Wanted

For the past 30 years or so, almost every late August or early September a gray cloud begins to form over and envelop my head. Just like the dusty cloud of dirt that followed the Charlie Brown character, Pigpen, it follows me everywhere. Mine is a cloud of melancholy.  And like Pigpen or a person who wears too much perfume, I've become completely acclimated to it. It is an accepted part of my life. And, my friends, I am talking about a sorrow that is palpable enough to physically weigh me down. So, each year, about this time, I self-medicate by taking St. John's Wort, then I exercise to the point of exhaustion, and I throw myself into some furniture refinishing project or such, all in the hopes of staving off my depression. To date I've been lucky that it’s always just been a seasonal melancholy. Long before the snow falls I've regained my usual disposition. 

Over the years, I've done a self-analyzation and decided that it began as a young mother. Or maybe even before that. I never relished the return of the school calendar and its ability to prioritize my life. I've always adored the sweet freedom from any schedule that long summer days permitted. My happiest days back then were when I could take the kids to the beach for the day and forget about any clock or timepiece. 

But, when the leaves turned and the school bells rang, I would know just as sure as Bob Dylan that "a change is gonna come." Soon would arrive the long, cold Chicago winters and with it an endless search for matching hats, gloves and boots. My self-analysis also tells me it probably has something to do with the reminder that life itself is a set of seasons that passes all too quickly...

"Brace yourself," I said to me-self this year. "Ahoy! Batten down the hatches. There's a storm abrewin' and she promises to be a big 'un."

But, this year, the cloud, she did not come. A bottle of St. John's Wort stands at the ready, but yet unopened.

***

Somewhere out there is a story of a "wanted child." No, not wanted, as is a "most wanted" poster, but as a child who was wished for, as all three of my children were wished for...

This takes me back to this summer, as I watched the historic anticipated birth of the royal British Prince George. I remember that, as soon as it was reported that Kate had gone to the hospital in labor, the television cameras, journalists, tourists and "royal watchers" descended upon the area in frenzied excitement.  

My husband and I had some kind of chore or appointment that took us out of the house for a time that morning. I remember that I flipped the television on the moment we walked back into the house that day. I couldn't wait to share in the joy that the birth of this new baby would bring.

I also remember that it occurred to me that we all ought to be celebrating each and every baby's birth in a similar style. For each baby is born with potential for distinction, with a birthright of untold possibility.

This is what I posted eight years back, before I "forever quit" Facebook: 

Our cameras flashed in a paparazzi-like fury, as his eyes blinked helplessly. To us he was better than any superstar. He was our 1st grandchild...

For my husband and I, news of an anticipated grandchild is shear joy. So, this Fall season, no cloud will form o'er my head. In fact, my pendulum has kinda swung in the opposite direction, and so maybe, I think, I can take that St. John's Wort back for a refund. For this Autumn I am so, so happy.