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Merry Minuet
Well, I made it through Tuesday without listening to a single Senate soundbite. That is quite a feat with the lapdog press covering every wheeze of sound from that ostentatious gaggle of nouveau riche social boors. Heaven trembles when peasants are made kings.
So one more day of headline picking for me today, sorting out real news like the hurricanes in the Gulf and Japan, Trudeau getting his comeuppance as ‘negotiator’, and the latest sky falling alarm from the EPA.
Made the bird sit in silence again this morning. Some days I just got to push back against her bad taste in music. And believe me when I say it’s bad! A little silence as I write, try to look through the wet window panes into the world, and search the web for bits and pieces of news from friends and family.
Mz Muse has been tickling me again, but with some pretty edgy ideas that I probably wouldn’t post in a public forum! And new insights into the “hidden things” of God that is begging a lot of pondering. But that all takes a back seat to coffee sipping and cookie nibbling this new day.
Good morning!
Two Political Funerals and a Raspberry
“And when they thought in themselves that they were wise, they became insane.”
~Aramaic Bible
Well, America’s first political funeral is over, and will shortly be forgotten. The attendee’s and their biases will be remembered for decades. They felt that the shadow of a peevish also-ran would cover their conceit but may soon discover that many of his supporters were also put off by it. It doesn’t bode well for average Americans, however. The rancor will not be abated.
So how do I not care? In truth, my life will change very little by whichever side sways the unwashed masses to vote for them. But the generations after me? They will reap the rewards of this generations hubris. For them, I’ll say a little prayer, then sing a la-de-dah song and turn to watch the sunrise while I sip the morning coffee and wish it all away.
Good morning!
Saturday, September 9, 2018.
A cheerful budgie greets me this am as I stagger into the studio this morning, balancing cookies and coffee. Snookums had already raised the blinds and started some Shabbat appropriate music on the puck to entertain said bird, so I just flopped down and munched cookies and sipped coffee until the last rivulets of Lethe’s waters drained away.
Twitter wants me to watch people filing by a POW’s casket in the rotunda, but I skip on by the suggestion. He has my respect as a POW, and I didn’t ask him to be a saint too. But politicians should be carried out and dumped in the refuse bin if they aren’t saints. And he wasn’t. All this lauding of him by Democrats smacks of insincerity.
But I force myself to not dwell here, and move on to more pleasant thoughts of Shabbats, music and sunrises, and what to prepare for breakfast.
Good morning!
Tick-tock strikes again
Dentist Day, the tablet reminds me as I stagger blindly into the studio, balancing the coffee cup while trying to not stub my toes on anything. The dentist is another one who insist that you schedule by the infernal tick-tock machine. I would ask why they can’t schedule by God’s time, but I would only get an uncomprehending stare in return. I am sure the staff and dentists are all good Baptist who would support doing things God’s way, so I don’t understand their intransigence in this area.
So, precisely at 2:10PM I climb into Bucephalus with my ever doting wife, and we drive the fifteen minutes to town, arriving at the 2:30PM appointment exactly five minutes early. Click. Click. Click.
It is an aggravating series of steps before then, too. I suppose I should bathe so the dentist doesn’t have to suffer from old man’s stench. That takes about 20 clicks on the machine. And tooth brushing takes another 10 Clicks. And it takes about 20 clicks to dress, accompanied by grunts, wheezes and groans.
I’ll start the prepreps about 1:20PM. Then adding the 15 clicks home, I come up with almost three hours away from my day job of swearing at the press on the PC newsfeeds. It’s a crappy job, but someone has to do it, and I seem to be well suited for the task.
However, the second cup of coffee is perched on the hutch, the two morning cookies are consumed, and I have a little time to day good morning.
So. Good morning.
A New Day
Turkey sausage patties, eggs, toast and coffee this morning sits happily on the tummy by the time I get around to a good morning post. I am hungover from my peevishness at the overblown reportage of the rift between Trump and McCain. I should get used to the media’s excessiveness. Really, I should.
But there are still constants that ground me. Sunrises. The smell of coffee brewing. Morning dogpiles of happy mutts. A budgies lousy taste in music. Affirmations of a larger purpose.
And the luxury of slowly awakening. There are people who would give all they own for a morning of peace, and I remind myself to show a little gratitude.
Good morning!
From Peevish to Maudlin in 4/4 Time
A little less cranky today. No more news for me until the week is past. Hillbilly music for the bird, coffee for me, and the world gets set aright. Most of my old man complaints are resolved this late summer morning other than mild wheezing from some sort of nature respiratory attack. But the misuse of steroids quickly takes care of that ailment. It is a peaceful moment, and a rare treat of Pachelbel’s canon arrives in the midst of the bluegrass fiddling. Odd how that simple yet elegant piece seems to cut through the political resentment that I have toward so many.
I am not much of a music lover. I really have no music soul. Not one ounce. So naturally, I have a lot of music lovers as friends who send me audio clips of meaningful lyrics which I rarely play. I think that poets and writers of music share much with politicians. They’ll tell you a tall story to make a point. Lovingly, of course. Sometimes I just don’t want to put the effort into catching a metaphor.
And the music segues into Shenandoah, and my mood shifts into the heart aching loneliness of the song, and my mind goes to the long and largely bitter panorama of mankind’s life. We birth. We breed. We protect. We die. If we are famous, we become footnotes. If we aren’t, we are forgotten.
And so it goes from peevishness to maudlin.
Good morning!
Tires, tired, and retired
Kippur da Budgie is happy again after three days without banjo music. I just couldn’t take it anymore and wanted some blessed silence while I sip my coffee and slowly poison my mind with political arsenic. Called out the $mechanic$ yesterday to fix the flats on the mowers. Nice guy, but he was wasn’t a very competent tire changer. It was driving me crazy to keep my mouth shut. But we got one mower going, and he’ll be back to fix the other one … someday.
Annie-Annie has decided that I need a foot dog in the mornings, so I had better have my feet where I want them before she comes in after breakfast. I was a little hesitant, so now I am sitting with my body cranked 10° to the right of the keyboard. A more stalwart individual would make the mutt move but not Mr Wuss.
On the agenda today: Install Snooks new high dollar printer. Her $38 online special just wasn’t up to the task. She does tend work the snot out her printers, though, so it will be money well spent.
I will sit and sip awhile longer, though.
Good morning!
Delayed Ambition / Procastination
Sunday, August 19, 2018
8 Elul, 5778
ח׳ בֶּאֱלוּל תשע״ח
The first day of the week dawns at 6:57AM on the tick-tock machine this week, but it always rises at 6:00 AM on the sundial. And shortly after that, I arise. Usually for the second time. My mind wishes to wake before dawn, but my body ain’t having none of that.
And we are into the eight day of the month of Elul, a time of introspection. But then, I live in introspection, so the observance doesn’t change my routine much. All of this leads up to a reflection of a larger truth. The time comes, however, when we grow weary of the reflection, and wish to see truth, even if that knowledge is damaging.
Doctors and blood draws are in the week ahead, along with a growing list of uncompleted chores. So we sip coffee, munch on a soft cookie, and wait for ambition to arrive.
Good morning!
Cold Coffee
Thursday dawned, but I just rolled over in bed and ignored it. But eventually nature calls and I rolled out of bed. Lost a quick wrestling match with the beagle, now I am going to have to affirm to the doctor that I feel safe at home has he examines the bruises and scratches at next week’s visit. I wouldn’t want ‘Becca the Beagle to go to jail for elder abuse.
Snooks brought in the morning coffee along with a suggestion that maybe I could inflate the tractor tire and get the verges mowed to even perfection again. Either that, or stock it with lions and charge people to drive through Safari Land.
Made the mistake of reading the newsfeeds before I finished my first cup of coffee. That is always a bad move. I dashed off a few nasty retorts to the newspaper and political elites who keep telling me that I need to be like them.
Uh. No. I’ll pass.
So back to a cold cup of coffee. Not good.
Good morning.
Miss Priss
It is the glory of God that hides the word, and the glory of the King that seeks for the word.
~Proverbs 25:2 Aramaic Bible
A beloved sister suggested that I write an Alicia story. I was a bit reluctant since I do little vignettes well, but my real life is shot through with those same vignettes sailing through my mind in staccato rhythm, each a complete picture that makes sense to me, but is very confusing to others! But I want to try my hand at writing a remembrance of my beloved sister. But first a little bio to set it up.
This is my third piece on Alicia … I hope you don’t weary of them.
Some years back my spiritual direction changed dramatically, but unlike previous spiritual upheavals, this one quietly manifested itself, and few people noticed. My little congregation was going through its own inner crises as its pastor was stricken with the death of his wife and was unable to respond to many of the disruptive forces that quickly gathered around the beleaguered group.
We had started on a major reconstruction of the building after a tenant had moved out of a portion of it, and the Elders had given me a free hand in the allotting of space to the various functions and ministries. And it was a disaster of incomplete construction projects and moving of furniture. I was in over my head in incomplete projects and not getting a lot of guidance as I showed up each afternoon to sort furniture from one room to another, cleaning up one area only to make a mess in another needed room.
One evening I was sitting in the room where we had piled stuff we didn’t know what to do with. Someone needed the room for their ministry, and the stuff had to be moved, and I desperately desired to quit as I sat at the end of the evening of labor. You couldn’t tell that I had done anything. Stuff was coming into the room faster than I could move it out as people cleaned stuff out of their areas.
I sat amid the disaster and began composing a letter of resignation in my head when a small band of women came in to pray and prepare the sanctuary for services and passed by the door of the room. One of them turned around and walked in the room, placed a hand on my shoulder and began to pray.
I don’t remember the substance of the prayer, but I put the resignation out of my mind for the moment and went home to the first night of rest I had in some time. The next day, two of the women showed up with hair done up in bandanna’s and carrying cleaning equipment.
One was a small Cubañera with leathery, dark chocolate skin who found mirth in everything, and they began moving pieces of … stuff … out of the room. Alicia was her name. That evening there was actually a clear space about ten feet squared in the room. That doesn’t sound like much, but it was the first progress I had seen in weeks.
She and others continued to show up every afternoon for several weeks afterwards, that room and others got cleared, and eventually a prayer chapel and a classroom were completed, and a too-heavy burden was completely lifted off my shoulders even though the work of building continued endlessly on.
Afterwards we all sat in the sanctuary and chatted, prayed, and even sang sometimes. Those evening became special as Alicia and the others refreshed themselves in worship. Sometimes they went all through the night in the soft glow of the nir tamid, or eternal light that hung in front of the ark containing the holy scrolls.
I have never shared with those women the vision of them I carry around as I recall those evenings, but they glowed with power, and I am convinced that power barred the baying wolves from gaining a foothold in the congregation. Alicia’s answer to everything was prayer. A simple, brief request to Abba that was completely devoid of any flowery words. She asked and added amen. Then received.
I joined her in outreach from time to time. But. I am not a teacher. I am not a preacher. I am not a prophet. I am not a healer. However, at that time I was finding stuff hidden in the verses of scripture that were life changing to me. None-the-less, if something is hidden by the Father, it has to be revealed by him. When I tried to reveal those tidbits to my fellow congregants, I received blank stares in return. Alicia seemed to understand those hidden items and encouraged me to share them.
One time we were visiting a converso congregation in New Mexico, and we had gone down there as a group to support them. I had discovered something very profound in the way the camp in the wilderness was set up that concerned gentiles and was eager to share it. It was one of those “hidden” items in scripture.
I stood in front of that congregation and delivered the most incoherent and rambling teaching that I had ever given, and the elderly congregants spoke very little English. The pastor was trying to translate, but I could tell that he was just as inarticulate as I. Alicia was swaying and dancing to the teaching, and sort of sashayed up to the lectern with her eyes twinkling and whispered to me “Your fly is undone!”.
I never tried to teach again. And she never asked again!
As the pastor recovered and the health of the congregation was renewed, it became time to let go of the task. I was slowly disconnecting from that feminine council and finally, it was time to go. I slipped into the sanctuary late one night and sat in the darkness illumed by the nir tamid questioning my plans when Alicia and one of the women pulled into the lot to pick up the woman’s car, and they left. Shortly afterwards, Alicia returned and sat down with me.
I had retired as Deacon several times, but when someone didn’t pick up the slack, I returned. My retirement parties had become the source of humor in the congregation. But it was time, and the only way I could see me letting go entirely was to leave. Both Linda’s and my parents had passed on, and for the first time in married life, we were totally unencumbered with familial responsibilities.
We sat in silence for awhile in the comforting gloom, then I spoke to her of my decision to leave Denver for a warmer climate to live out my remaining time. I don’t recall whether we actually prayed about it, but I am sure we must have.
Throughout my misspent life, Abba has sent guides. One was a drunk Indian brujo. One was an advertising executive. One was a retired jock/drunk/truck salesman. One was a bald-headed sexual deviant and janitor. One was a rocket scientist. And one was a 5’ Cubañera with leathery, dark chocolate skin who I called Miss Priss for her love of dressing up.
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