To feel

I am in a really good place in life right now. Things aren't perfect -- they aren't meant to be. But I would like to freeze this point in time. The kids are at a good age where they aren't helpless babies; they aren't rebellious teenagers (well, Megan might challenge that); they are real human beings that can reason and understand, that can [to some degree] be pleasant companions who are interesting and loving. Rex is gainfully employed at a job he enjoys (as much as is possible in a world that undervalues people and education) where his colleagues, especially his supervisors, are all on the same team, willing to help and encourage each other. I am finally able to go back to school, which I've dreamed of doing for the last 12 years. I am able to dance without feeling guilty about betraying my role as wife and mother, the hobby I love even more than writing, something that is so freeing and revitalizing. And to intensify my ecstasy, Rex has joined me in dancing. He gets to come home every evening instead of commuting on weekends to see us. He loves me so deeply, and I love him, which is my whole purpose for living. He makes the good in life better and the bad in life tolerable; his mere existence gives vibrancy to everything in life, like increasing the contrast of a photograph. Life truly is beautiful right now (except for the almost constant fighting and crying of kids). This helps me to smile more, to see the good in things much more easily, like I can see and feel things deeper and more clearly and intensely.

It goes both ways though. While I am on a pretty consistent high these days, my heart nearly bursting with joy and gratitude, my heart also aches so badly that I cry quite often. But I don't cry from self-pity or despair or depression. I realized recently that I cry out of compassion. So many of my friends and acquaintances, and even strangers, are experiencing trials of one form or another: health problems, relationship problems, divorce, infertility, unemployment, abuse, disillusionment, depression, anger, loneliness. (The MOST common sorrows are divorce and loneliness.) I see them in pain; I feel their pain. A little bit like it's happening to me.

I don't like it. It hurts. It kind of sours my euphoric state. But I kind of like it, like lactic acid burn. I didn't really feel things before I got married; Rex opened my heart to all kinds of emotions which have increased in depth and breadth as I've gotten older. But recently, since rising from the ashes of our own bed of sorrows, I've somehow developed a more keen sense of other people's feelings.

This is not to say I've miraculously become tactful and delicate, or that I can now foresee how my words or actions will affect others. But it does mean that I am more aware of others, I can be more accepting or tolerant and forgiving, and I can understand who and how they are. Perhaps that will also help my tongue.

Why do we go through trials? To gain compassion. Do I want to go through trials? Heck no! Am I thankful for them? Yes, now that I see what they can turn me into. They say that what doesn't kill you makes you grow stronger. But no one ever explained to me that stronger doesn't mean tougher -- it means gentler.