So there I was, whinging and whining and bemoaning my place in this unjust and nasty world we live in, when I looked out of my window and saw picture-book clouds (admittedly building up into a storm), that had turned bright pink in the glow of the sun setting over The City Beneath the Mountain. My heart scrunched at the beauty of it.
At the same time, I received a Real Work e-mail with photographs of a woman living in a faraway rural area with little access to anything, let alone medical help, who is having a nasty skin reaction to her medication. I cried. Not purely because it looked so sore and uncomfortable, but because of her eyes. They were dull. Not blank dull but the kind of dull that reflects a life of poverty, harshness and struggle.
I landed back to earth with a bump. How dare I be miserable in my kushy (sp?) job, a warm home with full cupboards to go home to, people who love me on the end of numerous telephones, all with their accounts paid? How dare I get cross because my personal space is forever invaded? Those people care for me, anger is not allowed.
So I cried, deep down crying, and pulled myself up by my bootstraps and made a vow with myself to spend more time finding nice things to do, for me and other people, and to spend less time navel-gazing in a quagmire of self-indulgent misery.
Forgive me for making you all (my two readers) have to be audience to it.
1 day ago