Mud and Rainbows

Most rainbows come with some form of mud. The pride and amazement of watching your youngest clamber up the steps of the school bus with his big brother and sister, coupled with a sense of loss of his daily presence and prattling and of his babyhood. Some would say, focus on the positive. Skirt the pain. I'd like to be present with both.
The following poem was shared with me by my counselor, and it epitomizes the apparent contradictions of life's mud and rainbows, and the place for each. I do not know the author.

I loved my uncle's ranch when I was a child.

There was space to run unhampered

and freedom to explore.

The dust lay inches think upon the trails

and running barefoot down a path of sifted powder

was a sumptuous sort of feel.

The barn was my playground full of animated toys,

The loft was full of hay and mice and fairly friendly spiders.

The mint grew wild and plush beside the creek.

My auntmade berry pies

and the smell would seek me out

anywhere I played around the house.

I rode my cousin's palomino horse

through fantasies that never seemed to end.

If I'm careful, Lord, I can edit these thoughts and forget

that I got a bee sting when I picked the mint

and burned my tongue time and again on the berry pies

because I never seemed to learn and couldn't wait

that the barn smelled just awful

and the horse made my bottom sore

and the dust that felt like sifted powder

made me sneeze all summer.

If I'm careful, I can forget these things.

But if I'm wise,

I can remember that all of life has both things in it

and I may choose which part to hold to me.