There's just no accounting for happiness . . .

Sunday, May 24, 2026. It's Sol's day . . . At 7 a.m. there was a lovely patchy fog in TulseyTown, lifting toward a sunny afternoon. Easy Easterlies are in the forecasts with warm mid 80's.

“A righteous use of the estate of the General Lee.” – Heather Cox Richardson in Letters From An American. A Memorial Day reflection.

Robert Reich’s Sunday Thought brought another reflection on Memorial Day. –

Bob Dylan turns 85 today, born in 1941 St. Louis County, Minnesota. His 69-year career has provided accolades as one of the greatest songwriters of all time, including a Nobel Prize. He continues to tour for live performances.

Today is also the birthday of Jim Broadbent. The British character actor and Academy Award Laureate is 77 today.

U.S. Poet Laureate and Nobel Prize Laureate Joseph Brodsky, was born on this day in 1940 St. Petersburg, Russia.

Yesterday was the birth date of poet Jane Kenyon. Today's blog is dedicated to her memory.

– Join Amanda Palmer as she reads Jane Kenyon’s stunning poem about living to the other side of depression. “Having It Out with Melancholy” is from Constance, Graywolf Press.1993.

Happiness

There's just no accounting for happiness,

or the way it turns up like a prodigal

who comes back to the dust at your feet

having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?

You make a feast in honor of what

was lost, and take from its place the finest

garment, which you saved for an occasion

you could not imagine, and you weep night and day

to know that you were not abandoned,

that happiness saved its most extreme form

for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never

knew about, who flies a single-engine plane

onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes

into town, and inquires at every door

until he finds you asleep midafternoon

as you so often are during the unmerciful

hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.

It comes to the woman sweeping the street

with a birch broom, to the child

whose mother has passed out from drink.

It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing

a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,

and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots

in the night.

It even comes to the boulder

in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,

to rain falling on the open sea,

to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

– Jane Kenyon, “Happiness” is from Otherwise: New and Selected Poems. Graywolf Press. 1955.