My wife C. sings and dances in a group that is obsessed with musicals.
Of course, when you dive headlong into the world of showtunes things tend to spin out of control once in awhile.
Unfortunately, I'm the type of unobservant, word-obsessed dolt that can completely miss this 'live-life-to-the-fullest' stuff without even realizing it.
But even I couldn't ignore the obvious when C. started bringing home outlandish shoes and boots from the Sally Ann which she then spraypainted an even more outlandish, glittery gold.
This from a woman who was wearing a pair of striped overalls, a ragged t-shirt, and gumboots when I met her across an orienteering pond during staff training at summer camp a million or so compass spins ago.
Anyway, after I finished cleaning up the gold-embossed newspaper that was all over the basement floor, I asked C. what this all about.
She just said something to the effect that being outlandish at least twice was actually double the fun.
I had my doubts.
But then I saw the group perform, and it become abudantly clear that they were having more fun than was supposed to be humanly possible.
Unfortunately, one person who is not having so much fun this season is my wife's friend K.
K. has been unable to make it to rehearsals because she is very ill.
So C. makes regular trips to take K. soup and stories, and solace I think.
Once, she even took her a poem:
splendor that most don't see,
little everyday miracles,
like the blossoms on a tree.
Things like children's laughter,
and the sparkle in their eyes.
Things like rising and setting sun,
when vibrant colours streak the sky.
So when you see a sun set,
or the shimmering morning dew,
think of it as beauty,
that was created just for you.
Our oldest kid, E., who is just edging her way out onto the precipice of her teen years, is growing up with the constant clash that comes from inheriting the 'live-life' gene as well as this 'word-obsessed' introspective business from her two parents. Luckily, E. also has something else; something far more special that is hers and hers alone.
And you can see a glimmer of that something special in the poem that E. wrote for K.
Which pleases me more than you can know.