People have tendency to broad brush because it strengthens their arguments. In reality, issues are seldom black and white, and people exhibit ranges of behavior, rather than single facets. It doesn’t make for good copy, and besides that, who really has time to learn about an entire person, much less a group?

Society is evolving. We don’t have time for block parties, we twitter. We don’t write letters, we send e-mail, sans punctuation. We are busier than our parents generations and yet we seem to accomplish less, and have fewer meaningful relationships. Life changes, but not always for the better. Advancing technology is not the same as progress.

I’m hardheaded, and a little stubborn. I have my own ideas about things, but who doesn’t? I’m not so stubborn that I won’t listen to an opposing view. I don’t feel the need to sell you my view and convert you. I agree to disagree, and it doesn’t keep me awake at night.

I’ve noticed a trend with some of the “stubborn” people in my life that I find amusing. They (four of them to precise) consider their own stubbornness to be an asset, and a testament to their character. In their defense, being obstinate can be a good thing, especially when paired with tenaciousness and perseverance. These people get things done. Ironically, when they find themselves facing off against other stubborn people, they tend to be contemptuous about it as if the other person’s stubborn streak is NOT an asset. Which makes me consider that stubbornness is not the issue at all, and being perceived as right and controlling a situation is.

And so it frequently goes, life is balanced with equal parts sadness and joy. Mysteriously, I seldom notice the balance, and tend to struggle beneath the weight of powerlessness. I suspect we tend to be mentally programmed strongly towards either happiness or sadness, not in terms of optimism or pessimism but regard to memory and the vividness with which recall the passing of our lives.I don’t view myself as an optimist or a pessimist, but a pragmatist, and perhaps an observer.

Today I received two shocking, unrelated pieces of news.

My sister’s husband, will undergo quadruple bypass surgery Thursday. He’s not even fifty. He has been under a great deal of stress the past three years. He has a potentially explosive temper (though I feel compelled to mention he is NOT a violent man). He has high blood pressure. And though I love her, he IS married to my sister (She is lovable, and exceedingly adept at button pushing. We shared a bathroom for eleven years, I know her. I am not judging her.)

The other shocking news; my husbands youngest brother taught my niece to ride a bicycle. It sounds tame, but this is big. My niece is twenty, and there were a few months of non-communication last year. No judgement on my part. It’s hard to be in between adulthood, and it has never been easy to be a parent. Period. So she wanted to learn to ride now because of a boy. No surprise. It isn’t pretty, but she can stay upright.

Tonight. I can appreciate the sadness and the joy for what they are, not some happenstance passive aggressive wormhole karmic fuck job. Clarity maybe? No that’s too much credit.

I’ve been hashing over the information about my Sister and her family and trying to guess who they need me to be and where I need to be for their benefit. I hate the hospital clusterfuck, but my decision will not be based on personal phobias. I know bypass surgery isn’t the same beast it was when my father endured it, but I also know its scary when your partner is lying in a surgical bed with bland sheets.

I won’t know who I need to be, until I talk to her tomorrow. Here’s hoping I read her correctly…. I’m also hoping my husband’s brother will read the bicycle lesson correctly as well, or at least recognize it as an opportunity to re-enter his daughter’s life.

Two days ago it was sunny and 84 degrees, today we are having snow flurries. Is mother nature going through the change?

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My spouse is in the midst of a nine day business trip. Bleh! In this economic climate, I’m not so blasé as to take job security for granted, but nine days is a bit extreme for his profession. I’m sure there are service wives out there thinking, “Nine days? Suck it up, sister! Nine days is nothing compared to a twelve month, (or longer) deployment.” And they would be correct, but I don’t miss him any less.

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In his absence, I completed numerous tedious tasks he will take for granted once he returns. Some of the tasks were important to me, most were important for us, all were thankless. I don’t need validation, but I find myself resenting the aspect of him that is praise-driven. Why is praise required for something you should be doing in the first place (picking up clothes off the floor, or cleaning dirty dishes?). Bleh, such is life.

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What compels us to pity strangers? I was shopping and noticed an older woman in the pet food aisle. She had a curvature of the upper spine common in women with osteoporosis and she was obsessing over cat treats, while wheeling around a thirty pound container of kitty litter. She could be perfectly content, yet I assumed she should be pitied because she represented what I don’t want for myself. Old. Arthritic. Alone. Crazy. Cat. Rancher.

Technically it’s spring, but in reality it feels like a preamble. A mysterious pre-season gap yielding a glimpse of better things to come. The oak trees haven’t leafed out, though the red buds and bradford pears look majestic. The backyard is reflecting the diversity one would expect from living in a bird sanctuary; woodpeckers, cardinals, wrens, tufted titmouse, juncos and others. The red tail hawk’s nest should be visible another month, until the trees leaf out.

The lawnvarious miniature organic growths are transforming into lush shades of green. The earth is saturated with moisture and the temperature teases of possible days in short sleeves and sunglasses. However, the single potted impatiens I nursed through the winter months, me of brown thumbs, has promptly died because my husband placed it outdoors prematurely. Two gorgeous days in a row, and the eager beaver is convinced that mother nature wouldn’t possibly betray our trust now…of course he probably wouldn’t place as much faith in her if had his own period to deal contend with. His heart was in the right place, and now the plant’s rightful place will be the compost bin.

I’m not really bitter about the plant, mostly amused. She of brown thumbs and terrible nurturing instincts, as if I could be anyone else?

I’m floating between blah and whatever. By no means is it debilitating, intoxicating, or boring, but it lacks the feeling of purpose. So I will return to the scribblings of my todo list, inconsequential as the tasks might be, until I forget purpose and simply become.