I am not nice

It is strange to have a few weeks go by where everything seems alive. I keep looking over my shoulder like Edmund in The Count of Monte Cristo, because this is a day that is to perfect. I wonder if I should create some disaster or break down, because I don’t trust myself. Am I forgetting the problems in the world? Am I being selfish in joy? Is God in it?

I can’t remember when I was last like this and I can’t help but mine for personal failures. Tell myself things like, “you didn’t respond right away to a baby,” or “you will forget to pay a bill” or “Someone is only being nice because you are wearing make-up.” I can assure myself that there are lurking evils to help adjust me back to the feeling that life is “just okay.”

Why? Why not sit in awe of God; accept that someone else’s struggles are their own, that I can laugh and find my way even in darkness. I am capable and alive and ready for more colors of hair, more improvised songs, and even the rough moments of screaming kids.

Maybe my well is full, or Julia Cameron is getting under my skin or I am ready for something bigger then me to provide me with direction. I am running the Chicago marathon, I am taking depression meds, I am listening to God and I am writing. It all feels overwhelming, as I let go of people’s smirks and give in to saying the wrong thing, so others will no longer think I am nice.