I Survived Again

Today, I was able to supply food and shelter for my own, and I am glad. I could not buy much else, but the lack is not life threatening. I look forward to another day, and trust that I will be as fortunate as I was today. What pleasure is mine, we are fed, warm, and dry.

When I am tempted to become anxious about the stuff of life, I consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they have no income, neither can they make clothes. Yet, King Solomon in all his glory was not dressed like one of them. If God will take care of the grass of the field, which today is green, and tomorrow is dried up and gone, shall he not look after me?

There are many things that I cannot have and do, I have accepted that, but at the end of each day, I get great satisfaction from knowing that I survived again

A Fine and Fragile Line

There is a fine line between feeling good about one’s self and haughty pride. One side of the line is an uplifting asset; the other side is a weight against personal progress and collective tranquility. One must feel enough self worth to be confident enough to accomplish. However, one must be careful that healthy self-esteem does not become demonstrable egotism.

Feeling good about one’s self, gives one reason to feel that, what one starts, one can finish. Self respect coupled with wisdom gives one the will to venture, and this wisdom prompts one when not to advance. Part of us proclaims that assertiveness is the thing; another part teaches that the meek shall inherit the earth. Some of both make the better mix.

None of us exist in isolation: one must not only be concerned about one’s own good, but also the collective good of many. Crowds will follow a man who seems to know where he is going, and many will compliment him when he is meek about his trip, but a braggart is joked about behind his back.

Life at its longest, when judged along side eternity, is shorter than a Pentium cycle. There is not much time to make one’s mark, and for sure one cannot manhandle the making of it. Many times, a mark is made without conscious deliberation.

I am not the best at what I do, but I think that I am good enough to chance; and my being would be stilled if I thought my work would not be noticed. Yet, the knowledge that some are better, keeps me on the favored side of the fine and fragile line. It’s altogether right to know that one knows, as long as one knows what one does not know.

The Cats Get Some

Recently, a pair of birds made their nest and raised their young at our shop. I acknowledge that I cannot read the wrinkles on a bird’s brain, but it appeared that when the mother bird perceived that her nestlings were physically mature, they were pushed out of the nest. Most flew off to do what birds are supposed to do, but the cats got some.

I wonder if the children of each generation delay their maturity until they are allowed to learn from their own pains and pleasures. If parents were willing to let them fail out-loud, more of our children might make us proud. When it is one’s time to fly, one must be resolutely urged to try; full well knowing that the cats will get some.

Struggling To Copy a Log

I regularly begin a life-altering trip that is sometimes plagued by potholes and other interruptions. Even as a child, I may have resisted a natural urge to go to sleep. I am not sure that I understand the full weight of sleep, or the lack of it, on one’s way of living; I don’t know, for certain, if it is more of one’s body or more of one’s mind.
I remember the anguish that I at times experienced as I seemingly struggled with the dark in an attempt to journey, from the conscious, toward mental oblivion and physical repose, and I have in the day hence, when the trip did not happen, suffered by weariness of both mind and body. Often times, when morning finally came, I felt as if I had wrestled with an alligator throughout the night.

I made the trip on the back seat of an automobile while traveling to further places, I made it on a king size bed at home, and one time, I made the trip while sitting in an antique rocking chair. However, I am not as mindful of the consequences of a trip completed, as I am of a try that was unsuccessful.

Many times, in the small hours between midnight and dawn, I would have given all my stake for one short stay in that sometimes elusive place of sound slumber, a symbolic place, that has been called the well of renewal. A present goal is to perfect the art of suspending the conscious, and to awake refreshed with no recollection of the interim

Spring Is Coming

The peach trees are pink at our place. The pines are displaying their sexuality. A dusting of mustard green pollen makes it a great time for finger writing. Winter is winding down. The weather was near freezing only a few days ago. It was raining and miserable all over. I could not get excited about any outside activity, but today, I saw robins vying with the earth for the worms in our yard. The sun is shining. The azaleas are budding. The woods have a faint green tint. Soon the naked branches will be covered with fresh new clothes as nature starts over again.

When I see the beginnings of a new botanical cycle, my mind is nurtured by the weathered knowledge that good times are on the way. I wish I could understand the goings on of nature, I do not, but I know, for sure, that spring is coming; it is not far from here now. It has followed winter as long as I can remember, and I will expect it as long as I remain. There seems to be an inherent sense that makes springtime special. I feel drawn to dig into the earth and be a part of the new awakening. When dry seeds sprout, my faith in the miracle of creation is renewed once more.

At a time, when global catastrophes happen all too often, when people and relationships alter their course without forewarning, and when the landscape constantly changes to accommodate the newest progress, I look for some predictability in the events that affect my stay here. I don’t always find it in the consequences of human choice, so I look for it in the physical laws of the universe.

I am so pleased with the world that God built, and I feel secure in His omnipotence. Spring is coming, and I will depend on it.

Goat Feeders

Several years ago, I heard a comedian refer to the, designed with men in mind, porcelain appliances that hang vertically on the walls of men's public rest rooms as goat feeders.

Some years later, while working at the Love Field Airport in Dallas, I mistakenly went into an occupied room whose door label did not match my gender. One of my duties was to see that all the rest rooms were clean and properly stocked with supplies. I had assigned one of our female workers to check the ladies' rooms. The men's rooms, I checked myself. It was my habit to dart into each of them as I passed while performing another of my tasks. Apparently, my mind wandered, I embarrassed, and I was  embarrassed. I hastily exited as the blood rushed to my face.

An indelible reminder has become a part of my mind. I am now uneasy when I  enter any rest-room until I see the goat feeders hanging in their appropriate places. Moreover, I am aware that I consciously look for them before I relax.

Even today, as I go through the many doors of decision, I expect icons, like goat feeders, that will indicate that the places I frequent are unquestionably right too. Yet, I know from hindsight, had I taken care to acknowledge the signs, some visual and some derived by reason, I may have entered with confidence, or may not have entered at all.