Friday, September 26, 2008
FROM MORNING DRIVE JOURNAL
SEPTEMBER 27, 2002
The day has its ritual. It proceeds with you or without you.The sun comes up. The haze burns off. The leaves on the trees turn towards autumn. The sandhill cranes gather and talk about heading south. The squirrels get serious. The school bus stops, its red lights flashing, children come across the street and climb aboard, off to class.
And you - what are you doing? What is your ritual? What pulls you through the day? Well - I've got this space to fill with one good sentence, if I can. At least I'm trying. Others may wish for more. For me, the dream of one good sentence is enough to sustain me. The chase of it shapes my day.
Sometimes I think my world is build like a house of cards, sometimes I think the least unsettling will bring it down. I'm fortunate to have a wife who's not a fragile companion. She is sturdy, she's often sturdier than I am; if the past predicts the future, we'll continue heading along the path together. It's not always smooth traveling - granted, we're human - but we always have the "want to," to continue our journey together. There's a loveliness in the length of time we've already traveled together, and in our promise to continue.
As I head towards my "early retirement" it's good that we're so clearly committed to each other - even saints are hard to live with, and I'm no saint. Though certainly I try to do nothing on purpose to hurt her. (That's the blessing on the other side of love.)
Greyness this morning. A rash of sea gulls in the sky between our driveway and the cloud cover.
Our grass needs mowing. I admit we haven't mowed it since the beginning of July. It has now recovered from the stress of summer - I will have to do something about it before the snow flies, but not now. Now I go to work - four more days remain before I'm "retired."
The hang down sky looks heavy enough that we may have some rain from it soon. Something will come of it, or something won't. The crow flies away, the crow comes back.
"Dirt" is not dirty. Dirt is full of life. Dirt is life. How can we give it any other meaning than the stuff of earth?
SEPTEMBER 27, 2002
The day has its ritual. It proceeds with you or without you.The sun comes up. The haze burns off. The leaves on the trees turn towards autumn. The sandhill cranes gather and talk about heading south. The squirrels get serious. The school bus stops, its red lights flashing, children come across the street and climb aboard, off to class.
And you - what are you doing? What is your ritual? What pulls you through the day? Well - I've got this space to fill with one good sentence, if I can. At least I'm trying. Others may wish for more. For me, the dream of one good sentence is enough to sustain me. The chase of it shapes my day.
Sometimes I think my world is build like a house of cards, sometimes I think the least unsettling will bring it down. I'm fortunate to have a wife who's not a fragile companion. She is sturdy, she's often sturdier than I am; if the past predicts the future, we'll continue heading along the path together. It's not always smooth traveling - granted, we're human - but we always have the "want to," to continue our journey together. There's a loveliness in the length of time we've already traveled together, and in our promise to continue.
As I head towards my "early retirement" it's good that we're so clearly committed to each other - even saints are hard to live with, and I'm no saint. Though certainly I try to do nothing on purpose to hurt her. (That's the blessing on the other side of love.)
Greyness this morning. A rash of sea gulls in the sky between our driveway and the cloud cover.
Our grass needs mowing. I admit we haven't mowed it since the beginning of July. It has now recovered from the stress of summer - I will have to do something about it before the snow flies, but not now. Now I go to work - four more days remain before I'm "retired."
The hang down sky looks heavy enough that we may have some rain from it soon. Something will come of it, or something won't. The crow flies away, the crow comes back.
"Dirt" is not dirty. Dirt is full of life. Dirt is life. How can we give it any other meaning than the stuff of earth?
