Remembering Kyrie

Decided to freshen the masthead. Think it'll do?

I heard a TV news segment this week about the rise of depression, and that got me thinking. My sister used to work in the Walgreen's pharmacy, where she says that she filled more prescriptions for anti-depression, anti-anxiety, sleep medication and Viagra BY FAR than any other meds. Not Lipitor. Not amoxicillin. Not Tylenol 3. Seems that the most popular prescriptions are not to biologically sustain life but improve the perception of one's life (a little pill doesn't change the circumstances, just the way we see the circumstances).

I completely understand that trying times warrant a little sleep aid or maybe a check on a whacked-out chemical imbalance, but sometimes changing our attitudes or breaking a cycle of negative emotional thinking can pack more of a wallop than a pill. Yet, changing our attitudes—developing our souls and psyches—is much, much more difficult work. The world is a tormented sphere; it takes effort to live with joy, effort to change my ugly habits. It's much easier for me to scowl at a rude driver than to smile at him.

Any truly joyous person you know could probably tell you a tearful, personal story of heartbreak and desperation, a story that could have kept him or her mired in misery. Somehow that person has made the effort to seek joy. So fascinating.

I hear a lot about the treatment of clinical depression, but I've never heard a word about treatment for clinical cheerfulness. The antithesis of depression is not nearly as prevalent, is it? Why is that? For example, not enough blood pressure? Problem. Too much blood pressure? Problem. Not so with the idea of the blues. No one ever has a problem with a case of the pinks. And I've never heard anyone apologize for having a happy day.

This weekend Chad & I and his family are participating in an American Heart Association walk in St. Joseph, Missouri. We're honoring his dear Auntie Ann who suffered a fatal, massive heart attack last April at the prime age of 53. She nobly worked as a nurse delivering bundles of joy in the maternity ward of the local hospital. She married the love of her life, raised four vivacious children, kept the faith come what may and loved on all six of her grandchildren. In the short time I had the privilege to know her, she, herself, was a bundle of joy to me, an example of a woman who made the effort.