At three minutes after midnight, as my birthday passed, and the following day came into being in the dark of night, my telephone rang, and my daughter's words pierced my lovely complacency. "Now I know what it means to be inconsolable," she said, and went on to tell me Kai, now six months old, had his third or fourth (we've lost count) ear infection of the flu season and was screaming. She, his exhausted mother, was too tired to think, much less to act, after six months of staccato sleep and an inborn inability to nap.

We brainstormed a few ideas, she made some decisions, and returned to the job of mothering an inconsolable infant through a long, cold winter's night. I, who had attempted to console her through many an ear infection (and croup) during her first long, cold winter of life, could have gone back to sleep. In actuality, I didn't sleep for some time. I lay in my semi-warm and comfy bed, curled up with my pup, and thought about the felt difference in my body between a perfect and an imperfect day. What I noticed was that each was only an idea, just a thought manufactured in my infinitely creative brain, that named a day "perfect" because everything went well (or nothing went wrong, depending on where you take your stand) or "imperfect" because the baby had a miserable night with an ear infection.

The truth is that life is full of all manner of events that make a day what it is. Some days feel light like a feather, like dancing, like palm trees tossing their delicate fronds in the breeze. Others feel heavy like dread, like sorrow, and even like suffering, my own or the vicarious suffering I do for those I love.

The single thought, "Oh, no!" when the phone rang, and the anticipation that someone was calling with bad news, very quickly drew me off the course of lightness onto the path of feeling dread. My heart raced, my body tightened, my breath labored, my spirits sank, and, in my mind, the "perfect" day ended.

In reality, all days are perfect. They bring what they bring, they offer chances to sing or despair, to dance or to drown, to be light or dense. All of these choices happen in my mind. They are all within (if not my control then at least) my awareness and freedom to choose. I could have gone back to sleep, knowing Kai was in the absolutely wonderful hands of his Mummy, who was once in the wonderful hands of her Mummy, and so it goes back through time. I could have embraced the opportunity to thank the mommies, everywhere, who console the inconsolable children, and do their best to blunt their miseries in the dark of the night.

Instead, I noticed the perfect day pass away, and felt some regret or loss. Weeks later, upon reflection, I laugh at myself for the absurdities I impose on me, and too often.

Every day is perfect, even the days we spend with the Inconsolable Ones, perhaps especially those, for their need is our chance to serve a good higher than our own.

My beautiful roses and calla lilies are still in bloom 12 days after my birthday. I still notice them every time I pause in the day to feel gratitude. I will rue the day when the last petals fall, and they must be discarded. And I'll embrace all they represent, as well as embrace the call that arrives at midnight and asks me to serve the child in need.

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