Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. 

The tools for renovation.

April 21, 2017


I've always been grateful that, for all my other shortcomings, I've never suffered much from envy. Sure, I admire and often wish for what I don't have (thick hair comes to mind, as does the ability to go on road trips without worrying about rest stops every two hours, and, you know, a savings account would be nice...that sort of thing), but it's never been all-consuming or kept me up at night. No, I have other worries for that. 


And it's not that I'm so comfortable in my own skin, because I'm not, though certainly moreso now than I ever have been. And it's not that I don't have regrets, because I do, on occasion, but I also know the futility of past-life-living and, really, who has time for that? 


But the other day I was struck so exquisitely with a sensation I could not name, that I hadn't felt often enough to assign it one, and only after a restless night did I realize it was by-the-book/Shakespearean-tragedy-level envy. (And, of course, it was brought to me by that devil-and-his-fiddle, social media). 


The post was a classic road-not-taken success story, one that could have been mine had I put one foot in front of the other at that last fork. The fact that I didn't, that I had so little interest in where that road led, made no difference to this pure, hungry, wasting, suckage of energy. 


And suddenly I was glad--grateful, even--not for the path I'd taken (because you cannot reason with envy; it doesn't work that way), but that this was the first time I'd really succumbed to this variety of sticky sweet poison. Because now I see how one could live and die by such a tempting, niggling addiction, and how difficult it is to turn your dealer away once the sweet singing begins. 







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