I work at a mental health center - have for twenty plus years - and much of my work days involve other folks' sorrows. It's honoring work - I'm honored when people trust me with their suffering and allow me to teach them how to turn suffering into mere pain. When I come home I have to teach myself - over and over -how to let go of their pain and return to my own life. Some days I can do this easier than other days. I think maybe that last post was a day when I could just not shake off the day, week, month just past. On those days I wonder what it's all about, whether I'm any "good" at all. It's as if their suffering is somehow my fault - and, truly, I do know better. I know intellectually that I am not responsible - it's the emotional knowing that is more elusive.
It's a fine Fall day here in the southern Rocky Mountains. Worthy of my comment for sure.The scrub oak are jewels of ruby, rust, and burnt orange. It's that very glorious time of year where the autumn mingles with the season just past. The air is clear and dry, the sky is that incredible blue, and the day is just cool enough to wear long sleeves. No freeze yet, but soon. The wood is stacked on the porch, pumpkins are waiting to turn ghoulish, and herbs in pots still soak up the now, decidely southern, sunshine. Cornstalks by the front door celebrate and boast of our bountiful year. Golden aspen leaves that turn in one short day and glow on the black soil when they fall.
Small, simple pleasures for sure. And today I treasure them.