Celebrating the Good

This last Thursday I turned 24—that’s not including the first 40 years, which Carl Jung calls “research time”—and passed the eye test at the Driver’s license bureau. (The young man behind the counter was exceptionally lenient with me.)

Another year older and, it is to be hoped, a bit wiser. I’m still learning, at any rate. My current lesson sounds cushy but is proving to be surprisingly difficult.

In all my life, I’ve never not lived by a budget. A budget in which the bills got paid first and if there was any money left, I got to buy groceries. And there were some very slim times in the past.

Now the freezer is full, the pantry stocked. The only deterrence to eating is an ulcer and lack of appetite. A manifestation through the body of resistance of the mind. What an enviable life lesson to be learning!

Well, another year older and certainly grateful. Grateful for our break in hot, dry weather. Grateful for family and friends (the family we get to choose). And grateful for you, dear heart.

My daughter wrote that I should celebrate myself on my birthday. I agree. In the coming week, may we focus on celebrating the good.

love, chelle

Playing for Change kids around the world singing “Celebrate” at

3 thoughts on “Celebrating the Good

  1. Been a little on the down physically but did not forget th day of your birth. Pooh and Eore send loving feelings as well.

  2. Happy Birthday! Thanks too for the shining, joyous, hopeful, indomitable faces of the children singing. So long as we keep our own Free Child alive and singing in our soul, we shall always overcome. I’ll be 75 next month–so, 11 more years of hard knocks than you. Most of my working life I’ve spent at or near the bottom of the corporate food chain (when not unemployed), and finally, finally, this coming Wednesday I liberate myself from wage slave hell! Praise the Lord! I have been truly, truly, truly BLESSED! Here’s a poem I dedicate to me–and to YOU!

    SOME BANNERS

    Some banners aren’t cheered by the multitudes.
    No bugle or drum roll accompanies their raising.
    They’re not smartly stitched with bright insignia
    nor hoisted aloft up a thick, glaring-white pole.

    Planted on forgotten hilltops in the wilderness,
    soiled, tattered, never belonging to any nation,
    they still stand, yet wave. These flags consecrate
    unsung victories, won by the heroes of the soul.

    *** — Bob

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