Over
my 73 years, I’ve been fortunate to know a few people who, no matter what was
happening, always seemed satisfied, and I’m continuously envious of their lucky
lives. These are people who genuinely seemed at ease with wherever they were,
whatever triumphs or troubles were taking place, whatever the present moment
was bringing them. Almost always, they somehow seemed contented, and in a
sincere way. Even in sorrow, they appeared to be what I might call comfortable,
in the literal sense of being able to bring comfort to themselves. They seemed peaceful
with their sorrow, calm inside their unhappiness. Whatever was happening was
sufficient for them. They seemed to allow themselves to be saturated with each
experience, almost as if they were easily swimming in it, feeling the flow of either
happiness or heartache. They were – and are
- a fortunate few, these contented
ones, and I only hope something like their steady ease with all of life shows
up in me sometime soon.
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