Family, Life

Counting Only the Sunny Hours–From Now On, Of Course

Old Sundial Sundials.  I have one.  Carefully adjusted so that it tells the approximate time based on the position of the sun showing in the sky.  (When there is sun showing in the sky.)  It’s kinda fun, because, simply by moving the dish, I can tell the time in any part of the world; anywhere that’s important to me; anywhere my friends might live.

And like many sundials, from ancient times to this, mine has a motto recorded on its base: “I count only the sunny hours.”

Well, duh.  If things were different, I suppose they might call it a “cloud dial,” or an “overcast dial,” or a “grim-battleship-gray-sky dial.”

But it’s a sundial.

And it got me thinking about how we choose to live our lives.

One of the funniest memes I remember, about eight days into 2021 was that of an amusing little stick figure saying something like, “Well, I’ve used up my seven-day free trial, and I’m returning my copy of the 2021 program because it hasn’t met my expectations.”

Lord.  Wasn’t that the truth for us all, slightly over a year ago?

And yet here, about 50 days into 2022, I’d like to do the same.

January sucked, on account of a serious case of some bloody Covid variant or another.  A month of misery, when I felt incapable of doing anything, and during which, on more than a day or two, I thought I might die.  Thanks friends, family, and neighbors who checked up on me, who looked in on me, and who kept me going when I wasn’t sure I could do so on my own.)

February, as I came to feel somewhat more myself, was miserable due to intense (-9 degrees Fahrenheit on occasion) cold, catastrophic rain (2 inches plus on more than a few says), and blustery (40 miles-per-hour plus) winds now and again.  Coupled with that was “Lambing Hell Week” which began with stillborn twins, processed through an abandoned and apparently B-vitamin-deficient little girl (who’s currently in a pack-and-play in my bedroom, doing pretty well, thanks for asking), and ended (I hope) with an idiotic mother dropping her lamb into the water trough.  So that–for the first time in almost forty years–I came down in the morning to discover a lamb drowned and floating in the same.  (I don’t know what the odds are, but they’re slim.  Nevertheless, there it was.)

Yeah.  As I’m fond of saying: Everyone has a story.  And some of us have more than one.

So here I am, slightly more than six weeks into my Covid nightmare, almost to the end of February, and I think I’ve finally crossed the Rubicon.

I’ve survived.  Not only the stuff I’ve described above, but a number of other things too.  Several anniversaries; some dear to me and some ugly and which I’d rather forget (although, perhaps ,I cannot).  A couple of birthdays of people I’d rather not have lost.  The introduction of “Odo” (one of the lights of my life) into my world.  Anniversaries and remembrances I could have done without.  The joy of having discovered friends who love me, who elevate me, and who support me.

From now on, for their (and your) sake, I’m going to live my life in the sun.

The Sunny Hours.  Because the others, frankly, don’t matter.

 

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