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?