Not Yet There

I have been thinking of escapes.  Packing a bag -- or not -- getting into my car and pointing the direction of milder weather, then driving until I stop.  Or -- locking my front door, crouching down in the living room with a bag of chips and my dance playlist and not coming out until every light bulb in the house burns out.  Or even -- taking a walk in the woods, turning off the trail and just keep going.  

This is the fragility of emerging happiness.  It needs such long periods of rest to survive its first few months of life.  When it rests, the rest of me is restless.  I feel like my brain itches as it tries to once again produce contentment.  

Today I spent some time with my friend and her toddler.  My friend is a model of calm, compassionate parenting.  As her toddler started to wind up for a tantrum because he couldn't go down the slide, she calmed him in such simple words as she rubbed his back: "Yeah.  I know. It's frustrating when you can't go down the slide.  Come on, let's have some water."  I wish I could capture her manner for my emerging happiness.  I think of it as my toddler emotion: unpredictable on the surface, changeable and quick, by turns delightful and maddening.  If I could have her manner, I could maybe start to see that what I think is unpredictability is really just a normal stage of development.  

But I am not a patient parent.  I wear out my emerging happiness, either by hovering protectively over it, or asking it to do too much too soon.  Then I start thinking of escapes.  Because, truly, it is frightening to put this toddler emotion to bed so it can get the rest it needs.  Somehow this last year I learned that there are countless unknown things ready to pounce on happiness.  Cats to steal its soul.  

But, I must remember, I am a ginger.  I can steal souls too.  Rest, emerging happiness.  Grief and I are going to catch up a little.  Grief's stay is so short these days, I need to pay attention.