Thankful

For every year I grow older, I become more thankful for good health, the love and affection of friends, the stalwart support of sisters, and the love of writing.

 

I’m one of the rare individuals who has a written record of my entire life from age 16 on. My first journal was presented to me as a Christmas present from Laurel, my older sister. She made it by hand, wrapping a small three-ring binder in a festive-colored cloth.

 

Keeping journals (I wrote more than 150 of them over the years before the ability to blog came along!) is both a blessing and a curse, of course. Some of what I wrote back then causes me to blush (and consider “Flush!”) but then I think, “Hey, that would be retouching my history…and that’s not honest or even helpful to anyone who might want to try to figure me out down the road.”

 

I poured into my journals the times I was happy, pissed off, bored, anxious, confused, estranged, and just plain strange!  I have appended a notice to the earliest ones stating, “That was then; please don’t hold these childish rants and opinions against me. I did grow up, after all!”

 

All of the people I was most pissed at (nuclear family, mostly) developed softer edges as they aged, as I have. The people who pissed me off most are mostly gone now, and I find that what remains (even with the ones who are still alive but estranged) is a soft afterglow of all that was right (not wrong) about them. As infuriating as they could be, I’m sure I could match them step for step and word for word–until I grew up and realized that there are other ways around our frustrations and disagreements.

 

My dad was an alcoholic who was just awful when drunk. But when he was sober, he was a good guy.  These days I remember the good guy, and how much better a man, husband and father he was than his dad.  Dad didn’t have a good role model, or sufficient schooling, or enough self-awareness and insight to consider how he was coming across to others.

 

I’ll never forget the day we were all watching a program that listed the characteristics of an emotional abuser. Right down the line, Dad fit the description. Suddenly, he said, “Hey, according to this list, I’M an emotional abuser.”

 

We all looked at him.

 

At least two of us (as I recall) said in unison, “DUH!”

 

It was a shock and a revelation to him.  He had no idea. Of course, he denied it as he sat in the room with us. But I’m sure it stayed with him long afterward as something to ponder. (Or maybe not. He didn’t change overtly following the revelation.)

 

But as I wrote in one of my books, sometimes role models are people we don’t want to emulate. With sufficient insight and discipline, we can overcome our tendencies to mirror what was modeled by parents and other childhood influences.

 

Not long before he died (thankfully!) I ended up loving my Dad without limit.

 

And here’s what I learned from that: Hurt people hurt people but that’s rarely their intention. (It’s their reaction, not their intention.)

 

The first person who “corrected” me properly and appropriately (without disparaging me in any way) was DeForest Kelley.  Up until then, I don’t think I was ever corrected without feeling absolutely horrible about myself.

 

Even people I adored corrected me in ways that stung.  I remember after getting through my intensely shy years, I more or less adopted Jerry Lewis-type antics as my way out of the wallflower mode I was in. My beloved English teacher, Alpha Rossetti, let me know, in no uncertain terms, that she didn’t like my new personality in exactly those words: “I don’t like your new personality.”

 

So of course I jumped right back into my hole, castigating myself for being such a loser. But I did learn to moderate my new-found freedom to explore new ways of interacting and interfacing with the world around me.

 

I still adore, cherish and love Alpha Rossetti. Why? Because she dared to tell me something that perhaps no one else would have. Why? Because she cared deeply about me. She loved me.

 

She’s the one who got me a two-year subscription to The Writer magazine when she discovered how good I was and told me to my face that I was a wonderful writer.  When I asked her to help me write even better, she said, “I can’t. I’m not a writer. But I am a reader, and I know good writing when I see it.”

 

That’s when she got me the subscription. She knew that my poor farm family couldn’t afford it, so she proactively afforded it for me.

 

That’s a champion–someone who has your back through every phase of your life.

 

So today I’m sitting here revisiting the people, critters and experiences I’m grateful for.

 

And it turns out I’m grateful for ALL of it. Even the so-called shitty stuff.

 

Because without the trials and tribulations, without the slings and arrows, how could I properly appreciate the good things as much as I do?

 

As long as we don’t waste our bad experiences by failing to honor them and the lessons they confer, they’re simply stepping stones to becoming a better person in a better position to bless the world.

 

HAPPY THANKSGIVING.

YOU’RE A BLESSING IN MY LIFE!!!