Tears

My mother seldom wept for sadness, except at funerals, but she often wept for joy. Sometimes it was bittersweet joy, the kind that often visited women of her generation, who grew up with most relatives living nearby, but saw their own children move to distant cities. Still it seemed she shed tears more at greetings than farewells. I felt more like my father, never quite so given-over to emotion.

I've reached a fortunate life passage when hope seems reasonable. I always hoped things would start to work out for me—not because I actually believed they would, but because not-hoping was unbearable and self-fulfilling. Hope hardly made sense, but became a strategy for survival, a risk worth taking.

Now I actually begin to suspect I might have the opportunity to do some things I wanted to do in my life, in fact I'm beginning to do them. Some are big dreams, but most are small, like buying myself a pair of boots, going to a car wash, or beginning to watch birds more, again.

With the long weekend upon me, I'm looking forward to a few days spent with Brenna, Marian, Sonny and Danny at the cottage. On the drive home from Fergus this afternoon, the weather was perfect, the very finest Ontario ever offers. The forecast promises more good weather for the next few days.

The farm with the maple avenue I so admire, which never quite likes to be photographed, stood up and posed for me. I stopped at a wayside market I've noticed before, advertizing meat and cheese. They also sell elderberry pies. I bought one, along with fresh rhubarb, asparagus, dinner rolls, and four pounds of ribs for the barbecue.

The sky was so blue, and happiness so pressed inside my chest, it made me weep like Mother. Tears of exuberance accompany the knowledge that everything must change. Pleasure, love and beauty must all pass away, but as long as they endure, we plough our hearts into them.