Guilty For Feeling Good

I feel good.

Very good, actually. Not the kind of ersatz mania I used to be prone to, but a sense of calmness and peace that only grows as time progresses.  A falling-together. A "trust the process, embrace the journey" mindset that has eluded me for most, perhaps all, of my life.

And I find it difficult to talk about.

Not just because some of it is profoundly personal. I feel the need to suppress the expression of my happiness because at every turn I am confronted with people who are anything BUT happy. Relationships in turmoil, friends hurting in ways so deep I can hardly fathom their suffering, to say nothing of the deeply unsettling state of the world, a state that seems to be worsening with every passing minute.

"Shared pain is lessened and shared happiness increases"...you've read it enough from me that you must be sick of it by now. (I'd highly encourage those of my readers who are human beings to seek out and treasure the source of Callahan's Law. Start with CALLAHAN'S LADY.)
Yes, it's true: I live by that maxim, perhaps more than any other. But I'll admit: I find it much easier to share my pain than my joy, especially when so many around me are struggling with pains of their own, and even the great joys around me are tinged with pain. Add to that the disquieting sense that perhaps I'm experiencing more joy than I deserve, that at any moment it will all evaporate like a fevered dream upon waking, and, well...

It feels almost morally wrong to feel so good right now.

That last, rather hastily contrived and poorly executed blog? Not one of my better efforts. That was me writing off steam, venting a pressure that was growing insupportable. The classic Ken Breadner knee-jerk, in other words. I've taken several steps back from that pile of pixellated poop and will come at Trump from a much more nuanced angle next time out. Or maybe the time after. It may not be as bad as I had thought: it may in fact be worse. But I fell right into the Trump trap, meeting his histrionics with histrionics of my own. We're going to have to use every tool at our disposal to fight that man and what he represents. Pointless drama alone ain't going to cut it, folks.

Orwell's 1984, Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale...both novels that seem to be serving almost as playbooks for the Trump administration. The thing to remember about both these dystopias is that they do not endure. (Many people don't realize this about 1984; read the Appendix.) Or as I would like to phrase it, 'it's always darkest before the dawn'.

I'm about to turn 45. And I feel younger than I did two or five years ago. My life is by no means perfect, but the important parts of it are coming together. I have more, not less, energy to devote to others, both those near and dear and those in the wider world. With any luck--and that's something I'm coming to believe is actually earned--you'll hear about some of this in the coming months.

Folks, I am feeling joy. And I will share that joy as best I can. But I will always be mindful of your pain, and will strive to lessen it any way I can, too.

Love to all.