My life is full of demands made by family, children and work. It is replete with minor annoyances and major aggravations. It isn’t hard to feel anything but sour grapes when the math teacher calls to say my son hasn’t turned in the last five assignments, or the car’s making a funny noise and there’s no money in the budget for repairs, or I’m handed a big project at work with a tight deadline, or the leaky faucet my husband promised to fix weeks ago still drips.
Some
days it is possible to go to bed exhausted, to lie there with clenched teeth,
the surcease of sleep unattainable because I am rigid with anger and fear. But
I have consciously chosen not to do this. It wasn’t easy because all my default
settings were programmed a long time ago. By default, I should fret and worry
about my son and why he can’t seem to grasp the principles of division. By
default, I should create a scenario where the car dies, there’s no money to fix
it and I’m stranded without transportation, which means I can’t get to work and
complete that assignment which means I get fired or lose the promotion. By
default, I should nag my husband ceaselessly until the faucet is fixed. By
default, sour grapes should be my lot in life. This, I admit was the person I
once was (and still am sometimes).
My
personal epiphany came a few years ago on a family outing to a high mountain huckleberry
field. When all my default settings are being utilized; when I am exasperated
almost beyond endurance, I think huckleberries and I am back on that mountain.
I
sit in a patch of wild huckleberries. The bushes surrounding me are heavy with
the dark purple fruit. My mouth waters at the thought of the warm huckleberry
pies I will make throughout the cold dismal winter. My bucket is almost full;
my fingers stained purple with juice. I stop picking and sit there, idle.
The
sun shines, and it is hot even in this shady place. I am sweaty and the deer
flies are pesky, their tiny nips on the few areas of my exposed flesh a painful
nuisance. I long for a cooling breeze to whisk them away and wonder why the bug
repellent my husband sprayed liberally over me bothers me more than it does
them.
Moist
loam, rotting vegetation and the clean scent of evergreens fills my nose. I
listen to the voice of my husband and sons. They are picking, too, but small
trees and high bushes conceal them from view. What they are saying is
unimportant and I listen not to their words, but to the sound and bursts of
laughter that ring throughout the forest with the sweetness of church bells
calling the faithful to prayer.
It
came to me then, my epiphany. Hot, dirty, sweaty and sticky, I felt at peace,
contented with my life. I felt blessed to have my husband. A man who willingly
and happily upholds his half of our partnership. A man who feels as comfortable
washing dishes and changing diapers as he does building a fence. I feel awed by
my sons. Healthy, vigorous, happy children who don’t care which parent responds
when they call, “Mom” or “Dad.” I picked no more, but leaned back amongst the
berry bushes, closed my eyes and gave myself up to this joyful feeling. I didn’t
try to analyze it, wonder where it came from, or question how long it would
last. I just let it be.
This
tranquility didn’t last, of course. We had to return home to daily demands and
commitments, but somehow, the experience changed me. My sour grape default
settings were still in place, but there was a new button I could choose to
push.
I
found it is possible to find peace and serenity every day, if only for a
moment. The sight of my youngest son leaping into the air to grab the soccer
ball before it can reach the goal. The pride in his eyes when he reports he
received an “A” on the test he had studied so hard for. The sound of my oldest
son and his father cheering on their favorite basketball team. The satisfaction
of knowing he has almost saved enough money for a down payment on his own
home. Surprise and pleasure when my
husband unexpectedly brings me flowers. The feel of his hand on my hip as I
drift off to sleep. These are the things of which contentment is made. I search
for them each day.
Of
course, some days it is impossible to find even one small event to make me
happy. Everything that could possibly go wrong, has. When that happens, if
there is enough time, I bake a huckleberry pie. If the day has fled and it’s late,
my last stop is the freezer. I open the door and frigid air goosebumps my skin.
I uncover the huckleberry container, sniff their fragrance and pop a few of the
frozen purple orbs into my mouth. As they melt and I chew, the day’s
frustrations disappear as do the goosebumps. I am hot and sweaty, the laughter
of those I love rings through the forest and a feeling of peace and contentment
fills my soul.