Eye of the Tiger

I tend to whine. I readily admit this about myself. Usually about little things. Big things, I don’t whine about. Mostly because when it comes to big things I just want to lay down and pound my fists and heels against the floor while screaming at the top of my lungs. This, I know, is a temper tantrum, and unbecoming of any adult, no matter how good it make one feel from time-to-time. (This is the great secret that adults fail to tell children: we’re actually jealous of your ability to totally give into your emotions and just go with the moment.)

So, I tend to whine about little things. Thing is, often when I whine about things, something else comes along to show me how good I really do have it.

For example, this past Friday I was whining because my arm hurt and I felt like a slug. My arm hurt because I’d blown a vein trying to donate platelets and I felt like a slug in part because of the arm and in part because my hormones had been unable to settle for the last week and a half and in part because I had done nothing but drive the previous day. All told, little things, especially when compared to what was happening in the lives of other people I know, like David Ihlenfeldt, his wife Alise, and their two boys.

David is one of those people who helped make me the person I am, despite the fact that he probably only has the vaguest recollections of me. I went to school with David and his twin brother Donald from first grade until I received my Associate’s degree at a local community college and all three of us transferred to different universities to finish our Bachelor’s degrees. In grade school, I always had either David or Donald in my class. By the time the three of us were in high school, I associated more with Donald than with David. Still, I have fond memories of both Ihlenfeldt boys – memories of times when I was beginning to become me – despite the fact that our lives have moved on and apart.

Recently, I learned from my mother, who learned through her church, that David’s ten year old son Alexander suffered from a bleed on the brain. Along with untold others, I’ve been following Alexander’s story, as told by David, on http://www.caringbridge.org/”>CaringBridge>. Despite the fact that his family’s life has been turned upside down and they do not know what tomorrow brings, David provides updates with humor and a sense of hope. No whining.

It’s something to remember. Even in the darkness, there is light. Even in the midst of tragedy, there is laughter. Even when confronted with the unknown, there is hope.

It's something to remember, too, the next time you receive a bad crit, or your work is not received as you wish it to be, or you find a rejection in the mail. In the great scheme of things, these are small things and nothing to complain or lash out about. As long as there is food on your table, a roof over your head, and your family is healthy, there's not much else worth whining about. Not even for angsty writers.