“Thou shalt write each and every day. The great, and the mundane, thou shalt write of it”
I missed a day of journaling, and didn’t have a valid excuse to skip a day. Playing with my virtual choo-choo’s is not a valid excuse. They are a reward for obedience, not an excuse for disobedience. However, these are my rules, not God’s, so I choose the punishments and rewards. So, what is a suitable punishment for slacking? I will have to think on that some.
It is a gorgeous view out the window. I opted to write on the studio PC this morning rather than the laptop because the keyboard is more familiar. But the water barrel waterfall is gurgling in the deep shade of the pecan and acacia tree, backlit by the yellow sun on green grass. It is almost a springtime view. But without the birdcalls, it is a bit creepy.
Tic, the latest canine addition to the family, is slowly overcoming his skittishness, and loves waking me in the mornings. But the rule is to wait until my eyes are open before jumping on my bed. He doesn’t understand the fullness of that rule, however, and a mere fluttering of the eyelids is proof enough to him that I am awake, and he can roll on me and bite me in pure celebration of the gift of a new day.
I haven’t gone through the newsfeeds yet this morning. The incessant drumbeat of hurricanes, floods, earthquakes and crazed killers is numbing my compassion. I can only observe a tiny amount of evil before I am overwhelmed by it and I become stoic, no longer reacting to the horror. I know when I finish this I will go check out the latest comments on the comments that were commented on. Not only are we informed of evil, we are tossed into its foul waters via video clips and the wailing of grief stricken survivors.
So, this little moment of banality is a blessing to me. I shall slowly sip two full cups of coffee and finish this before peeking into the maelstrom. I can hardly wait.
Perhaps I’ll punish my slacking by performing one extra chore today. It isn’t like we ever have all the chores done. The job jar overfloweth. Perhaps I should start cleaning out the old pickup truck to get it ready to sell. There goes the last vestige of my virility. A man without a pickup is a just a yankee occupying a house. But life does go on, and one must turn loose of the torch or become consumed by it. This latest killer of many sort of took the glamor away of going out in a blaze of glory.
But then, there is the ever urgent need to mow. Perhaps instead of sorting, cleaning and putting away tools, I’ll mow the west side. Maybe.
It will all get sorted out when the coffee pot is empty. Maybe.