I had a really lovely Thanksgiving this year.
So many things to be thankful for: almost-grown kids who not only speak to me, but made the drive up to Austin to hang out with all of us old folks; still married (I know!) to Mr. Wonderful; good health; and at last, feeling nearly at peace with myself and most people.
An old friend I'd lost touch with for years caught up with me for coffee a few weeks ago. My friend noticed that I seemed content and happy, and reconnecting was like "finding a cozy old pair of slippers I'd forgotten in the back of my closet."
I felt ok with being "old slippers." I'm letting my hair go gray.
Contentment is good for the soul, I suppose, but bad for artistic output.
Isn't some angst or perturbation required to push a person to do...what? Great things? Create art? Mend the world's ills? Is that what my grandiose little ego wants me to think is my mission?
What about living a happy life and cherishing the people who populate it? Isn't that enough?
Maybe it's that old-time religion in me, making me feel that reveling in a life of simple joys is somehow selfish. There's a suspicion of contentment -- serenity means you're not paying attention to the evils in the world.
Pakistan. Darfur. Squalor. Oppression. Poverty. Dancing With The Stars.
The horror is out there. And there is more for me to do.
But feeling my son hug me so tight when he walked in the door at Thanksgiving felt like heaven on earth.
And at the end of a strenuous practice, relaxing in savasana on my yoga mat, my upturned palm nesting inside my mate's...heaven.
Watching the rain fall and wind blow across the Wimberley hills while I sip hot chocolate by the window, even more heaven.
"As the fly bangs against the window attempting freedom while the door stands open, so we bang against death ignoring heaven."
Doug Horton
