It's easy when the answer is in response to some appearance-related question. Do I look fat in this dress? Does my haircut make me look like a soccer mom? Mike, like all good husbands, knows that in these situations its always better to err on the side of assurance--unless, of course, I follow up with the green-light for true honesty: "No, really. Tell me the truth." Then, and only sometimes, will he find a delicate way of letting me know, "it's not YOU..." --it's just that horrible fabric or the way she styled it or some similar diversion of blame that speaks sincerely without holding me and my body responsible.
But what happens when it IS me, in those moments when I AM responsible and hearing the truth hurts--mostly because I already knew it deep down? I'm long past the age of worrying too much about the right dress or the best hair, if only because giving birth to healthy child creates a kind of gratitude for what the body can do. What I'm not past, though, is the sometimes daily--or perhaps, as has been suggested, monthly--struggle for control over feelings that have no clear origin or rationale.
On these days, dirty dishes make me bitter and the little things I try so hard to appreciate go unnoticed. Instead, I spend my morning feeling as if I'm falling behind, but can't figure out which finish line I'm aiming for. Like a crazy ritual, I scroll through a mental roledex of reasons why a stray sock in the kitchen should have the right to set my mood astray.
But the truth is, even as I can't help myself from stewing in a silent mess, I know I'm missing the mark. As I say Goodbye to my beautiful girl and I Love You, perhaps too softly, to my husband, I'm filled with the kind of regret that simmers--a burning off, I suppose, of everything that came before. I sit in my office alone, overlooking this rainy day, and start again.
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From The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran.
Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow."
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears. And how else can it be? The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven? And is not the lute that soothes your spirit the very wood that was hollowed with knives? When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears. And how else can it be? The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven? And is not the lute that soothes your spirit the very wood that was hollowed with knives? When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater." But I say unto you, they are inseparable. Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed. Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy. Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced. When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.
