An angel has to adjust his halo, polish it, check in the mirror to see that it's facing the front...and then he can get his wings.
Actually, the picture is a Shiba Inu (not me, I'm human, but I do own 2 Shibas and even though they are far from angelic, they're pretty sweet). I'm beginning to grow concerned about a few mentions regarding my book and the perception that I might have written about my experiences in a self-focused sort of way. Did I already blog about this? Maybe. At any rate, it's disconcerting to me that my desire to describe my emotions in detail throughout the search for Elmer Jackson's descendants, my meeting with them, and so forth would be anything other than what it was: elation at the prospect of healing and a vision of reconcilation coming to fruition. I don't think that I'm anyone's hero, but I will allow myself the gift of a slight pat on the back for following through with this journey that was far from easy. My hope, in writing about it, was to show that confronting one's demons, seeking closure and sharing the fascinating story of a man whose identity had been cast in a horrible postcard of his murder was a worthwhile path. I write in metaphors and am (perhaps, too often) blunt in my assessment of lessons in life's experiences. I'm a teacher, so maybe that's a natural tendency.
I have no halo to polish, I don't congratulate myself too often unless I'm reaching closer to my goal weight, I've made a great cheesecake (maybe those two things contrast too much with one another) or my sons show another sign that they're on pathways to becoming healthy, functional, happy young men. In cases like those, I think I'm entitled.
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