The Realization

It was incredibly quiet,nothing unusual in our street, but the eerie silence of the last years still was creepy at times, even on an unusually warm, sunny day, with birds singing and a blue sky. I inhaled the fresh air, and smiled. I was cleaning up some of the lingering winter dust in the living room. Looking at a picture of my deceased parents, and baby pictures of Nicholas, I wondered about the mystery of time passing by, like water down a river. I looked around my small, modest ,but very cozy house that had all the charm of a neatly overstuffed curio shop. I was emptying the dishwasher, and smiled at my very modest and limited dishware, recalling my mother's silver chest with Christoffle silver, and her 19th century crystal goblets, and two full complete sets of Limoges fine china. I suddenly realized something. I had not been born to be happy. I was born to endure, to be strong, to bear witness. My family was destroyed by intrigue, betrayal, illness, alcoholism, death. I was the only one left, other than my brother whom I had not seen in 16 years now. But after some therapy 4 years ago, I finally had started writing again, poems, and travel memories, and childhood recollections, and it felt good, freeing. I had started my embroideries, had continued and intensified my care for abandoned and unwanted dogs and cats and devoted myself to my husband and son, trying to shake the dysfunctional demons of both our families. The realization that I was strong, had endured, and had made the best of the rubble handed me, made me smile broadly.  It was certain that I had taken quite a tumble down the social ladder, that I was invisible and anonymous, that I was isolated socially and intellectually, and artistically, that I was not able to travel freely like I was in college and graduate school, but the realization that I was strong, that I was writing anyway, no matter how much of it felt like I was writing on the sky and clouds, somehow made me calm, relaxed even, and no less determined. To understand it was my destiny to just share, write, and love, no matter how hard or challenging the circumstances, somehow made my burdens feel lighter. I was not free in my circumstances, due to a mixture of certain emotional scars, but, that heavy chain felt less chafing today. The world is full of millions and millions of people who are not free in one way or many others, and yet , many of them survive, thrive and even smile in the face of great and constant adversity. Are they happy? I am sure many of them would answer happiness is a luxury they cannot even contemplate, but, they take pride in strength, endurance, courage, acceptance, kindness. I believe it was the great Bengal poet Rabindranath Tagore, one of my all time favorite writers, who said : " God must have loved the humble people, because He made so many of them. " Compared to the way I was raised, I lived very humbly, so much so that my mother did not want relatives and friends from Belgium, my country of birth, to come visit me and my husband and son. She was ashamed of me. Your loss, mother, because I am strong, and courageous and kind. And I think there are very few people who want to have written on their tombstone; " I was rich, and important, but a lousy human being". Today was important to me, because I realized my soul, my heart, are mine, and they are facing every day with hope, optimism and a relentless conviction in rebirth, like the phoenix rising from the ashes, refreshed, renewed. And maybe, just maybe, the seeds of happiness are sown when we accept, with a heart bursting with the longing to make a difference, the complete, amazing mystery that is life.