Every so often, I listen to Leonard Bernstein's Candide, an opera he wrote back in the 50's. It is cunning in its wordiness and pseudo-classical music. Mostly, it is about the difference between form and substance. Candide is the ultimate optimist, looking for good everywhere, happy to lead a simple life. Cunegonde, his love, wants the trappings, jewels and yachts and champagne. They sing, oh, happy we, how we agree. Both wind up disillusioned (that's stripping away of the illusion, when you think about it), and land squarely in the reality of it all. The world is what you make of it. They plant their own garden. Not a bad idea. If I sat around here waiting for someone to show up with flowers, I'd be bitter and disappointed. Hell, I was bitter and disappointed for a lot of years, even in the midst of all the right things: four bedroom house, swimming pool and hot tub, German cars in the garage, five kids, middle management job, three piece suit husband, etc., etc., etc. The problem was looking everywhere for my happiness except where it lives, in me. Just because things look good doesn't mean they are good. Simple works for me. Not that I would reject the mega-millions if they landed in my lap. Just wouldn't expect that to change much for me. I can be just as miserable rich as I can poor. It's a choice. And today, happy, happy, joy, joy. Lawn mowing, watering, sweeping, cleaning up. Loving every minute of it.
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