felt that perhaps I could actually spend some of my precious resources on something other than making life function for all of us here at Dunhaven Place. It was the first time I felt that maybe, just maybe, I could write and not feel guilty about it because, who knows, someone might pay me to do it. And, hey, who doesn’t need money?--raise your hand! (That’s what I thought.)
This, however, is not the point I am wishful of making. The point is this: just as I was starting to feel really good, no, great about the potential of this goal I have been cherishing pretty much my entire life (the first object I can remember feeling truly possessive of was Beatrix Potter’s childhood icon “The Tale of Jemima Puddleduck”) an enormous crash came from the next room. Once I got the Big Guy calmed down and convinced there was no earthquake, nor was any earthquake imminent (at least not any more so than at any other moment of our California lives) and nothing was about to fall on his head, I went to investigate.
A shelf in my bedroom, chock full of antique china, had fallen to the ground. The victims were (“were” being the operative word, here) all my favorite sentimental precious pretties; family heirlooms, gifts from loved ones and almost all had (“had” being the operative word, here) hand painted roses.
Life stinks that way. Pride leads to a downfall. Always.
The pretties that survived the tragedy, the ones that didn't are above . . .
Poor, poor pitcher!
The drawer full of victims of past tragedies . . . I just can't bring myself to toss them.
(I am so making a mosaic stepping stone out of this stuff—or maybe, in light of the fast approaching holiday season, eight mosaic stepping stones. Boy, do I ever have seven lucky sisters!)
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