LATELY, I’ve had to parry a fusillage of negative thoughts created by the changing tides of community quarantine, its restrictions and how it has limited my independence as a member of the Sunset People.
Guys, I can still run like a cat after a mouse, and as the late Muhammad Ali once bragged, float like a butterfly and sometimes sting like a bee. But only now do I feel I’m truly down the hill, washed out and a useless burden to society.
For years after 55, I still felt I was a sprite brimming with wit and overflowing with contagious (not deadly) zest for life. Then suddenly, the pandemic turned me into an old woman.
I have always proudly carried my crown of silvery clouds—unashamed, unembarrassed and unapologetic about “growing old gracefully.”
Why am I talking this way today? Negative thoughts. No one is immune to this virus. It’s hard being reminded I must hide in the darkness of inactivity and lack of mental zing.
Don’t get me wrong. I thank everyone for handling me as if I were an 1800s Emile Jumeau “model doll.”
Don’t mind me. I’m just an oldie having a bad white hair day. I’d rather tell you that Sept. 13 is Positive Thinking Day. The tradition is a rainbow bridge that allows us to leave Negativity Land to cross to Contentment Land where a pot of golden positivity awaits us.
The tradition imposes disinfection of negative thoughts with the alcohol of kindness to self and others.
It requires that we all must be vaccinated with daily gratitude to make us see that grumbling only encourages the growth of Hopelessness Virus.
The positivity protocol includes giving thanks in all circumstances, smiling at people to uplift them and nurturing lovely thoughts.
It’s positively healing.