It’s been raining nonstop. Nothing too heavy. Just the steady downfall of a cold, gray January day. Yes, today the rain has been reliable. Consistent, like an old friend. And whereas I’d normally describe a day like today as murky or dreary, today I’ve thought of it as enveloping or comforting. Peaceful. For the last few hours I’ve been sitting in my chair, reading, next to my window. Besides the occasional whoosh of a car driving by, there’s been the pitter-pat of the rain. The soft, kind, let-me-wrap-my-arms-around-you pitter-pat of cleansing water. Nothing too heavy. An old friend.

This afternoon I went to Northwest Arkansas to see my upper cervical care doctor. First, however, I went to a used bookstore to sell, or at least try to sell, some books for my parents. And whereas the store later told me I could have parked right in front and avoided getting wet and paying the parking meter, I said, “Too late. I already did all that.” They had a look on their faces like, what a shame, but more and more I prefer what is. What I mean is that could-haves and should-haves are fantasies. I COULD HAVE parked in front? What a ridiculous notion. No, I couldn’t have, no more than I could have flown to the shop. Why? Because I parked somewhere else, and because I DROVE there. Could the sun have risen in the west this morning? Not in reality. In your head, maybe.

Yesterday in an effort to finish my leaf raking and bagging project before this morning’s predicted rain, I worked well past dark. This required a bit of strategery, meaning that as the sun was still up, I bagged the piles farthest away from the house. Then as the dark set in, I bagged the ones closest to the house, where my client had turned on their porch lights. Anyway, I kept thinking about how some people might be miserable bagging leaves at night but how I wasn’t. After all, I love the dark. Looking up, I could see the moon. I could see Venus. Plus, it was still, quiet. It was peaceful, like it is now by my window. Just the rustle of leaves and the sighing of my breath.

And the occasional groan.

After we exchanged pleasantries about our weekends, my upper cervical care doctor told me my graph looked fabulous today (which means he didn’t give me an adjustment). “It’s as good as I’ve ever seen yours look,” he said. “Maybe you should do yard work more often.”

Everyone’s a comedian.

“I’m not sure my ankle agrees,” I said, since my ankle and a number of other body parts have been sore today.

“Well, your body’s trying,” he said. “Just give it time. It’s old.”

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

This evening I read a delightful book I couldn’t resist buying at the bookstore this afternoon, Hector and the Search for Happiness by French psychiatrist Francois Lelord. A modern-day parable about one man’s (Hector’s) quest to find happiness, the book doesn’t ultimately propose a formula for lasting joy. It does, however, list a number of ways to increase joy in your life. For example, by spending time with those you love, or by doing something that makes you feel useful.

One of my favorite observations that Hector makes is “making comparisons can spoil your happiness.” Breaking this wisdom down, he says that we rob ourselves of happiness when we compare ourselves 1) to an imagined future, 2) to a remembered past, or 3) to someone else. For example, I could have really made myself miserable last night while raking leaves had I 1) wished I’d been inside drinking hot chocolate instead of stepping in dog shit, 2) thought about how much faster and more efficiently I COULD HAVE worked had I not screwed up my knee last year, or 3) looked at Facebook and pouted about the fact that I wasn’t on vacation in Cabo with MY hot boyfriend.

Which I don’t have, by the way.

That’s ANOTHER fantasy.

More and more I see how we make ourselves miserable by comparisons. It rains, and, because we compare this present moment to a memory we like better, we think the rain shouldn’t exist (and yet it does). Just like that, there goes your happy afternoon. There goes your chance to experience the peaceful pitter-pat. We wish our bodies looked different, felt different, behaved differently. Consequently, we miss out on how they DO look, feel, and behave. Despite all my sinus troubles and headaches, last night my body helped me make money, and this afternoon it ran me all over town. This evening it allowed me to read. Never once did it ask anything in return. I tell it it’s not good enough, but it continues to serve. It’s consistent. Like an old friend. If only I could be so faithful to myself and others. If only I could move through life like a gentle rain. Nothing too heavy. If only I could wrap my arms around this present moment with all it’s glory and terror, and then, when it is over, let it go as gracefully as a tree lets go of its leaves.