Optimism in a Time of War
I’ve been accused of misplaced optimism because I tend to find silver linings where societal expecations say one should not exist. I’m not special or anything, I just feel; a little despair leads to some healthy humility, and a lot leads to an emotional hangover.
My recent divorce exile came with the expulsion of my entire closet shoved into a large laundry bag and a few used paper grocery bags delivered via a mutual friend. Weary of continually torturing myself for the breakup—the onus is in fact completely mine—I shoved the homeless wardrobe into the trunk of my car where it has been sitting for over a week.
If you’ve ever had the experience of sipping on a coffee and crunching on a piece of toast and had a random solution pop into your brain, you’ll understand. For years I’ve been wanting to cull the clothes that used to hang in my closet. In their current state, a sad pile taking up space where I might need to hide from hitmen hired by my jilted ex, the necessity of the situation became an effective motivator.
Trunk lid open, I pawed through the garments when an idea hit me. I drove straight to the Goodwill and donated the lot. A bit radical, maybe. But the catharsis was fabulous. Not enough to assuage my guilt for dessimating someone else’s feelings, but enough to remind me that the path I’ve chosen does have a beautiful purpose.