my half-glassed life

Well, Well, Well

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Fri, 15 Aug 2025 02:01:00 +0000

Are you ready for it?

#stillhere

If It's The Fourth of July, It Must Be Time For Flashback Fireworks. It. Must. Be.

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Thu, 04 Jul 2013 06:54:00 +0000

Four years ago, in 2009, Mr. J was in the midst of a hellacious chemotherapy protocol and I wrote one of my favorite posts. It captured the essence of pre-cancer TeamWedding and, better yet, how Samuel L. Chemo not only couldn't ruin TW's spirits but also how they were strengthened.

Three years ago, I reposted it, full of post-chemo TW joy and all of the things that were right in 2010 Halfglassistan, particularly in TWHQ. Jamie with no signs of cancer, officially in observation. I was happily and productively working full-time in my chosen field.

And I also stated I'd post it again the next year, and the year after that. And I'm quite certain I thought at the time, I'd post it the year after that.

Which brings us to now. I've looked back in the archives.

I didn't repost it in 2011. I didn't repost it in 2012. Because as right as every thing was in my world in July 2010, it ended on November 1 of that same year. Mr J died. And the biggest part of me did, too.

Two years ago I was still in such a state of denial I pretended to everyone else that I was okay. I was anything but okay.

One year ago, I was so far from okay, I had to look up to see rock bottom.

After espousing hope, gratitude, living in the moment, embracing how short life might be and after being praised for so much strength and positivity, it was hard as hell -- no it was impossible -- to put out here what I was really feeling.

Because there is another half of the glass, and I've been living there an awful lot of the time. Out of control. Lost. Failing.

Yeah. A self-admitted, overachieving, control freak. Failing. And falling, deeper and deeper.

Yet, in a single moment, exactly 379 days ago, I realized I didn't want to drown there. I wanted to fight. I needed to fight. And I had no idea where the woman I once was--the woman MrJ fell in love with--had gone.

The past year has been a lot of hard work climbing out of the bottom of that glass. A lot of hard work. Glass is slippery. And just because I decided I was ready to re-enter the real world, the real world wasn't exactly waiting with for me with open arms. So I've had to work that much harder.

Right now the hardest thing is actually accepting that Mr J is dead. Never coming back. Life will never be the same as it was. Crazy, huh? He's been gone two and a half years -- of course he's not coming back.

Cray. Zee. Maybe. But I'm fixing it. And one way I'm doing it is replacing the scary, obsessive, I'm-never-going-to-feel-normal-again feelings with memories. Joyful memories.

Which brings us (if you're still with me, and I hope you are) to the flashback fireworks.

FROM JULY 4, 2009:

Saturday. In The Yard. Think It Was The Fourth of July.

I am an Army brat. A proud one. And I love the Fourth of July.

This year, it will be a relatively quiet celebration, except for any neighbors in good-old-fireworks-legal-South Carolina who may be putting on a show. We can usually count on a few teens nearby to pop off more than a few sizzlers, and Jamie and I will venture into the backyard, beers or sodas (or bourbon) in hand, to watch the show.

Remembering our first July in this house, I think that the kids thought we were coming out to complain about the playing-with-matches-and-what-not already in progress:

A round goes off, we take our swigs and holler a hearty "WOO-HOO!" their way. They think (or so I like to think), "OK, those old farts are gonna be cool." Then a real old fart (who, surprisingly, is younger than we are) comes outside and throws off a few passive-aggressive huffs and puffs, only to be ignored. She (it's always a she) even walks over and says something to the teenagers, and then arms crossed, head down, still huffing and puffing, she radiates bitch-energy as she skulks back to her house.

There's a pause in the show and we think that maybe the kids have bowed to young-old-fartista's will. Now I know they're thinking,"Crabby old fart," because we're saying, um, thinking, it, too.

But, no. They're just stockpiling whatever mini-munitions they have left in a pile in the center of the cul-de-sac. One by one, their cars fill up and drive away. We notice, however, they've only barely driven outside the neighborhood gate and pulled over to the side of the main thoroughfare, still a good vantage point.

When just one vehicle and two kids are left, our suspicions are confirmed. Ready ... driver starts the engine. Set ... passenger is poised at the end of a fuseline of sparklers. GO! Match is lit, dropped to the sparklers, and passenger hops in car, which pulls up even with our yard (I told you they knew we were cool) to watch the fuseline burn toward the pile'o'pops.

And ... BOOM! HISS! CRACKLE! SNAP! POPOPOPOPOPOP! SSSHHHHCCCCOWWWW-OW-OW-0W! (that's what it sounds like to me; feel free to suggest alternate spellings below ...)

The finale!

We cheer! The kids beside us cheer! The kids on the road cheer!

Just as it ends, a chorus of car horns starts up and they speedily retreat ... probably to buy more fireworks (it's only 10 p.m.) and go to someone else's neighborhood (the night is young) and piss off some other old fart (they're everywhere, you know).

Our one-time "new" neighborhood is filled with homes now, with no more open cul-de-sacs in which to host impromptu sky shows. Not sure where Ms. Young Old-Fart is. She didn't venture out and complain much anymore after that night. She still may be huffing and puffing, peeking out her window every time someone's music is too loud, someone's dog barks, or someone laughs just a little too heartily. I feel sorry for her, and she doesn't even know why.

Those same kids have grown up and have better things to do than hang around someone's yard on a hot summer night, drink beer or soda (or bourbon) and shoot off fireworks. They won't ask, but if they did, I'd tell them that one day they'll learn.

I'd tell them:

"Twenty, 30 — hell, if you're lucky enough to keep a laugh in your heart, 40 or 50 — years from now, you'll learn that walking into your backyard, holding hands, sipping on beer or soda (or bourbon); watching fearless teenage boys impress breathless teenage girls; oohing, ahhing, and woo-hooing while the grumpy neighbors harrumph wa-a-a-a-a-y before their time; telling each other stories of summers long ago, stories you've heard already, but love to hear again and again because of the twinkle in the eyes and dimples in the cheek of your storyteller; kissing in the moonlight before going back in the house ... You'll learn. You'll learn there is nothing better to do than just that."

But they won't ask. And they wouldn't listen. I wouldn't have.

And I was right. There really was nothing better than just that. And as short as it was, I wouldn't trade a moment of it.

If anyone is still with me (and I really, really, really hope someone is), I hope you stick around. I have asked that before and have said before that I was ready to write again. The thing is, the things I truly needed to write, I couldn't. The things I thought I needed to write just weren't true--at least not much of the time.

I launched this blog when I was going through a significant life experience. By sharing it here, I was told, more than once, that it gave people hope. Even if just a few people. If I can share this subsequent experience, perhaps it can help someone else. Even if just one person.

Even if just one person is me.

When In Doubt, Listen To REM. On Repeat.

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Fri, 07 Jun 2013 22:26:00 +0000

"I am, I am, I am

Superman and I know what's happening.

I am, I am, I am

Superman and I can do anything.

I am, I am, I am

Superman and I know what's happening.

I am, I am, I am

Superman and I can do anything."

Yup.

Say it enough and you'll believe it.

So...

"I am, I am, I am

Superman and I know what's happening.

I am, I am, I am

Superman and I can do anything.

I am, I am, I am

Superman and I know what's happening.

I am, I am, I am

Superman and I can do anything."*

*Thank you, Berry/Buck/Mills/Stipe.

For everything.

Really.

Yeah. So. I Do Like Gravy...

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Mon, 03 Jun 2013 02:25:00 +0000

I do have some semblance of a life happening,

though you wouldn't know it from looking around here.

And my fingers are not broken.

And my brain is, well, pretty impressive when it wants to be.

And it wants to be.

My heart? Still broken.

But it's my brain that's working on spackling those cracks.

So.

Let's get to impressing. Ourselves, at least.

You? Well.

That's gravy.

You Call It Hero Worship. I Say, "And...So?"

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Tue, 07 May 2013 19:47:00 +0000

Today, 74 years ago, the first man to hold my heart and never let go came into this world.

He taught me to read as easily as I breathe, to seek and question knowledge, to see wonder in the ordinary and made it absolutely impossible to not share his love for all things Disney and "Muffets."

I thank him for stepping in and hearing my daily download and ending it with "I love you, honey" for more than two years now; for giving the best, safest, loving, tightest(!) hugs a girl could ask for; and for always being my hero, in uniform or not.

I love you, Daddy.

Happy birthday.

One Heart Boston

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 14:24:00 +0000

Great idea. Great design.

Awesome cause.

Find this great merch & more at One Heart Boston.

All proceeds benefit One Fund Boston,

set up to help families most affected.

For more information on One Fund Boston, or to donate directly, go here. Like, now. (Really)

We Really Are One Big Neighborhood. Act Like It.

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 22:22:00 +0000

#prayersforBoston

Words To Live By

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Sun, 14 Apr 2013 18:46:00 +0000

Decisions. Decisions.

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Thu, 11 Apr 2013 01:33:00 +0000

“The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

So, asks Tilly, "Who ya gonna be, Mom?"

And I say... "Hm. I'm working on it. I really am."

And CatCon chimes in with: "Normally, I like to mock you in the midst of your navel-gazing ... What?! You didn't KNOW that?"

(Well. Yes. Yes, I did. I just never heard her actually admit it.)

"But," she continued. (Of course she continued.) "You've had your share of shit to wade through."

Uh, what?

"Seriously. You seriously think I ONLY think about ME?"

(It has been a lifelong desire of mine to be able to pull off a well timed one-eyebrow raise. Moments like these are why. A practically audible eye roll sufficed.)

"OK. Point taken. But I only exist in your imagination, so by default, thinking about me IS thinking about you."

Damn her and her logic.

Tilly concurred. Damn her and HER logic. (And damn if I'm not jealous of HER ability to raise a derisive eyebrow.)

"So?" In unison, no less.

"You're stronger than you think. And you're smarter than you know. And I think I stole that quote from Pooh, but he and I are tight. He'd be cool with it."

"Anyway," CatCon continued. "Life sure as hell may have shown you that it's not fair and it can be cut way too short way too quickly. And you sure as hell have done a damn good job of hiding from living these past two years. A damn good job. But — odds are pretty damn good that you're gonna be here for a while. So who are you going to be? And how are you going to live? Because. You. Are. Going. To. Live. And — what if you don't? What if life once again proves to be cut way too short way too fast? How do you want to be remembered? As you lived? Or that you chose not to? To just exist?"

At this point, we're past eyebrow raising. I'm in awe. Mouth agape. Ah-gape.

"Stop it," she said. "Stop being so shocked that serious thoughts actually roll around in my pretty little head."

That sounded more like the CatCon I knew.

"And stop being so hard on yourself. Yeah. I know what you think. You think you've already failed because it's still so hard. Guess what? It's always going to be hard. It will get easier. But it may never get EASY. But guess what else? You're still here. And you're moving forward. And shut your damn mouth before a bug flies in it."

I did.

And then I asked her what inspired this rare foray into adult thought.

She replied: "Because I'm stronger than you think. And I'm smarter than you know."

And Tilly nodded as CatCon slipped back into the persona with which I'm far more familiar and said, "Duh. I'm you."

Damn them and their logic.

And Repeat. And Repeat Again.

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Tue, 09 Apr 2013 22:22:00 +0000

We promise.

(Really, really, really promise?)

We really, really, really promise.

Of Faith And Friendliness. Still. And Always.

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 13:58:00 +0000

Every year since the founding of Halfglassistan, we've run this post on this day. Today is no different. The sentiments (still and always) are the same. The words, because I can't improve upon them, are (still and always) the same.

From Friday, April 2, 2010:

Here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all.

Love whomever you want to love. Believe in whatever you'd like to believe.

We do. Love and believe, that is. We love to acknowledge it. We don't debate it. That would kinda-sorta go against the whole "love-and-believe-who-and-what-you-want" thing we've got going here. Don't you think?

In fact, we don't talk much about what we believe. It's not that we don't care. It's just that it's ours. Just like your beliefs are yours. And if we go throwing them around and putting them up for discussion, that kinda-sorta negates the whole "no-debate" thing. Don't you think?

And I'm not looking to change that today. But, for all of the arbitrary and capricious days of observance I've declared here in Halfglassistan, today is one that transcends all of my varied and overlapping worlds.

Today is Good Friday. And, as I've acknowledged before, there are times when the best construction of words to express what is in my heart already exists.

This is one of those times:

I believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, the maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen.

I believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, one in Being with the Father.

Through him all things were made.

For us and for our salvation, he came down from heaven: by the power of the Holy Spirit he was born of the Virgin Mary, and became man.

For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate; he suffered, died, and was buried.

On the third day he rose again in fulfillment of the Scriptures; he ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end.

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son. With the Father and the Son he is worshiped and glorified. He has spoken through the Prophets.

I believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church. I acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins. I look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.

That's just me.

Love whomever you want to love. Believe in whatever you'd like to believe.

Here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all.

Amen.

Yep. Especially 'Round These Parts

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Fri, 22 Mar 2013 01:01:00 +0000

Truth

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Wed, 20 Mar 2013 10:46:00 +0000

All Day. Every Day.

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Sat, 16 Mar 2013 12:27:00 +0000

MWAH!

In Which We Realize We're Moving Forward

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Thu, 14 Mar 2013 22:29:00 +0000

This was, is, and always will be a place where Mr. J lives. As is my heart.

And this has been a place where we've previously said we're turning a corner, making progress, dreaming new dreams (see pretty much all of spring 2011).

We were wrong. We were so wrong, we were deluded. We were so deluded, we didn't realize we weren't headed up, but down. We were headed so far down, we hit rock bottom.

And it was hard. And painful. And humbling. But yeah, hard. Really, really hard. So hard that it scarred. So hard that it still hurts. But that's a good thing. Scars remind us of mistakes. Aches remind us that we never want to revisit that dark, deep hole.

That was about eight months ago.

You haven't heard from us because we've been climbing and scraping our way up out of that hole. And we still are, but there's a whole hell of a lot more daylight now.

We're gainfully employed, doing the kind of work we're supposed to do. We're creating again, letting our mind do what it likes to do best. We're writing again, letting our brain do what it was born to do.

And we've finally figured something out. We may have never stopped loving (and never will) Mr. J. But we did stop loving ourselves. And, we've got to keep living. Not just the whole, inhalation/exhalation, blood-pumping-to-the-brain thing. Actually living. Living. Living a life with purpose. With hope. With honor. With respect.

And with love.

Because now we're living for two.

Power Up

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Wed, 13 Mar 2013 01:34:00 +0000

Yes. Being Social Is Part of the Plan

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Mon, 11 Mar 2013 22:09:00 +0000

Don't know who'll be on my left. Don't know who'll be on my right. Do know that I'll be in the audience.

And not on my couch.

Which is progress to the nth degree.

And Your Patience, As Well

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Fri, 08 Mar 2013 22:57:00 +0000

Miss me much? (breathe, breathe, breathe) I'm ba-a-a-a-ack.

Here we go again ...

Well. Soon-ish ...

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Sat, 22 Sep 2012 18:46:00 +0000

By order of HRH Princess Snarkerella, Halfglassistan is undergoing renovations. All of the populace are alive and accounted for, but undergoing their own various reconstructions. Any inquiries should be addressed to HRH and will thoroughly reviewed by the second assistant to HRH's third assistant and replied to at HRH's whim.

So, you know, you should feel damn lucky if you were to hear back from her. I guess that you would mean you were pretty flippin' special, huh?

Um. Well, yeah.

See you on the flip side, kids. Be careful out there.

And I'M The Weird One. Message Me When You See Bigfoot. Or Hogzilla. Or Someone Who Wants To Hang Out And Watch PPV At The Nearest Holiday Inn.

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 20:20:00 +0000

(c) 07/07/11 Natalie Dee: SW gosh camping is just grand aint it

A Special Burn On Sunsets

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 19:12:00 +0000

"There are days when solitude is a heady wine

that intoxicates you with freedom,

others when it is a bitter tonic,

and still others when it is a poison that makes

you beat your head against the wall."

-Sidonie Gabrielle

I have not always been a loner. In fact, another quote describes quite well my emotional evolution into solitude. From Albert Einstein: "I live in that solitude which is painful in youth, but delicious in the years of maturity."

In my youth, particularly adolescence, I feared nothing more than to be alone. While my sisters slammed their doors and sulked with typical teen angst, I chose to remain in the most populous rooms. Oh, there was angst aplenty, no doubt; in fact I was ~~probably~~ angsty enough for the two of them combined, and then some. (Credit that strike-through above to my typing fingers becoming possessed by one or both of my sisters. Or parents. Or our childhood dog.) I. Hated. To. Be. Alone.

It wasn't until post-college graduation, upon moving into my first solo apartment after a multitude of roommates (known and unknown; sibling and stranger), that I developed a passion for privacy that was as unexpected as it was unquenchable. But it was glorious. Everything was mine. Mine to do with what I wanted, how I wanted, when I wanted. Silly as it may sound, the first night I realized I could go to bed without doing the dishes, picking up the magazines or straightening throw pillows was a major turning point. I'm not kidding; we are talking a fucking life event.

At least five years passed before I ever contemplated sharing space with anyone. In fact, I was in an intimate relationship with someone for the better part of a year. He never once stepped foot in my home. Part of the reason was a devastating end to my all-through-college romance. I trusted no one. Part of the reason, especially at this point, no one had proven themselves worthy enough to share my space.

Until Jamie. It took less than a month for me to give him a key. My hands were shaking and he asked if I was certain I wanted him to have it. I replied that they were shaking because I'd never been more certain. By summer of that same year, we were planning a wedding and I was giving up my lease so we only had one rent to pay. And we were nervous as hell.

Both of us treasured our solo havens. Sleepovers, weekends, vacations together -- none can prepare you for this-is-it-we're-both-stuck-here-even-if-we-run-away-eventually-we-have-to-come-back-here. To you.

I hope none of you reading are looking for tips on how we made it work. I don't know how we made it work. But it did. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't always easy. It was sometimes ugly. But it worked. And it worked very, very well.

So well that my first voiced fear (The biggest ones went unsaid. They were obvious and unsolvable and not worth wasting the precious days and hours we had left.) when I knew for certain his death was imminent was, to my sisters, "Who am I going to talk to? Oh my God. Who am I going to talk to?"

They responded, as they held me, "Us. You'll always have us." I cried out,"No-o-o... who am I going to talk to about you?"

And that's the worst thing. The absolute worst. The one person on the planet who knew me better than anyone else, who knew just what every little look, tone of voice or lack of it meant, is gone.

And I have never felt more alone. It's unyielding. I have so many people who love me. I do. And I know well how very blessed I am to have them. But even in the most comforting, safe, loving moments -- I have never felt more alone.

It's been almost 18 months since Mr J died. There is no more coming-back-to-you.

I praise God for whatever strength with which he infused me that prepared me to be on my own. I also praise God for the beautiful gift of the 10+ years he gave me when I wasn't.

I praise God for my darling Jamie no longer being in pain, and I praise him for the strength, the love, the support and the many people with which he's blessed me thus far.

But I also raise my cracked voice, my wet eyes and my pained heart to the Lord and ask for more.

For more strength when I feel I can't go on.

For the strength to speak up during the times I'm not okay with being alone and I'm too proud to admit it.

For the strength to understand why the people who have silently left my life have done so.

And for the strength to forgive those whom I never thought would leave, but have.

But mostly, to keep the strength of solitude with which He's blessed me more freeing than bitter, more comfortable than tormented, and more understanding than anguished.

And yet ...

"Loneliness adds beauty to life.

It puts a special burn on sunsets

and makes night air smell better."

-Henry Rollins

... is still true, too.

Mommy

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 19:54:00 +0000

I am not ashamed to say that, at 43, I still call my father Daddy. Neither of my sisters, 40 and clinging-to-49, do. (And knowing the way we sisters are, they don't even make fun of me for it. That I know of ...) In fact, they probably can't remember the day when the two-syllable title that so easily rolls off my lips did the same for them. I'm not sure why I do it; it's certainly not a regional or cultural thing for me. There's just something about it that makes me feel safe. Maybe that extra "-dy" is a mental hug. God knows his actual hugs can provide soothing and a feeling of safety like none other I've known.

And that's good. That's what Daddies are for.

On the flip side, I can't remember at what age I made the transition from Mommy to Mom. I do know when I made the transition back. Not all the time, mind you. Just when I'm scared -- which has happened a lot in the past 14 months. Scared for me. Scared for her. Scared about the stress of her being scared for me. And scared because I'm feeling absolutely and utterly useless to she and my sisters right now.

At this moment, she is on a cardiac recovery unit after having a blessedly uneventful femoral heart cath. At this moment, I am on my back, feet propped up and feeling pelvic pain breaking through the prescribed narcotics I've ingested.

When I spoke with her this morning, I apologized for not being there physically, but that I was metaphorically holding her hand as tight as possible.

And when I spoke with her this morning, I told her "I love you, Mommy," and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. I hope she could hear with every breath, every utterance, every crack in my voice how very much I cherish her, even when I don't show it enough.

I'm not even sure that she caught it; but for me, that extra "-my" has a lot of power in it, too.

I love you, Mommy.

Semi-Wordless "You-Wanna-Put-That-WHERE?!" Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Wed, 21 Mar 2012 04:55:00 +0000

March is colorectal cancer screening month.

Speak with your doctors about when colonoscopy is right for you.

It's not particularly pretty, and it's not exactly easy;
but, all in all, it's really pretty easy.

Do it.

Because

From Me to Me

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Tue, 13 Mar 2012 22:58:00 +0000

Because I'm just that awesome.

Yeah.

Dream a Little Dream of We

noreply@blogger.com (CCW) — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 02:24:00 +0000

So. I just posted last week that I do not often dream about Jamie. More to the point, I shared that if I do, I prefer the nightmares. Ghoulish as that may seem, my reasoning was that at least when I woke up from a bad dream in which my Mr. J was dead, it was no different than my reality — and easier to let go. The happy dreams? The ones in which he was still alive, we were happy and life was as it once was? Those I dreaded. To wake up from those was infinitely more painful, as I was reminded upon waking that nothing is the same. Reminded twofold, in fact, as I'm faced with the painful reality every morning when I awaken.

Until this past Saturday. I don't know why I was so drowsy. No drugs. No drink. No illness. No particular reason to be exhausted. Nonetheless, I found myself sleeping off and on all day long. I don't mean a snooze here and there. I mean a two-hour nap, a half-hour to an hour waking, then another two- or three-hour nap. Odder still? Every time I drifted off, I fell into REM sleep.

And Jamie was there. Waiting for me every time. I can't tell you what the plot of each — or any — dream was. Just that I was there, Jamie was there and it seemed blessedly normal. And I didn't feel sad when I awoke. I felt grateful.

Grateful because I'd not experienced this unconscious series of dates with my darling since his physical being left me. Grateful because his metaphysical self had chosen to spend the day with me in such a way that I could see, feel and smell him. And interact with him.

Don't misunderstand. I have felt his presence. But it's been ethereal. This? These Saturday afternoon drowsing dates with my deceased husband felt earthly and otherworldly at the same time. And I didn't awaken crying and with a tightening of my heart, a rapid pulse and short breaths.

No. I awoke — each time — calm, smiling and one time laughing.

And instead of self-pity that this is the only time this has happened, and — quite possibly — may be the only time it ever does, I will not mourn its absence.

Rather, I will rejoice in its happening. And if it happens again, I will praise it for the blessing it is.