Lately, I have realized that I am happiest during those rare weekly encounters I pretty desperately wait for and at first, I was wildly embarrassed. I thought of how dramatic and hyperbolic and high school that was, counting down the days, not unlike Captain Harville, when I am owed literally nothing and have no hope for anything but continued waiting and ambiguity. But is it really that bad? I mean, really? For a life so full of people eager to share in it, is it really that bad, to be moved or to be uplifted or, in this case, to feel complete contentment when together?
I know I have never been a person to think much of myself or to have a sense of emotional entitlement, like it is the job of someone else to make me happy, but if that ends up happening, am I supposed to feel this guilty? Should I not accept these short, precious times as a gift from God? Is that not more productive than this cycle of fear and self-degradation? Again I am reminded of those familiar words... pain demands to be felt. Doesn't joy demand to be felt, too? And if it does, what am I fighting against that is worth the effort it takes to berate myself for knowing which three days of the week will bring a smile to my face? It doesn't feel like it tonight, but I guess that is not saying much. Tuesday was a long time ago.
