happy little sigh

Pictures paint a thousand words.

They can also tell a thousand lies.

A thousand lies of just the sort

you’d like people to believe.

People on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter,

all those people you want to impress.

It’s easy when there’s a filter

for what people see of your life. 

And while I’m so glad to be back here in Scotland,

it’s not all tea parties,

trips to castles,

European shops.

Life is life,

with all the dull, the ordinary, the hard to swallow times

mixed in with all the good.

I was reminded this morning–

that moment I started up the stairs for The Professor’s school books,

but then realized Mr. Waddlesworth had a dirty nappy,

and John asked me to get the General’s shoes on just at that moment so they could get to the swimming pool on time.

And all I really wanted was to eat my cereal, which sat there on the table growing soggy, the milk now warm.

A moment of chaos and I wanted to scream.

Yes, even in Scotland there are nappies to change, toilets to clean.

And worse than that, we find that even in the most Paradise-like of places,

we cannot escape ourselves.

And wouldn’t I like to, sometimes?

Hit reset, start again, with a brand new me.

It’s easy to blame others for my impatience, irritation, foul mood,

but when I’m honest I realize that I need to hit the reset button on my own attitude.

Shake it off, let it go,

and embrace joy, grace, and usefulness,

in spite of all the expectations and hopes that didn’t come when and as I’d hoped.

The days have been quiet so far, quieter than I’d hoped,

without any visits to the friends or beloved places I’m so longing to see.

Quiet days, save the usual busyness of home life with the boys.

And even in such a place as this, 

greyness can fall, 

wrap around you like a fog. 

We went for a walk, Mr. Waddlesworth and I, this morning,

to shake the shadows,

start again.

And as I went along the narrow streets,

between the rows of ancient stone,

thinking,

and drinking in

the cries of the seagulls as they soar,

the balmy breeze,

the North Sea’s roar,

I thought of these words . . .

 And though I’m trying, still,

to feel them,

live them,

make them real,

I know,

that whether we’re cleaning toilets,

or laughing over a latte with our dearest friends

in our most favorite place,

our moments matter. 

And words, our expressions,

they matter, too.

In fact, in the grey times,

when the light is dimmest,

is when our words, expressions, and actions,

mean the very most.

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