When I think about the periods of upheaval in my childhood, or that of my own kids, or my marriage, it feels heavy. There are photographs that stir up those memories, and the confusion that reigned. We have one of when I took the twins and Zack out to dinner, after Benjamin finally landed in the hospital. Everyone is smiling over pasta, but it is a thin veneer covering panic.

Yet there are other chunks of life that are sunny with no clouds. Vacations when the biggest hurdle was which kind of ice cream to get. Graduations that erased all the angst over late papers. Birthdays when the world revolved around one precious six year old. 

Am I a chameleon, or are both scenarios real? When my mom was her true self, she was my biggest cheerleader. But as the winds blew her over the edge she was, well, scary. 

It can seem schizophrenic to speak about both sides of life, and yet there they are. Must we let one bleed into the other, or can celebrations be celebrations? Allow despair to be undiluted with false optimism? 

The cycles of every day since the beginning of time, full eclipses notwithstanding, pay tribute to this dichotomy. Morning is bright with no apologies. Nighttime brings darkness. No exceptions. 

Perhaps I can take a cue from the animals. They seem accepting of the swiveling sun. I don't notice them railing against the shadows, but rather evolve to have nocturnal eyes, and retreat into caves. They know on some deep level that no matter how black, how cold, it is not forever.