This morning I woke up thinking I love my life. With the sun streaming in my big windows overlooking the lake, I had to put sunglasses on to eat breakfast, or move to a different side of the table. I chose the latter.
I just finished reading Richard Ford’s Canada. I am haunted by the book. Just in time for Halloween, I suppose. It a provocative, memorable story, beautifully, precisely written. The first sentence set me off on an eager read.
First, I’ll tell you about the robberies our parents committed. Then about the murders, but they came much later.
Loosely put, it’s about how we become who we are, how much is outside influence and how much sheer determination, willpower, self direction. Who are we, anyway; who am I. I am lucky to have had parents who loved me in their fashion, who were not bank robbers or murderers. Just people who tried hard to be good. And succeeded, more or less. Education was topmost for their two girls and they did well there. I am lucky, as I said before.
On the other hand, they were a bit overwhelmed by my emotional outbursts, shyness, introversion, rebelliousness. They would be surprised how my life is now, how I am, I think. I can be just as friendly as the next person, just as quiet as I need to be. I love my work, especially when it is going well. And on and on. I like to think I had a lot to say in how I am now, some of the bad decisions as well as the good ones. It’s just . . . this is my life. It looks good from the window.
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