frustrate (v.) mid-15c., from Latin frustratus, past participle of frustrari “to deceive, disappoint, frustrate,” from frustra (adv.) “in vain, in error,” related to fraus “injury, harm” (see fraud). Related: Frustrated; frustrating.

Yesterday I told my husband I was frustrated. About what? He asked. Well, in part, him. I was frustrated because he wouldn’t let me vent about other frustrations. I found telling him this incredibly difficult, but I remembered a recent resolution (one of several rules posted on my refrigerator) to be honest. So I told him. I am pleased to say that he turned his full attention on me and we had a satisfying conversation, after which I was less frustrated.

My husband is the word man — our own personal dictionary — so it didn’t surprise me that he knew the etymology of frustrate. And no wonder feeling frustrated felt so wounding to me. No wonder that getting un-frustrated felt so healing.

This morning, reading around in the stack of books near my chair, I came across this poem and I was reminded that it (whatever I mean by it) doesn’t have to be so freaking hard.

It Felt Love

How
Did the rose
Ever open its heart

And give to this world
All its
Beauty?

It felt the encouragement of light
Against its
Being,

Otherwise,
We all remain

Too

Frightened.

-Hafiz

 

 

Christmas Trees

  by Robert Frost

A Christmas Circular Letter

The city had withdrawn into itself  
And left at last the country to the country;  
When between whirls of snow not come to lie  
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove  
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,   
Yet did in country fashion in that there  
He sat and waited till he drew us out  
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.  
He proved to be the city come again  
To look for something it had left behind   
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.  
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;  
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place  
Where houses all are churches and have spires.  
I hadn't thought of them as Christmas Trees.    
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment  
To sell them off their feet to go in cars  
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,  
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.  
I'd hate to have them know it if I was.      
Yet more I'd hate to hold my trees except  
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,  
Beyond the time of profitable growth,  
The trial by market everything must come to.  
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.      
Then whether from mistaken courtesy  
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether  
From hope of hearing good of what was mine,  
I said, "There aren't enough to be worth while."

"I could soon tell how many they would cut,     
You let me look them over."  

                                    "You could look.  
But don't expect I'm going to let you have them."  
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close  
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few     
Quite solitary and having equal boughs  
All round and round. The latter he nodded "Yes" to,  
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,  
With a buyer's moderation, "That would do."  
I thought so too, but wasn't there to say so.   
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,  
And came down on the north. 

                                    He said, "A thousand."  

"A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?"  

He felt some need of softening that to me:       
"A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars."  

Then I was certain I had never meant  
To let him have them. Never show surprise!  
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside  
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents    
(For that was all they figured out apiece),  
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends  
I should be writing to within the hour  
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,  
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools     
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.  
A thousand Christmas trees I didn't know I had!  
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,  
As may be shown by a simple calculation.  
Too bad I couldn't lay one in a letter.       
I can't help wishing I could send you one,  
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.

– See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19307#sthash.oPgxtrOu.dpuf