That’s me.  Wallowing in sorrow like a pig in muck.  That’s what I’ve been doing.  Well, you know what?  My life isn’t about wallowing; it’s about joy.  The past ten days have seen me in a sorry state.  But why?  The weeks before that – beginning as far back as early January – were spectacular. Nothing extraordinary was happening.  I just felt good.  You know – the sort of good that makes every mountain of struggle an easy molehill. That kind of good.  Anything was possible.  And it kept getting better.

Until it all came to a screeching halt about ten days ago.

The Universe gave me a wee nibble of how exceptional life could be.  I was holding the most wonderful gift.  But as I stood there, wondering what to do next, in total disbelief that this was happening to me, the Universe reached down, snatched the treasure out of my hands and said, “Oops, sorry dear.  Did you think that was for you?  Sorry for the mistake, love, but you can’t have this.”

The Universe is a real tease.  (I’d prefer to use slightly saltier language right about now but it’s not my style.)

Hence the wallowing.

But what’s a chronic optimist to do?  Here’s the thing:  I can kick adversity’s ass.  My ability to put a positive twist on circumstances has driven my more pragmatic friends to drink.  I’ve been labeled a Pollyanna, naïve, vulnerable and, on occasion, just plain stupid.  I expect the best to happen.  Always.

It’s a curse.  There should be a ten-step program for people like me.

Because when the best doesn’t happen, when the errant curve ball I didn’t see coming slams into my chest at one hundred and ten miles per hour, it hurts like hell.

Still, I can only give myself so much wallow time.  As far as I’m concerned it’s better that I let my heart hold on to how wonderful it was to hold the gift at all rather than blacken it with all this feeling sorry for myself baloney.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

Besides, we really don’t know how these things are going to turn out.  Anything could happen.  Right?  Right.

On another note entirely this article in the latest Newsweek – the one with my beloved George Clooney on the cover – expresses my concerns about the development of Yoga in the West.

And when this article showed up on my Facebook feed I had to respond:

There is enough competition in life.  Enough opportunity to feel not good enough.  To feel a failure.  That is not why I practice Yoga.  I practice Yoga to open my spirit to possibility and to fill my heart with joy.  I practice Yoga to recover and to return to a place of peace when my life feels broken.

And sometimes, even a chronic optimist’s life feels broken.