She gets angry, oh so angry. She is kicking the table legs, throwing sand on the playground, staring you in the eye as she defies directions. She swishes her head away and up in the air, with a big "Humph!" and crossing of her arms to add an exclamation point to the end of a sentence that is already exclamatory enough. Her tone starts at whiny and ends at petulant. Her joy is the exception now, rather than the rule. For some reason, her world infuriates her, all the time. Calm is a fighting word. Even when she is laughing or happy, it is more of a defiantly triumphant pleasure than pure joy.
The people around her who care are perplexed, and out of patience. There is always something, and it is always making her oh-so-unhappy.
We think if only we knew what it was, we could fix it.
But what we do know is love, and this we give freely, sometimes with patience, sometimes with impatience. But if we offer it, love and calm, like stroking a frightened upset animal, it will eventually settle on her, a mantle of sorts, maybe temporary, maybe more.
I always believe that in the end persistence is pervasive, which can be a very good thing, because the ideal is that the love and calm overcomes the fury. And we see once again the bright shining well past the darkness, so that is what you see first and last and most.