Thank God I have my memories.
Not often while I am working on some tedious project a memory will pass through my mind. This one was when my oldest boy was about 15 and we were coming back from a sleepover with a few of his friends on Pine Island, a rustic, old-Florida sparsely-populated Island. Boys at that age can be annoying as well as hilarious, especially when they are having a great time.
The memory was watching how much fun my son was having, how happy he was, and how happy I was that I could provide a good environment for my son so that he was free to enjoy life the way kids should be allowed to.
I kept on to that memory, a sunny day with my SUV, windows rolled down, music playing and young guys laughing and having fun.
Do you have memories like those?
They are what make life precious, perhaps because they are rare, or perhaps because they are a reminder that the real things that matter have nothing to do with who the president is or when the climate will destroy us, two things among many that I have zero control over.
My memories are safe.
There is refuge.