Mission Impossible

Once upon a time in the land of make-believe, guts and grit saved the day.  Odds against  accomplishing  the mission  stacked high enough to abolish any thoughts of success.   Not to worry.  Fiction writers yanked those boot straps, reducing  the negative to dust.  Mighty Mouse saved the day.

Christmas can be like that Mission Impossible.  We play the music.  We serve up the sentiments, act our role, play our part.  Deck the halls, make the food, arrange the beds, think the perfect gift scenario for about 11 months a year.

This time the odds against are the reality of baggage borne through years of silence, festered anger, magnified slights, painful memories.  This time there is the look and feel of grungy reality TV , every one lives but no one wins.

That expression about ‘limp with resignation’ is on the menu board today.  Remember that prayer line I like so much…”forgiveness…for what I have done and what I have failed to do”…?  I have that thought every day and November 29 marks the day that I accept that forgiveness will never happen. Won’t?  Can’t?  Does not matter.  The result is the same.  A plastic pink Christmas tree trumps boughs of green and growing holly.

If you are a Gentle Reader visiting this blog regularly, you know that death visited five weeks ago.  You know that grief  invades with zero tolerance for hopes or dreams or myths.  Death cuts that swath so well described by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross.  Death makes us impotent and raging with anger at that impotence.  Death vomits up the mass that has choked and been swallowed.

No new beginnings.  No phony fits and starts towards understanding or acceptance.  No forgiveness.   The year that Christmas did not happen?  Feels that way…a deep and empty hollow place suffocating under the weight of that  ugly pink plastic.





Pollyanna Needs Her Bliss

I have no idea where the Pollyanna mystic began.  Probably a telling literary lapse on my part  but I do know that ‘Pollyanna’ has been both lobbed and hurled at me.

Because I don’t know the precise origin of Pollyanna, I cannot dispute the label.  But I do know that there is comfort in my ignorance (hurled) and in my bliss (lobbed).

A recent chain of family medical challenges did lead to several rants against flagrant mistakes, good-old-boy networks and obvious incompetence.   There was a huge temptation to blast through the blog using lots of  *%#@*.

You stopped those rants,  Gentle Readers, as you reached out in kindness, offering comfort and prayers.  Your response reminded me that Polly has served me well.

Pollyanna is my fallback, my rear guard.  When a situation baffles me, when my search for answers is futile, when I realize that there may never be a satisfactory answer, Polly is there.   She protects the belief that everyone deserves respect.  Everyone has a story.

My job is to contain the*%#@* in favor of polite courtesy.  Maybe that is clinging to my belief that good–like Mighty Mouse–saves the day.          Ouch!  Is that tongue in cheek thing suppose to pinch?