Looking for the Good ... and Listening to Find It

I was thinking this morning--today is Sunday, six days before you're reading this--that I am being silenced. Well, not me, actually, but my writing voice. I remember the early days of essays, when I wrote for the Peru Tribune, it wasn't always easy, but I could usually spill out a column in an hour. I didn't have--although I should have had--a proofreader, and I think sometimes Jeff Ward didn't edit what I sent in--and should have; he may have trusted me too much. Some of it wasn't so good. But some of it was.

I am, need I say, looking for the good these days?

Well, I've found some.

Saturday: We went to Open Mic at Gallery 15, which we do once a month. Sometimes, although not lately, Duane sings. Sometimes, I read. Mostly we listen. We look at artwork on the walls, at the ukuleles on a rack, we talk to people. And sometimes, something unexpected happens.

This time, it was a little girl with a wavy long blonde ponytail and a pretty sundress, sitting on the stage with a ukulele. Her mother and her grandfather were there. Bursting.

If you've loved a child, you know all about bursting, when your heart just won't hold still and you're pretty sure it's going to come right though your chest wall because you are so ... I don't know ... proud, moved, overwhelmed, completely in love? Maybe all of those.

Sunday: I went to church, which was good. It always is, but some Sundays are just more. This one included Suzie Baker's ham and bean soup. Then we went to hear one of the Three Old Guys singing with two other guys, and it was so much fun.

This week: We saw two of our five favorite grandsons and saw a picture of our as-yet-unborn great-grandson that showed his height is already in the 99th percentile. Judging by the length of his legs, I anticipate him walking at three months. (I might be wrong about that--you know how grandparents are.)

I have been so hungry for a steak, but unwilling to secure a mortgage to pay for one, but this week I had one when we went to dinner. I don't know if it was worth what it cost, but it was a quadruple hit--it was good, I didn't have to cook it, I didn't have to clean up after it, and Duane paid for it.

We saw deer on the road every day that we left home and didn't hit any of them no matter how bravely they dared us. The trees and the grass greened up right before our eyes. Wild violets lend little spots of purple velvet along the driveway.

There were stories this week. My daughter thought she'd run over a rabbit when mowing the lawn and was so upset that she'd killed it. When Jim went to look, he found the fur where she had indeed killed not a rabbit but a glove. I was so glad Kari, Jim, and the nonexistent rabbit lived to tell the tale.

When I should be working, I get drawn into the charms of YouTube. I've spent much of today with Celtic Thunder (I'm not sure how many times you can listen to A Place in the Choir, but it's a lot.) I've also listened to the Avett Brothers singing at the Grand Old Opry, to James Taylor and Carly Simon singing Mockingbird, and to Rick Nelson's sons singing Garden Party.

I'm old enough to understand that living in the past isn't a good idea, but recalling days or moments from then is a gift it would be foolish to ignore.

More than that, sometimes writers ... okay, sometimes this writer needs to worry less about losing my own voice and listen better to others. Listening is a lesson we learn in toddlerhood and should keep learning as we go along, isn't it?

It's Friday afternoon as I finish this up. It's tenuously connected, isn't it? As in hardly at all. But in a week beset with things that were hard to understand, hard to hear on the news, hard to accept, it was helpful to find the good when I went looking for it. I was happy to find something to burst about.

I hope you find it, too. Have a great week. Be nice to somebody.