The Curse of Happiness

Happiness can be a bane to serious writers. Take me for instance. During my battles with cancer and bouts of loneliness following Susan’s death, I wrote daily and posted a few times a week. I shared my jumbled thoughts and raw emotions with the world. I published four books in 2013.

Today I’m in good health for someone my age (62, but parts of me are in their 80’s). I can dance, run, swim, play tennis, mountain climb, hang-glide and skydive as much as I used to.

I no longer sleep alone, or in my son’s basement. I’m remarried to a wonderful woman who makes me so thankful to be alive. We met at the dance studio and still go there twice a week, plus cut a rug somewhere on weekends. We’re even doing a swing number in a showcase later this month.

I get to see my kids and play with most of my grandkids regularly. Cindy and I have a dozen of the critters in various colors, shapes and sizes.

My soul still wanders out near the edges of faith but I’m more reserved in sharing what I see. Lots of loose ends and frayed threads I’m afraid. But I also sense the solid reality of which our maps are sketchy outlines. Some day that reality will be our direct experience and we won’t fight over cartography anymore.

As a result of my many blessings, blog posts are way down. Facebook and twitter comments have plummeted lower than gas prices. I’m on track to publish one new book in 2015, a rhyming tale in the style of Lizzy the Leatherback.

I’m not complaining, nor coasting. I take nothing for granted and expect life to cycle around to darker times in due course. But for now I’m enjoying the ride on this tandem bike.


Like a kettle off the burner, I don’t have much to spout off about.


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