In the grand scheme of things I have so many things to feel happy about – and I do, however, right now, in this moment I feel incredibly sad.
It’s the little things that trigger it.
If I were to recount them you may shake your head in disbelief or even laugh at my attention to seemingly futile things. But, in this minute, they are not minor.
I’ll share two of my recent triggers to sadness. I was sharing a neighbour’s birthday celebrations and she has been the most wonderful and kind woman to my son and I over the years, then I found myself in floods of tears (much as I am while I am writing this). Mrs H is now 83 years old. She reminds me of the quiet but strong matriarch of an Italian dynasty. She lives alone across the street from me, well that is the theory – her children, grandchildren and hordes of relatives are constantly visiting, staying over and looking after her.
Well, this woman, with a multitude of her own family has taken a shine to my son, and every birthday (they share the same week) there is an exchange of gifts. Also, when Mrs H goes on her family holidays around the world she always brings a special present back for Morgan. She is so kind and lovely.
I have thanked her endlessly for her thoughtfulness and generosity. As the head of such a large, also generous, family I realised she has everything she could possibly need – she has repeatedly told me this as well. So I decided to write her a letter instead of just signing the usual birthday card with a few platitudes.
This is when I first started crying uncontrollably.
I wasn’t writing anything sad, on the contrary I was remembering her kindness over the past decade and more. I managed to prevent the tears splashing on the paper and smudging the ink but I still had red eyes when I went to deliver it with her box of chocolates (her one indulgence).
Writing that letter took me way beyond this street and Mrs H’s kindness. That’s why I cried.
Then later on in the same day there was a minor accident. There was no bloodshed or bones broken. What happened was a key ring got trapped in the door and smashed my heather fob. It’s true, nobody died. I’ve just had it as a treasured gift for these past four years and I was used to it, it meant a lot to me. It’s just Scottish heather and there’s plenty more where it came from but it still made me a little sad.
So there you have it. Writing letters and missing Scottish mementos can make me cry. Who’d have thought?!
It’s the little things that trigger it.
If I were to recount them you may shake your head in disbelief or even laugh at my attention to seemingly futile things. But, in this minute, they are not minor.
I’ll share two of my recent triggers to sadness. I was sharing a neighbour’s birthday celebrations and she has been the most wonderful and kind woman to my son and I over the years, then I found myself in floods of tears (much as I am while I am writing this). Mrs H is now 83 years old. She reminds me of the quiet but strong matriarch of an Italian dynasty. She lives alone across the street from me, well that is the theory – her children, grandchildren and hordes of relatives are constantly visiting, staying over and looking after her.
Well, this woman, with a multitude of her own family has taken a shine to my son, and every birthday (they share the same week) there is an exchange of gifts. Also, when Mrs H goes on her family holidays around the world she always brings a special present back for Morgan. She is so kind and lovely.
I have thanked her endlessly for her thoughtfulness and generosity. As the head of such a large, also generous, family I realised she has everything she could possibly need – she has repeatedly told me this as well. So I decided to write her a letter instead of just signing the usual birthday card with a few platitudes.
This is when I first started crying uncontrollably.
I wasn’t writing anything sad, on the contrary I was remembering her kindness over the past decade and more. I managed to prevent the tears splashing on the paper and smudging the ink but I still had red eyes when I went to deliver it with her box of chocolates (her one indulgence).
Writing that letter took me way beyond this street and Mrs H’s kindness. That’s why I cried.
Then later on in the same day there was a minor accident. There was no bloodshed or bones broken. What happened was a key ring got trapped in the door and smashed my heather fob. It’s true, nobody died. I’ve just had it as a treasured gift for these past four years and I was used to it, it meant a lot to me. It’s just Scottish heather and there’s plenty more where it came from but it still made me a little sad.
So there you have it. Writing letters and missing Scottish mementos can make me cry. Who’d have thought?!
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