Nulla dies maerore caret.
(Medieval)

Not a day lacks its own grief.

(pron = noo-lah dee-ays mai-roh-ray cah-ret)

Comment: Just scanning the last 24 hours: I have progress reports due for the
150 students I teach. Grief. A plane load of people must make an emergency
landing on landing gear that is not working in the LA airport (and do, safely).
Grief. The third largest hurricane in recorded history is aiming its fury at
Texas—millions evacuating. Grief. A colleague reports that in some circles on
the internet these daily proverbs and what I write are deplored by those who
learned Latin “the right way.” Grief. Refugees from Katrina are now double
refugees, fleeing Rita. Grief. Senators must now vote for the confirmation of
a supreme court chief justice. Grief. My students will take home their
progress reports today. Grief—for them, perhaps, for their parents, perhaps.
Some will hide them or throw them away. Grief—delayed.

You get the point. It doesn’t matter who we are, or what we do, or where we
live—life will present some struggle today, and it will be relative to all of
the above. And, relatively speaking, some grief seems hardly worth mentioning
compared to other griefs. I am reminded of what James Hillman said, again:
don’t hope. Hope won’t help. Struggle with what is. That is what makes a
difference. So, today’s grief becomes the stuff of life that we have to work
with. My stuff is all that I can work with. I cannot work with your stuff,
nor you with mine. Could be a great bumper sticker: my stuff—my gift. Choose
other descriptive nouns for “stuff” if you like. The stuff my life churns up
to work with is what makes my life, or anyone else’s interesting and worth
living.