Kathleen McCall:
Occasional�� Muse�

2002-08-22 - 9:15 a.m.

Where Did I Put My Rose-Colored Glasses?

I lead a double life.

One of my lives is amazing; it's full of all good gifts. Two healthy exuberant kids, to begin with. A whole lot of freedom. Enough work to keep us in food, and work I am blessed to have because I do it well and feel good about it. Many people around me to love, a good handful who love ME; a best friend who's been my mainstay for coming up on thirty years. A comfortable home. The ability to put words on paper, a place in which to do it, people who read and respond. Good health, eyes and ears with which to love the world and legs so I can get out and use those eyes and ears. Blessings way too plentiful to count.

Some days I lead a very different life.

The alternate life is marked by too much and not enough. Not enough money to go around, leaving too much stress, guilt, and worry. Not enough time and energy to take care of my ailing parents, and too much resentment that I have to do this. Not enough space; too much mess. Not enough rest; too much sleep. Not enough passion; too much loneliness. Not enough talent or maturity or peace of mind or time off or patience or slack. Too much juggling and fretting and unmet obligations and hiding and whining.

I know it's the same room, viewed through a different window. Or like one of those picture-puzzles we've all seen - is it the witchy old lady, or the young woman in the feathered hat? It's both - but never at the same time.

Some people can't see that young woman; they can see only the witchy old lady, until you show them, sketch with your finger - here is the feather, and she has her face turned, see? And then it becomes clear - ahhh, I see now. So sometimes I run my finger down the list of my blessings, knowing that this life is the same one as yesterday, unchanged, knowing that I can shift my view and see it differently. The good things are all still there - I just can't always raise the same joy over what I've been given. I can't always lighten my own heart.

On the days when my heart is heavy, I carry it around on my hip, with only one hand free to do the things I need to do. It slows me down - my work is ponderous, a burden. I don't want to make another bed, or another phone call. I don't want to pretend, or make small bright talk with those who don't love me. I watch the ground as I walk; if there is something good ahead, I won't see it. But there probably isn't, anyway.

And, in some small time, there will be a shift.

Sometimes, the shift is of my own doing. I know some things that can change the view, not always but often enough to be worth my remembering, and I try to do them. I get out. I think of other people; I try to do service. I say my prayers. I talk to people I trust. I remind myself that this is the same life, the very same life, that had me singing in the car just a few days ago. That feelings aren't facts. That I have always been given what I needed, even if I didn't always understand or foresee the methods. All the good things I know about living, my litany of light. And sometimes, sometimes the shift happens, like a headache responds to aspirin - not with any clear dividing line, but relief in retrospect - oh, it's gone, isn't it?

At other times, a small external thing will shift me. The warmth of a friend, or the needs of someone else where I can be useful and outside myself. Some startling meteor of kindness, or a piece of serious life that doesn't allow time for self-pity. The practice of a routine, the accomplishment of a dreaded task. A morning where sun comes in the window. The glimpse of the bottom of the laundry basket.

The glass is half-empty; the glass is half-full. But of course, it's only four ounces of water. All the rest is what I bring to it, my own thirsts.

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