I have long considered myself to be lucky.
Even when bad things happen to me, they’re never so bad that they can’t be handled. Or something else comes along to help it along. Things always seem to work out for the best.
I’m not so Pollyannish nor Candidesque to presume that this holds true for everyone. I’m not so naive as to think that if only those people in Darfur or Bosnia looked at things in the right perspective, they’d see that everything would be alright. Truly horrible things happen to people. They just haven’t happened to me. That is a blessing.
What brings this to mind (aside from the fact that I’ve been drinking since about noon) is a book I’m reading: The Amber Spyglass , third book of His Dark Materials trilogy. I’ve just reached the bit where the children enter the land of the dead. I can barely read the words on the page because my eyes are brimming with tear, saltiness rolling down my face. I think of my mother, dead, and I hope it’s nothing like the book. I hope she is at last at peace and she is, in whatever form she is, happy, at last. I believe that in her deepest soul she was tormented and wretched in this life. I hope she is now at peace.
How does this make me lucky? Because a friend at work gave me the first book of the His Dark Materials trilogy, The Golden Compass . So of course I had to read the second, then the third book.
My mother died barely two months ago. As difficult a woman as she was, as troubled as our relationship was, I must grieve. I find the tears come so easily, so readily. I don’t hold back. If I need to cry, even if it seems unrelated, I figure it’s all tied together. I cry and I think of my mother.
How am I blessed? When I need something, something to help me mourn my mother, it comes to me.