This is a sappy blog, and it was well overdue.

The last good day I had was back in 1994, in October, on a Thursday afternoon. I was in line at McDonald’s waiting for a milkshake, and the man in front of me turned around and gave me $15 because he liked my smile.

That is an absolute lie.

I have no record of good days versus bad days. I just try to get through them, either way. Like the rest of the herd.

I was reared by a bona fide cynic. I got it honest. Our world view was as follows: Bad day…well, at least, it’s only got 24 hours to live. A good day…well, same deal.  So, wipe the smile off your face and a) get back to work, or b) quit slouching in the pew and sing out.

Sounds drab and pitiful, doesn’t it.

But, of course, this is what Memory does to the average, plain moments of our pasts. What I call the day-fillers. You know, those parts that at the time we live through them we don’t really give much credo to them until one day, someone reminds us of a “moment” and all of a sudden, as we sift through those “moments” searching for a thread of recognition, we notice that we’ve rolled them all into this big, cerebral, massive chunk that we’ve labeled the “good old days?”

For some reason that changed this week for me. Because I noticed that each chunk, when broken back into its respective pieces was really the life I thought I was missing. Those weren’t just days filled with aimlessness and detritus of ennui and structure.

Those day-fillers, they were, and are, the real memories. The Full Life.

And guess what? That Life, those memories, both are completely at our mercy, at the feet of each and random whim that crosses our minds.

I’ll try to unpack that a little.

I used to have such angst or dread, and worry and stress, and fear and disregard for mornings, and evenings, and work, and…you know, that crappy substance that is day-filler, those aggravations, second helpings of cake, family photo albums, funerals, boring conversations and grocery store encounters, traffic jams, looming deadlines, burnt suppers, and egg hunts we all experience but seem to forget until some fine spring morning bursts onto the scene and we spend half the day rubbernecking about the “way it was.”

Last week, I found out that before it “was,” it’s the “way it is.”

(God, this kind of cheese is better suited for a piece of toast, but work with me…I’m new at this sort of self-discovery).

Because I swear it never really occurred to me that I was like the CEO of my Conscience, and in charge of my Memories.

What a simple, yet startling revelation.

All this time, I faced each day with headache and reality-wrestling because those days were inevitable. And how on earth do you fight what can’t be changed, right?

Well, here’s how: you remind yourself that each day has more than one hour, and each hour can be its own.

This past weekend, I hit a point where I fully became aware of the approaching upheaval I not only designed and created, but invited into my life. I have no idea what all is about to happen to me, in the next few months. I’m walking away from comfort, stability, and completely throwing myself into the spotlight of a final curtain call. (Aaaaaaaaaand, scene).

But, like any natural disaster, the following day when the sun comes back up and apologizes, there’s nothing to do but the doing, left. I’m leaving home, leaving Starkville (again), leaving, period. However, this time, I’m moving with purpose (that old theatrical adage), and I’m actually going to take time to stop when it feels too heavy, too overwhelming, and smell the roses.

Or, in my case, the wisteria. (Is this making any sense? My editor is gone this week…)

In my weekend clean-up of an, as of late, neglected house, I collected many items such as clothes, trinket-things, alarm clocks, candlesticks, etc. and instead of finding some other unnecessary place to put them, decided to donate them. (In this case, to the 50-some-odd victims of the terrible Crossgates fires, out on Highway 82). And unlike a typical donation, I gave away things I still wanted, still used, and you know what, it felt great.

I wasn’t expecting that.  But…

…doing good things really works.

And I can do a little good, everyday.

I can make “good” a part of the typical routine of conducting the “business” of myself. That’s a memory I can make for myself, and I can do it right-out, upfront, on any given day, regardless of the traitorous time-stealer than any job becomes.

Whether it’s donating things, smiling back, saying thank you, wishing someone well, sending positive thoughts, or, dragging the wicker chair off the front porch and putting it under the wisteria in the front yard and reading a book. (Thus, the above comment about wisteria).

Did you know: Until this past Sunday afternoon, I had no real idea how many people walked right by my house. Amanda and I are so often too tired to appreciate the yard, after working all day (even though we plant our own vegetables and herbs and flowers, each season). It’s as if we just reserve a little energy for that one long, backbreaking Saturday and plant everything at once…to be done with it.

That’s the problem, I’ve realized.

And I have a feeling that’s about to change. Now that I’ve figured out that time really is a gift, a privilege, not a task-master.  

I had no less than six people stop to say Hello, as I sat under my wisteria, facing the magnolia (our house really couldn’t be more Southern). They had such nice things to say about the yard, though it’s in progress, and some asked what all I’d be planting this year. One man even offered to finish raking for me; I’d started that process earlier that morning. (Of course, I realized his offer was only partly in my favor).  

They all, however, gave me a deeper sense of satisfaction about the amount of time I’d spent on the yard, even though I’d done that out of guilt and responsibility. But, the way their comments settled on my mind spilled a little downward, to my heart, and I didn’t feel burdensome, anymore.

I felt invigorated.

It wasn’t a chore; it was a choice.

And that’s my motto for this spring, with its cheesiness and all. There’s a lot I can’t change, but my goodness, there’s so very very much I can. So much so, that I had to ask myself: Why the hell haven’t I been?

My answer: I hadn’t read Epictetus yet.

So, whether it’s a shovel, a gift card, a pat on the back, whistling a tune, prayer, an email, words of encouragement, or continuing to read an irregularly written blog like this one, it’s not hard to do good, for others.

Being good…well that’s a different story.

Let’s just shoot for doing good, for now, shall we?

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