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“A New Day: Embracing Life’s Small Victories”
This morning, the house is quiet, and as the first rays of sunlight filter through the curtains, I find solace in this moment of peace. The hum of life outside is distant, and inside, the gentle rhythm of a new day begins to unfold.</p>
Each day with Snookums is a journey of small triumphs and gentle steps forward. While the shadow of her stroke still looms, there are glimpses of progress that light our path. Her determination is a beacon of hope; she approaches her recovery with a resilience that humbles and inspires me. Her new routine, though different from before, brings a semblance of normalcy to our lives.
As I sip my coffee, memories of past “coffee” posts flood my mind. Those posts were a tapestry of our daily life, woven with threads of humor, insights, and the simple joys that painted our world. Politics, our pets, and the day’s events were all fair game, and sharing those moments felt like a conversation with friends, a way to connect and reflect.
Today, as I type these words, I feel a renewed sense of purpose. Writing has always been a sanctuary, a way to process the whirlwind of life’s events and find meaning in the mundane. The act of writing, of bringing thoughts to paper, is therapeutic. It is a reminder that amidst chaos, there are stories to be told, moments to be cherished, and a life to be lived.
It is a struggle with my dyslexia, though. It has worsened, making writing coherently a given. So, if you run across two disconnected thoughts in paragraph, be merciful.
Snookums’ journey of recovery is a testament to the strength of the human spirit. Every small victory, every step forward, is a cause for celebration. Her smile, though sometimes fleeting, is a reminder of the love and resilience that binds us together. We take each day as it comes, finding joy in the trivial things and strength in each other.
As the morning progresses, I am filled with gratitude for this quiet time, for the opportunity to share our journey, and for the love that surrounds us. Writing, once again, feels like a lifeline, a way to reach out and connect with the world. And in this connection, I find hope, strength, and the courage to face whatever lies ahead.
May your day be filled with moments of joy and gentle whispers of hope, just as this Shabbat morning has brought to me.
A Groggy Dawn
A feeble sun, a groggy wake,
A dream-like state, a constant ache.
Juice sipped in bed, a restless mind,
A gasping breath, a peace defined.
Reality and dream, a blurred line,
Woke self and dream self intertwine.
Words deleted, friends unseen,
A world of hate, a global scene.
A church in anger, Israel's plight,
A loyal dog, a guiding light.
A cookie's reward, a restful sleep,
A pecking meal, a final leap.
Photons and electrons, a cosmic stage,
Words unspoken, a silent page.
Ode to a Dead Drip
Ode to a Dead Drip
A long, long time ago I had a coffee maker, you know It brewed my morning, dark and sweet A ritual, a daily feat
Oh, the day it died, a mournful sound No more coffee, earthbound No perky perk, no steaming cup Just empty pot, I’ll have to sup
On instant crap, or worse, cold brew My mornings lost, a somber hue No more aroma, rich and deep To wake my soul from slumber’s sleep
So long, old friend, you’ve served me well Your memory in my heart will dwell But now I’m lost, in caffeine strife A tragic end to morning life
They were singing “Bye, bye, Miss American Pie” I rolled my chair, a mournful sigh To my coffee maker, trusty friend But alas, its life had met its end
Refrain: Bye, bye, my coffee maker, oh so dear Your absence fills my mornings with despair No more hot brew, no cozy start Just an empty pot, a broken heart
In the Indigo Hour: A Song of Steadfast Love
A veil of azure sighs descends, it’s true, A hush upon your love, a muted hue. The hands of time, they turn with patient grace, While you, a constant, hold a loving space.
The days, once vibrant, wear a softer dress, But love’s unwavering flame, it burns no less. Your strength, a quiet shield, deflects the chill, A steadfast presence, ever loving still.
Though shadows linger, whispers fill the air, Of laughter past, a love beyond compare. You hold her hand, a silent, gentle vow, To walk this path, with love that sees her through.
The weight you carry, etched upon your face, A testament to love’s enduring grace. Each whispered word, a teardrop held at bay, For her you’d face the darkest, endless day.
But in the quiet moments, hearts entwined, A hidden language, love for ever kind. A tender touch, a gaze that speaks so deep, The promise whispered, though you try to sleep.
For love’s a tapestry, with threads of gold, And silver threads, a story yet untold. You’ll face the dawn, with courage as your guide, And walk beside her, with love as your side.
A Lamentation
—
My bones are weary, a battlefield worn thin.
The sun climbs high, yet I greet it from this sea of sheets.
Is this peace, this endless waiting for the final call?
Have I chased shadows, grasping at fleeting dreams?
A life unfurled like a dusty tapestry, triumphs lost in the fold.
The world outside thunders on, a distant, vibrant roar,
While here, time stretches, a slow, relentless bore.
The window, a portal to a life I can no longer touch.
Children I held once, grown tall, their laughter a fading song.
Faces from the past flicker in the firelight’s glow,
Friends, foes, lovers, where did the years go?
My voice, a rusty hinge, creaks when I speak.
Words choked by the dust of regret, the sting of deeds undone.
Was it all a charade, this grand play of life?
An empty stage whispers tales of wasted strife.
The world races on, oblivious to this cage of bone.
The warmth of life a distant ember, its glow almost gone.
Here, in this stillness, only shadows reside,
A quietude laced with regret, with nothing left to confide.
The Ballad of the 3 am Pickle: A Tale of Midnight Munchies
Let’s face it, 3 am is a weird time. Most decent people are tucked under their covers, counting sheep (or battling sleep paralysis, no judgment). Me? Well, I was engaged in a heated negotiation with my stomach, which apparently had a very specific agenda for the night: pickles.
The Ballad of the 3 am Pickle (and the Chatty Corn Flakes)
“Pickle!” it declared, its voice echoing dramatically in the 3 am silence. My mind, still clinging to the remnants of sleep, mumbled a feeble, “Go back to sleep, it’s the witching hour!” But hunger, it seems, has no respect for time zones or spooky vibes.
Ten minutes later, the Pickle Monster roared again, this time accompanied by a symphony of stomach growls that could wake the dead. Clearly, negotiation was futile. Frigid air be damned, I stumbled towards the kitchen, on a mission to appease the Pickle Overlord.
The fridge light revealed a meager offering of burger chips, but then – a beacon of hope! A shiny new jar of gherkins, practically begging to be devoured. Who placed these magical morsels here? A roommate with impeccable timing, or perhaps a sleep-deprived pickle fairy? Whatever the source, they were mine now.
Armed with chopsticks (because who wants to get their fingers all vinegary at 3 am?), I dug in. The satisfying crunch, the electrifying pucker – it was a symphony for the senses (at least, my taste buds seemed to think so). Half a jar later, I was a blissful, pickle-fueled mess. A quick water refill, a snuggle under my toasty electric blanket (seriously, those things are a lifesaver), and I was off to dreamland once more.
But wait, there’s more! Just as I was about to drift off to a dill-icious slumber, a new voice chimed in from the darkness. “Corn Flakes,” it declared, with a firmness that would put a drill sergeant to shame. I looked over at the clock – 4:15 am? Seriously, breakfast?
“Don’t start that now!” I pleaded, burrowing deeper under the covers. But the Corn Flake Chorus wasn’t having any of it. With a sigh of defeat, I surrendered to the breakfast gods and sleepwalked my way to a bowl of cereal.
Now, by this point, you might be wondering what kind of sleep-deprived fever dream this is. Well, let me tell you, it’s just another Tuesday in the wonderful world of me. At least the corn flakes weren’t pickles, right?
P.S. My 6 am appointment with reality (and medication) was…interesting. But hey, that’s a story for another day. Until then, happy snacking (and sleeping…hopefully)!
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?
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