The Monday Bus

How many times have I said that I felt like I'd been run over by a bus (or a truck, or anything large and fast and brutal)? It used to be a common saying, although I don't hear it much any more, or say it, I still think it from time to time. Today, I woke up all too early (I despise time changes), but I woke up to a C.S. Lewis reading of the day about how Aslan joyously played with Susan and Lucy after coming back to life. I thought about the joy and laughter of creation, of life, of love and thought, "Oh yeah, I have my topic for today's blog." Then I was hit by the Monday bus. Monday mornings are - by their nature - full of grades, emails, things that much be done five minutes ago, and a daughter who texts and nags and calls and wants and interrupts - until I was in tears at my desk, feeling as if my heart or brain were simply going to explode. So much for Joy - or even mild contentment. I wanted to throw up. That extra hour I opted to spend in bed (getting up at 7 versus 6) came back to haunt me - Daylight Savings Time means I get up at the "same" time and run an hour late throughout the day.

I did get my work done, and got a reprieve on today's errands (Dana is staying after to dance her midterm and I have time on my hands). So, I sat down and wondered what I was so excited about writing about as I was dozing in prayer. Oh, yes, Joy.

I wonder what would happen if I truly acted on what I know - that this minutia really doesn't matter in the grand scheme of thing - that this clutter is simply dulling the shine on the Joy I should be feeling. I wonder if I'll ever have the courage to find out? Perhaps the elderly in psychological studies generally appear far happier than the middle aged because they finally got fed up and found the courage to act on that knowledge and found out what happens. Perhaps Joy happens.