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Embers to Bonfire: Kindling Hope in the Later Years
Today, dear friends, I confess to a touch of laziness. The sun paints long, warm fingers across my windowsill, tempting me to simply bask and breathe. It’s a privilege earned, this slowing of the pace, this savoring of quiet moments. Like the setting sun itself, I’m entering a new phase, a golden time bathed in a different kind of light.
And as I sit here, the words of the prophet shimmer in my mind: “And afterward, I will pour out my Spirit on all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions.” (Joel 2:28) It’s a promise that transcends age, a reminder that life’s embers hold an ever-burning spark.
Though my steps may not be as sprightly, my heart brims with the same wonder as those young visionaries. Every sunrise ignites a fresh curiosity, every wrinkle on my hand whispers a story. The world, with its vibrant tapestry of experiences, unfolds before me like a well-worn yet precious book, each page whispering secrets meant to be shared.
So, dear friends, don’t shed tears for a slowing pace. See it as a deepening, a chance to savor the richness of each moment. Let us all, young and old, embrace the dreams that dance in the twilight, the prophecies whispered on the wind. For the embers of our lives, when fanned with love and hope, can still ignite a bonfire that warms the generations to come.
Remember, the Spirit knows no age. It flows through the laughter of children, the wisdom of elders, and the quiet contemplation of a golden afternoon. Let us open our hearts to its embrace, and together, dream dreams that paint the future with vibrant hues.
Fading embers
Sunlight spills through the dusty window, painting a warm rectangle on the worn chair nestled against the far wall. My wife, the girl I chased fireflies with under endless summer skies, sits there, dwarfed by its embrace. “Are you alright, love?” My voice trembles, the question hanging heavy in the air between us.
“I don’t know,” she murmurs, her voice faint, carrying the weight of years in its quietness. Sleep descends, her eyelids fluttering closed. My eyes track her movement, shifting from the computer screen in the room’s center to her peaceful form in the chair.
At my feet, our old dog, a loyal she, snores softly, her breaths shallow with age. She finds solace in this quiet corner, oblivious to the winter gnawing at the edges of our lives. Outside, the trees stand stark against the bleak sky, skeletal fingers reaching for the gray clouds. A chill seeps in, mirroring the one deepening in my bones.
Silence settles over the room like a thick cloak. We are two figures adrift in a sea of unspoken anxieties, waiting for the tide to turn. My fingers hover over the keyboard, yearning to capture this scene, to bottle the bittersweet ache in my heart. But the words dance just beyond my grasp, as elusive as the youthful laughter that once echoed within these walls.
Chasing Sunsets and Dust Devils: A Day in the Life of a Man in Paradise
It is a brisk February day here in my little corner of paradise. Woke early and had coffee and cake with Snookums, my loving wife of two score and four years. She still is showing some signs of improvement and is learning to adapt to her handicap. A little chatting and sipping, and then into the studio to complete my morning routine.
We went shopping for the first time since the stroke yesterday. We didn’t get much, just bed sheets and some greeting cards. She had a time of that in the days leading up to the trip. She knew she needed to go to the store, but was having trouble remembering why. But she did well with the trip in spite of the bitter cold. I gave her a little coaching in the self checkout, but she did it without the usual frustration in trying to recall steps. If she doesn’t think about it and just rely on reflex, she remembers how to do things like self-checkout and cooking, though we keep a cautious eye on her when she is around the stove. It feels kind of good to begin to return to some normalcy, but on a vastly scaled back normal.
It is hard to believe how green the lawn is even after a cold snap. If I took a picture, you would just see a weedy yard that needs mowing and trimming, and you would expect the yard worker to be in a tee shirt. But if he was, he would also be one huge goosebump.
The news hardly gets a passing notice from me. About the only thing that holds my interest is the Middle East. Politics have all but vanished from my interest. I have turned into a pessimist and the future of things is not a very hopeful one. So I turn inward. I have fought. And fought. And funded, and funded. But now, other will need to carry the torch. I have done all, and now I stand.
But that gives me a little grief in these morning coffee posts. Hopefully I will transition to another less virulent crusade.
So goes the foggy brain this morning.
Where Cruces Meet Kachinas
The saga took shape in my mind as the first light of dawn stirred my thoughts. Starting a new masterpiece at this stage of life might seem unconventional, but the allure of crafting an introduction resonates with me on a profound level. What do you think of this first glimpse into a newly illuminated mind?
In the hushed crucible of the Sangre de Cristo, where wind carved stories into ancient pines and sunlight gilded adobe walls, lived Don Miguel, a man etched by time and the austere practices of the Penitente Brotherhood. His faith, woven with the threads of Spanish ancestry, found solace in the rasp of penitential chants and the sting of self-flagellation. Yet, lately, dreams of disquieting beauty haunted his nights. Visions of swirling sands, whispers carried on the desert wind, and shadows dancing amidst sun-drenched fields gnawed at him, leaving a residue of unease on his weathered face.
His daughter, Isabelita, born of her mother’s strong Catholic faith and the ancient wisdom of the Hopi, possessed eyes the color of storm clouds and a gaze that seemed to pierce the veil between worlds. Unmarried not from lack of suitors, but a devotion rooted deeper than romance, she had chosen her father, a choice whispered about in the village like wind through cottonwoods. Now, she navigated his anxieties, the echoes of unseen worlds dancing on her tongue as she delved into his dreams.
A drought, she might murmur, its roots tangled in forgotten sins, or a forgotten spring found again, gurgling beneath the scars of misunderstanding. A storm brewing on the horizon, she might warn, or a flicker of unexpected joy, a hummingbird’s kiss in the cold desert air. But these dreams, spun from darker threads, stirred a serpent of fear in the sun-baked village. Some scoffed, dismissing them as the fancies of an old man burdened by penitential rigor. Others, eyes wide with generations-old superstitions, saw omens in every shifting dune, shadows in every flickering candle flame.
Caught between her father’s austere faith and her mother’s whispered prayers, Isabelita stood, a bridge between these worlds. Her heart, a tapestry woven with threads of both traditions, ached for understanding. Could these unsettling visions be divine omens, whispers from ancestral spirits, or warnings born from the harsh beauty of the land itself? Could she, with her dual heritage and unyielding faith, decipher these dreams and bridge the chasm of fear that threatened to unravel the tapestry of their lives?
Whispers of Tranquility: Embracing the Subtle Symphony of a Gentle Morning
Greeted by the embrace of a crisp yet sunlit morning in this secluded haven, I find myself immersed in the subtle beauty of a remarkably mild winter. The temperatures, gentle in their touch, scarcely flirt with freezing before graciously yielding to the warmth of the day. The hardwoods retain their rich, verdant hues, while the softwoods have delicately shed their leaves, creating a tapestry of nature’s transition.
There’s a tranquil joy in rising with the dawn, witnessing the sun casting its enchanting glow over the landscape in a hushed serenity. Amidst the pecan tree, young cardinals engage in a playful dance of courtship, a prelude to what promises to be a vibrant and lively spring. A fleeting glimpse of a young mockingbird hints at the lively symphony that may soon unfold.
In navigating the ebb and flow of my daily well-being, simplicity reigns supreme. A routine of medication dictates the balance between health and ailment – a reminder of life’s delicate equilibrium.
Turning to the wider world, the news, or lack thereof, occupies my thoughts. The silence on matters concerning Israel leaves me yearning for insight, yet the pages are dominated by tales of Hollywood glamour and the shadows of Epstein. Even the somber narratives are overshadowed by more sensationalist topics.
In the midst of life’s rhythm, Snookums treads a path of resilience, albeit with moments of vulnerability. The departure of friends punctuates her days, and we acknowledge the solemn litany of those who remain and those who are missed. While there is a tinge of melancholy, truth prevails, and she faces the reality with unwavering strength.
Lucid moments illuminate the landscape of her recovery, and a newfound interest in her home emerges. Family, from brother to niece and great nephew, thrives in their own corners of existence.
However, amidst life’s tapestry, a poignant loss echoes – a cherished canine companion who ventured into the unknown and never returned. Thoughts of the potential encounter with coyotes weigh heavy on the heart, deepening the hues of melancholy that touch Snookums’ spirit.
As I share this seemingly unremarkable post, I extend a warm good morning to all. In the midst of life’s muted hues, I navigate the day with a quiet acceptance, awaiting the subtle magic it may unfold.
“Christmas Morning Whispers: A Gentle Reflection on Miracles and Routine”
Ah, Christmas morning unfurls its quiet splendor as the sun ascends, casting a colossal, deep orange orb that morphs into golden rays, painting the landscape in a gentle glow. Nature, too, plays its part – the Bermuda grass slumbers in dormancy while the resolute rye and buffalo grasses persist in their verdant embrace. The anticipation of a killing frost lingers, a pause in the rhythm of the seasons.
Yet, amid this picturesque tableau, a quiet melancholy tinges the day. Christmas, once a tapestry of tradition and mystique, has undergone a transformation in the prism of personal observance. No longer a participant in the customary festivities, there’s a careful acknowledgment of the sanctity others find in this day.
The reminiscence of childhood Christmases resurfaces – the balsamic aroma of the fir tree intermingling with the sweetness of peppermint candy, the parlor radiating warmth against the backdrop of the bitter Colorado winter. Those were days of enchantment, a memory bank that contrasts with the present.
The morning unfolds, marked by the early rise of Snook. Her tenacious spirit, a long-standing companion, grapples with the aftermath of a stroke. Distinguishing between the commonalities of aging and the stroke’s impact becomes a nuanced task, but there’s a glimmer of hope in the signs of improvement. Snook, a formidable force, has weathered recent bouts of bedridden respite, a stark departure from her indomitable routine.
Normalcy tentatively weaves its way into the day. Post-morning coffee rituals, I retreat to the studio – a sanctuary where news, correspondence, and sporadic bouts of writing converge. The brevity of my morning musings hints at a shift, a departure from the verbose journaling of yesteryears. Perhaps brevity holds its own charm, encapsulating the profound in succinct expressions.
Every sunrise heralds a miracle – the daily rhythm of medications, coffee rituals, and the embrace of the writing muse. In the routine, there’s an inherent miracle, an acknowledgment of the gift of another day.
To those cherishing the day’s special aura, may it unfurl in all its uniqueness. For those deeming it akin to any other day, may its specialness find you in unexpected moments. Good morning to all.
Shadowfall
In shadows deep, where secrets hide, There walks The Shadow, cloaked and sly. A whisper on the moonlit breeze, A phantom dancer, unseen, at ease.
His name a sigh, a whispered fear, His eyes like embers, cold and clear. He haunts the corners, dark and lone, A memory of what might have been known.
For in his heart, a love once burned, A firefly’s flame, forever yearned. Luna, her name, a moonlit song, Danced in his arms, where they belonged.
But fate, a cruel and twisted hand, Tore their love apart, across the sand. A whispered plea, a fleeting touch, Then silence fell, and oh, so much…
The echo of her laughter sweet, A phantom kiss, a bittersweet defeat. He walks the path with grief as guide, A love lost, a shadow by his side.
But though the darkness holds him tight, Her memory burns, a guiding light. In every whisper, every sigh, Luna’s love lives on, and will not die.
So let him dance in shadows deep, This hero cloaked, where secrets sleep. For in the darkness, hope takes flight, And The Shadow holds on, with all his might.
Remember, dear friend, this is but a seed, A whispered rhyme, a whispered creed. Take hold of it, let it take root, And watch your hero blossom, bear the fruit.
Weave his tale with threads of light, Of love and loss, and endless night. Let Luna’s memory guide his way, And paint The Shadow, bright and grey.
For in the dance of dark and dawn, A hero rises, shadows gone. His love, his loss, his whispered name, The Shadow’s legend, etched in flame.
Chronicles of Everyday Bliss: Embracing the Banal Symphony of Life
Greetings from the realm of routine and the mundane, where the ordinary transforms into a symphony of familiarity! Today, the calendar proudly announces the seventh consecutive day of acceptable well-being, a streak that could easily be labeled as the mundane equivalent of a winning streak. I find myself embracing this unremarkable stability with a quiet enthusiasm, realizing that routine has a soothing charm of its own.
As I peer through the windowpane, the world outside mirrors my lack of excitement. Cold, wet, and dreary – a weather report that would hardly make the headlines. However, a subtle joy emerges from the fact that the frost has yet to make its debut, allowing the grass to maintain its lush green hue. Some softwoods, in defiance of the season, still cling to their leaves, adding a touch of rebellious color to the subdued palette of the morning.
The ritualistic symphony of my morning unfolds predictably: the aromatic dance of coffee brewing, the comforting exchange of words with the wife of my youth, affectionately known as Snookums. I engage in a futile attempt to extract pearls of interest from the digital sea of newsfeeds, sift through the mundane emails, and settle into the rhythm of the morning.
In a recent plot twist, Snookums visited the cardiologist, a visit that promised either reassurance or suspense. Fortunately, the verdict was one of harmony – a clean bill of health. Signs of improvement, though modest, ripple through her being, and in our small victories, we find cause for celebration. Gratitude becomes our daily companion, acknowledging the preciousness of incremental progress.
Yet, as I sit down to capture the essence of this unremarkable morning, the well of creativity appears to be under a temporary drought. The pursuit of the great American novel seems to have taken a hiatus, making room for the unapologetic flow of banality. Perhaps, within the simplicity of the mundane, there lies a certain kind of magic – the magic of appreciating the absence of chaos.
So here’s to a morning that lacks the fireworks of grandeur, where the extraordinary takes a back seat to the ordinary. May your day be as banally delightful as mine, filled with the uneventful charm that often goes unnoticed in the grand tapestry of life. Cheers to the banal beauty of a quiet existence!
Conversations with Mz Muze: Seeking Inspiration in the Shadows
I sat down with my coffee this morning, and there she was perched on the edge of my monitor. She had on her usual pink Rayon™ blouse and worn brown plaid skirt. From this angle, I could see the tops of her hose, and the white flesh squeezing out muffin-like. I looked away.
“Well, hello, Hemingway!” she greeted me with her usual sarcasm. “So you are sitting there waiting for inspiration, hey?”
Of all the muses there are in the world, I get a cranky, sarcastic but dated one. She was probably sixtyish or seventyish, with white hair that was overworked by her beautician, worn black pumps that really should be recycled, and as I said, a cheap pink blouse and tatty skirt.
“I was hoping that you had more to offer. I am so sick of the ‘me’ posts. They were necessary to keep the family and friends informed, but now the dust has settled, and we adapt to this new lifestyle. It is time to move on.”
She cocked her head inquisitively like she was a cute something, but the effect wasn’t what she thought it was. “So what do you want to write?” she asked.
“I dunno. Not fiction, for sure. And no more coffee posts. I suppose I could put my inbred curmudgeon to work by griping about stuff, aka Andy Rooney rants. But I just as quickly tire of them as just another form of ‘me’ posts.”
“What about writing about the political landscape?” she suggested brightly.
“I dunno. I am also weary of politicians and political writers. I know what the intellectuals think. I know what the political parties think. I know what the reporters think. But a bad case of the ‘I-don’t-cares’ has settled in,” I replied with a sigh.
“Poetry?”
“I’ve been doing some. It has been fun to exercise the poet in me, but again. I am weary of it.”
“Aging, death, and dying?”
I thought I caught a hint of sarcasm in her suggestion, so I shot back.
“You’ve been away, haven’t you!”
“Well, you haven’t been exactly quivering with excitement to see me,” she retorted.
“You haven’t been very helpful either. I enjoyed the silence!”
“All you enjoy is sloth! Look at you, curled up in a ball of misery and not even having the dignity to put clothes on!”
“I’ve been sick,” I whined.
She cocked one heavily penciled eyebrow, “Every day?”
“Well, some days aren’t so bad.”
“And your excuse on those days is?”
“I don’t have one. I just didn’t wanna write,” I bleated.
She leaned forward and replied, “Look. You need to give me something before I can work something up.”
“That’s what I am doing now—staring at the screen and waiting for inspiration. And pull your skirt down!” I snarled.
“You know you like it when I sit like this,” she replied with a flounce and a moue.
“Can we work on something else?” I said, trying to put the image out of my mind.
How We Built a Sturdy Bridge Over Quirky Waters: A Tale of Love, Laughter, and Aging Together
When I first crossed paths with Snookums, my now-wife of many years, she happened to be dating my boss. Now, I’m not one to flirt with others’ significant others – it’s just not my style, both ethically and strategically. However, fate had other plans.
One day, my boss swung by the house in his truck, seeking my assistance in loading up his belongings. He had fallen head over heels for a torch singer, and despite my suspicions that she didn’t reciprocate his feelings, he moved out, leaving a void I was more than willing to fill.
Living together wasn’t exactly my cup of tea, so not long after, we decided to tie the knot. Our motivation was simple: we both wanted a companion to navigate the journey of aging. Luckily, she accepted my proposal.
Fast forward to the present, and here we are – two old souls still cohabiting. We mutually agreed that divorce was off the table (though, jestingly, we considered murder an option!). Our morning routine now revolves around coffee, cake, a handful of pills, shots, and candid conversations about bowel movements and other unsavory topics.
And you know what? The bridge we were going to cross when we got there is now there, sturdy and reliable. Despite the quirks and challenges, I wouldn’t change a thing.
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