I spy with my little eye...

...a tall, willowy blonde woman, her long hair dancing in the breeze. She is gazing out over a placid lake. No doubt she is composing some poetic little verse about that pastoral scene before her eyes.

On second glance, I noticed she was indeed beautiful, but it was after all just the central pond of a subdivision, and she was after all only killing time while the little rat dog at her feet took care of his "outside" business. Her thoughts? Probably the only thing she was composing was a shopping list or a random droning of thought-noise like "pick up the dry cleaning, take snacks to soccer practice..." I laughed out loud.

But I thank God I perceived that snapshot of life in the order I did. I hate to think what a sad mind I'd have if I'd perceived the dull "reality" of the scene first. Would I have ever looked on past it to see the beautiful? Because maybe she was noticing the way the bank of trees sloped gracefully to the water's edge. Maybe a shopping list was as far removed from her mind as it was from mine. For her sake, I hope so.

the grass is always...oh never mind

Why I'd make a good hermit:

1) I like obscure, out of the way havens, and entertain myself well without need of human inspiration.
2) No one to expect me to be in an infectiously good mood.
3) No one to come up to me shrieking, "Where are the scissors!?!"
4) Always knowing the answer to #3.
5) The remote: never missing.
6) The cordless phone: same story.
7) No one to interrupt me with sudden unexpected whining and yelling.
8) No need for me to interrupt anyone else because of said whining and yelling.
9) No one to make me start whining and yelling. (usually about remotes, phones and scissors.)
10) Milk left out on the counter overnight? No agonizing, soul-searching cross-examination to uncover who would commit such a gross infraction and why.
11) No looking in the mirror, telling myself what to do, then repeating the process three or four times because I'm not paying attention to myself.
12.) Toilets.

Someday, when all these things come true, I will look back on this list and shed a wistful tear. But tonight, I don't have time. I must grab someone by the toe and drag him kicking and screaming off to bed. (and no, I don't mean you my bronchitis-ridden husband, I know you'll rest and get well...you couldn't breathe in the damp cave air that is a hermit's abode...but when I do take to the caves, you're welcome to the adjoining one...)

The question...

...has been posed concerning how anyone reading this blog will know whether Debbie or myself is doing the respective posting. I am reminded of a story I read concerning the Beatles. At the apex of their fame, John Lennon wished for anonymity, for the ability to go into a small club, plug in the amps, and play music just for the fun of it...no concert crowds, no antsy manager or money man...just for the joy of playing. He mused they could don masks and capes, and play to their hearts content in some out of the way pub. When the reporter he was speaking with reminded him that regardless of the masks, they would still sound like the Beatles, he became quiet and almost deflated.

No matter....

I am sure that if anyone spends the time reading the contents of this blog, they will become familiar with the rhythm and flow of each of our peculiar styles. My wife writes from the heart....flowing, beautiful verse that takes a life of it's own. My missives seem more like someone is standing behind me, smacking me in the head occasionally, forcing thoughts out through my outstretched hands...choppy, sometimes disjointed, but still from the heart. My wife is a writer, with wonderful insight into the human condition. I am just trying to keep my head above water, so the words don't sound like the choking pleas of a drowning man...yet I know what I am writing is still important, if for no one else, for me. so don't worry....

...you'll know the difference

bubbles...

...ever since I can remember, I have had a wandering mind. I would bet, given the appropriate professional diagnosis, that i suffer from one of the alphabet disorders. ADD, ADHD, EIEIO, etc...it really doesn't matter...my mind wanders. I can be in the midst of the most enthralling book, the climax of a thrilling movie, just about anywhere....and an image of a grilled cheese sandwich I ate in Nashville TN will flash into my mind. I have always associated these with the image of a "bubble" bursting in my mind, releasing some random thought, some vintage picture, some long-ago memory, into the stream of the here and now. They carry no real relativity to anything in the present, no sub-conscious context to an unspoken dream. Just a ramdom thought. I used get annoyed when a bubble burst. It seemed to work counter to an efficient mind, blurring the sight of the present. It was, I guess, an irritation at best.

Seems that things have changed a bit.

I remember my wife and I having one of our "won't it be great" discussions when we first were married. You know, "won't it be great when our kids are grown and we actually have 2 pennies to rub together for warmth"...stuff like that. Her comment at the time was "won't it be great when the majority of our memories are from the time we are together, rather that the time we didn't know each other", or something to that effect. It's one of many things I filed away in my mind. You see, I really didn't know if I would ever get to a moment like that...someone looking back fondly at a memory that included me. I wasn't real confident that I could ever inspire that in someone. I didn't think that I would ever be that person...but I guess I was wrong. For, you see, I am getting to point in my journey that the bubbles that are bursting now seem to be primarily of the wonderful life God has seen fit to, for whatever reason, bless me with. I have been given the gift of a loving family, and now enough history with them to fill my days with wonderful bubbles....bubbles of my babies catching hold of my nose on the carpet, washing our big old Ford van on a hot day, my wife and I enjoying a cool drink at a pig roast on the strip in Carbondale....all random, but all so precious. Sometimes those bubbles are the only thing that get me through a particularly rough day at work, or more often, a long trip away from home. I cherish every chance to re-live each and every one of those memories...and hope that I can inspire those kinds of things in others. I want to be able to hold onto that....that every moment lived is a bubble for the future....and give each moment the chance to be special to me (and hopefully others) somewhere down the road...

...like this one

Steal away...

We spent the weekend in Brown County, Indiana, because sometimes I need to remember that so much grows, and even without my help. (smile) How beautiful it all is even when it is lying dormant.
God, forgive me, as so often I feel like I'm either trying to run the world or else to run away from it. Refresh me so that I can be of value to You. Amen.

The Evolution of Traffic

I sat at a stoplight waiting to turn left.
The "straight" lane was green.
But my left turn lane was red.
No traffic anywhere.
But I sat there
For nearly two minutes.
I'm obedient that way.
Time was
when this paved road was dirt.
When horseless carriages didn't have color-coded lights
Telling them what to do.
But there are a lot more horseless carriages now.
And a stretched definition
Of reasonably safe traffic patterns.
So we have the guidance
Of color-coded lights.
The more I think about it,
Maybe I'll just walk.

Where's the credit card in my faith wallet?

No where...there isn't such a thing. What are the signs I see that I live in a faithless day:
1) We live deeply on the power of credit. We "borrow" against tomorrow to make things the way we want to see them today. The only thing we believe about tomorrow is that somehow we'll find a way to pay for our faithless today in that dim later-time. What a metaphor for spiritual life the credit card is, and we don't see it at all. What a metaphor that this system of credit is starting to have its problems. (Even psychics become a charge card of this type. "I want to have sitting in front of my today eyes information about days that do not currently exist and whose buying power has not yet been established.")
2) Our knowledge abounds. My thought rambling here is prompted by a little story I once read that comes back to mind as I muse on this topic. It is from a book called The Case for Faith. In it, forgive my paraphrase, a theologian is asked to explain faith. The theologian holds out a clenched fist. "What do you think is in my hand?" The reporter takes a guess. The theologian says, "That is your opinion. But suppose I tell you that I have a quarter in my hand. You will either believe me or not. That is faith. Want to see me kill your faith?" He opens his hand to reveal the quarter. "Now you have knowledge. Your faith is no longer a factor." We know very much; and have need to believe very little.
3) We're grave-diggers. We worship gods that are only Ancient...and it is no matter what god-name we use; no matter what "prophet" we laud. We fight and kill to protect something dry as dust...we still have our idols, we just don't recognize them as such. The testimony of God's servants: it is all from the remote past. None of these Gods breathe on our necks today, none of these prophets give us chills at the newness of their mystifying messages. Basically, we direct our own steps by our interpretation of the inspiration of ancients. Nothing personal really, nothing new. Just looking for ways to keep an old story pertinent. Scrapping to keep the new wine in old wineskins. Heaven help us if God wanted to reveal that the story had plot twists that we hadn't already anticipated for centuries. Christ Himself asked whether He'd find faith when He returned. No wonder He'd raise the question. Prophets said the paradox of end days would be that people would not think of God as doing either good or bad, but simply that He would not be doing anything at all. Paradox because that's when He would come in with a fierceness. Christ said of this same generation that while they may not have been the ones to kill the prophets, they would none the less build those prophets' tombs...bury the messages that reveal anything new. Bury by selective vision; bury with glazed eyes that skim quickly over things that should be blinding in their brilliance; bury because this is, after all, not the age of revelation...those days are long past.

We're caught in a trap of having "a form of godliness, but none of the power thereof..." which is the most tragic thing about ditching our faith.
Put your moon and your stars in the sky, O God...so that the treasures hidden in this age of darkness will even yet be found!

Wayne, where you?

I can't sleep tonight. I keep thinking about Wayne. I never met Wayne, but I know his story. His niece told it to me. Wayne was the son of a man with a terribly debilitating dystrophy. Wayne watched his father dwindle and then die from the disease. He told his sisters, "I won't go like Dad did. I'll wait until Mom dies, but then when it gets too bad, I'll just blow my brains out. You won't know it's coming. I'll just be gone one day." A week ago, the mom died. Then, Monday, when Wayne's wife made a run to the store, Wayne went out to a beautiful spot away from the trailer on the family farm, under a pine tree, and did what he said he'd do. Wayne's sister, my friend's mom, said she never talked to him about the after life. She didn't see it coming so soon. She spoke to her mother, because that was a death they saw coming, but she didn't realize her brother was simply waiting for their mom to die, to honor her and to honor his own word.
The thing about Wayne is, while my friend was growing up, he covered much of the head of household needs for the family, because her father was an alcoholic. Uncle Wayne came over faithfully to help his sister raise her family, keep the farm going, shovel manure, bale hay, whatever was needed while the man of the house was sleeping off a binge, or starting one. My friend says happily that many of these family scars are long since healed. But her heart now aches wondering where Wayne will "be" in the after life. Funny, but last Thursday, God put this Psalm on my heart. I remembered it and gave it to her today:
Who may worship in your sanctuary, Lord?
Who may enter your presence on your holy hill?
Those who lead blameless lives and do what is right,
Speaking the truth from sincere hearts.
Those who refuse to gossip or harm their neighbors
or speak evil of their friends.
Those who despise flagrant sinners,
and honor the faithful followers of the Lord,
and keep their promises even when it hurts.
Those who lend money without charging interest,
and who cannot be bribed to lie about the innocent.
Such people will stand firm forever. (Psalm 15)

Dear God...Wayne was the epitome of the person in this Psalm. My friend's tears when she read it confirm my assertion. What will You do with all the other Wayne's? I know there must be so many others.
He lived in a trailer very near the town where I was born. In fact, his niece (my friend) jokingly claims her whole family to be classic "trailer trash." That very town was struck within the last year by a devastating tornado. It came in the dark of night, when no one noticed the alerts being broadcast. And the worst damage was done to a trailer park. Completely level when the tornado was finished. One of my kids told me, "Mom, you know how the saying goes, 'A tornado is the Devil whistling.' " Dear God, this is also my birth town, the place I first became a viable part of this world. What do You want me to do for the Wayne's, for the trailer trash that nonetheless walk in nobility, despite life's injustice. What do You want me to do for them when the Devil whistles forces up against them?

From your (feminine) Barnabas

Barnabas: a nickname meaning "Son of Encouragement"

I'm reading your post as you fly to Miami this morning. I'd say a little prayer that you have safe, comfortable travel...but I've been doing that anyway the last couple of hours.
You're right, my love, you rarely get sick...in fact, I think of the time you flew home early so we could help Mark in that devastating time for him that required such strange help. I think of the way all the people around him still look at you in wonder at what you were able to accomplish...I think of your dream about being the man at the back of the airplane, helping others escape when it crashes, shoring up the escape slide with your own hands when it starts slipping, and how even though I was not present on that dream flight, still your first thought when you finished your great task was to call me and let me know you were OK... And I think of how the next scene in that dream had us climbing a mountain, with you behind me staring at my butt, thinking to yourself how such a view would keep you going until you reached the top of the mountain. Ha! Unexpected heroic leadership certainly doesn't leave you drained, now does it?
The term "rescuer" carries connotations of relational illness nowdays; but you, my love, are a rescuer in all the right ways, both in the realities of life, and in the more elusive and complicated realities of dreams. You were designed to make things go right that look like they could go so wrong. Maybe sickness comes with such fury to keep you in tangible connection with those you "serve" or will serve in these ways. Maybe it is to hone your compassion. You know I've said before, I trust your wisdom in these things...I know you worry that you will make some mistake as you carry this spiritual burden that has been laid on your back, but I look at how you have delt with emergencies in life before. Those are the moments I shake my head in wonder at your power to take authority, to convince and direct people and things toward the best possible solutions. I've seen this happen before...it is in your design...it will not forsake you now.
I love you...

Heading to Miami...

...damn I wish I could take you with me...

...ramblings of a sick man

My postings have been even more rare than my normal, anemic output recently. Clutched in the grips of some nasty bug, I have been, at times, at that "gotta feel better to be dead" stage. Not exactly the fertile breeding grounds for any dazzling insights, or witty repartee. The only things floating around in the fever-induced delirium have been....get to the bathroom....get to the bed....god it's hot in here....damn it's cold in here....honey, would you get me some morphine? Anyway, I am trying to foster this sapling of a habit concerning posting, so please excuse the inane musings of a sick man....and thank you so much, my dear wife, for showing me infinite patience and compassion in helping me get through this....you gotta admit, I don't get sick much, but when I do, I do it right.

You'll perfect that which concerns me...

...is a verse that was on my mind almost exactly two years ago. I found it again today in the journal I kept. I also wrote about someting that was new then, but is as comforting as an old sweatshirt now; that year was when I received my own personal "icon" of inspiration: the cardinal in winter.

I found a copy of a letter in which I wrote about that bird. It seems right to tuck the letter in here. Winter turns chill again today, so it is feels like a good day for looking at old letters, finding warmth in reminiscing:

We as a family were going through a difficult time, difficult on every front, more so because all our "prayers" to God seemed to fall on deaf ears. Indeed He seemed to be going out of His way to deny His own character in our lives. Eventually, we came to a point of wondering if we would continue to love/serve/believe in such a God...but even as we considered such "blasphemy" (grin) we realized, with almost defiant irritation, that nothing could change our belief and love toward Him. That realization freed us to recognize that all along, He had been answering a prayer. We'd asked to be given a better understanding of unconditional love. But we didn't even realize we were "in school" for this; we didn't see it because we'd been expecting Him to reveal that unconditional love by giving it to us, and instead He made us see that He had planted unconditional love in our hearts toward Him. Of course it was the perfect way to teach the lesson...because in the end, we truly owned the love.

In the midst of this long and arduous lesson, I was driving along a rural highway on a cold February day. February in the Midwest is not particularly pretty. The trees are bare, and the ground is brown with a death that has been lying around for a while. But as I drove, something caught my eye on the side of the road. It was a brilliant red cardinal, just sitting quietly alone in the dead grass.

I felt God's spotlight on that bird and realized He was telling me something: sometimes, it is given to us to be that bird. The brilliance of a cardinal is no different whether it sits in verdant spring flowers or dead winter scrub, but the eye-catching power of its color is greater in the landscape of a grim brown field on a grey-sky winter day. If the bird does not require that it be allowed to mix with the other brilliant colors of spring; if it does not require that it be allowed to rearrange its winters as so many other birds will do, perching in more favorable climes, then it is a rather unusual bird. Only a few birds will forsake perpetual spring, where other colors compete. Only a few will comprehend the good of staying in a place where essential color can be projected most purely.
I was given a revelation of the witness of all purposeful, noble suffering through that vision of the bird.


Although new things "concern me" now, things that stretch my faith across new vistas, the cardinal in winter still haunts me, revives me, quiets me, and reminds me that I have come out on the other side of this one great searing lesson: no matter whether I must again go through that dark tunnel of growth that is for now just a shuddering memory, no matter whether once again I feel broken, neglected, forgotten and desperate...my life nonetheless will always have its unique profound meaning...as long as I am courageous enough to sit in my winter and see it.

The "Dawning" of Realization...

Sometimes does not come
as a sudden piercing beam of morning light.
Rather, it may come
like a rainy morning.
The stillness of night broken
by a spattering of quiet noise
swelling to bullets on the pavement
all unseen, yet observed.
At first, deniable;
later, unavoidable
as channels gurgle in the gutters.
Such a dawn does not burst with color.
By nature
It creeps...
a hint of sheen
to kiss a wet sidewalk.
Flowers take shape, and trees.
Definition, contrast
are gradual things
Coming to foreshadow the colors
of the day that hopes to be.

My husband dreams...

...the most amazing things. Of course, I am not surprised that he has been drawn into that domain created for those who are hand-picked by God for something unusual, even if he doesn't quite accept it all yet. But you are getting closer to the faith that will be required of you, aren't you my love? I am in awe of the man you are becoming in these strange days we are walking. You are surely the most courageous man I have ever met. You have profound integrity and honor. You are beginning to open your brilliant mind and heart to the possibility that an even greater Mind and Heart might want to tap you for something.
I know this might not read like a lot of women's "Sexiest Traits in a Man" list, but I am honored to be one flesh spiritually with you...and I wish we could be one flesh more often literally, my nomad man!

Love in the workplace...

expect something steamy to follow? Or at least some stats and maybe a line graph or two? Sorry.
What strikes me today is that I am exposed to massive displays of love in the workplace every day...and it is making me something of a pariah everywhere else.
For instance, I know whose marriage is on the rocks and I know to give her a little extra grace because of it. I know who is nervous about her angry brother coming to visit the next weekend. I know whose kid is out of work and out of money. I know who is going on a fabulous spiritual retreat next weekend and how I can secretly be a part of it. I know who is still bleeding from kidney stone surgery, but is getting better every day. I know whose kid isn't going to make it in his current educational setting, and whose kid is a walking success story. I know who to cry with, and I know who to laugh with.
I see hugs all the time: people touching each other in warm comraderie or in comfort, whichever happens to apply. I cover work that someone can't get to alone, and someone else covers my butt when needed. I share with others, searching with open hearts as we look at what we are doing that works, what we are doing that doesn't work and what we dream to do someday.
Most of all, I know that if it came to choosing between doing a good thing for me or doing a good thing for themselves, the people I work with would choose to do the good thing for me. It happened just on Valentine's Day...so I do have a current statistic on that one. (grin)
How is it that it doesn't occur to me to be thankful...every single day!

Twice yesterday I nearly died...

...due to impatient drivers. In one instance, I literally threw my hands over my face, and wished I'd called my husband one more time that day to say farewell. I was sitting "dead" still, waiting patiently for a little mail truck to make a left turn in front of me. Unfortunately, a car from as far behind me as maybe Saturn or Neptune decided to pass us all because we were just too d*** slow. As a result, he nearly plowed the little mail truck right through my windshield. And that was the second such incident of the day. It was enough to inspire me to spend time in the Good Book and talking to my Maker. I composed the following little "Psalm" which I have entitled The Power Paradox
Everybody elbows in to get to the top,
to get to the front.
Then everybody complains about overcrowding
and other people's selfishness.
Here is the secret place, safe from all that:
The back.
The bottom.
The meadow after everyone else's feet have already trampled it.
The dark damp basement in lieu of the airy penthouse.
Behind everyone, below everyone
Is freedom
Time and space for change.
People don't bother you about the changes you're making
...when you're not trying to get ahead of them.

I was actually inspired not only by drivers, but by the following verse:
"I will give you the treasures of darkness
And hidden riches of secret places,
That you may know that I, the Lord,
Who calls you by your name,
Am the God of Israel. (Isaiah 45:3)
This promise was given to an unbelieving king...so maybe the impatient driver has some hope yet.
But the funny thing is that while I wrote my little rhythm-less, rhyme-less sonnet yesterday, I went to a chapel service today and found almost my exact "psalm" echoed in the words of the speaker...only he quoted the following: "Jesus asked his disciples, 'What were you discussing out on the road?' But they didn't answer, because they had been arguing about which among them was the greatest. He sat down, called the twelve over and said, 'Whoever wants to be first must take last place and be the servant of everyone else." (Mark 9:33-35)
Servant, hm? So I guess I should have finished my little Psalm by agreeing to whistle an invitation up to all who cared to look over their shoulders. Just maybe they'd even turn around and come back to join the party we're having...at the back of the line.

my love...

...I believe we could be that work of art on here...what a beautiful thing that would be...let's see what we create together...I am glad you are writing...I will always be reading...

Which work of art...

...best exemplifies love?
In my opinion, it is a sculpture by Rodin called the Hand of God. It is as if this artist was gifted with the ability to take all of holy scripture and capture it in one frozen image.
I read once that sculptors think of their craft not so much as seeing what to add as they create something (as a painter adds paint to a canvas) but rather seeing what to take away. With that in mind, I think it is beautiful that this artist chose to have the hand of God resting on an unworked block...uncreated...as is God Himself. In His tenderly open hand (not clasping, but supporting) are the forms of a man and a woman, intertwined in an embrace that implies their one-flesh union, nude in a way that implies healthy vulnerability (a characteristic of nudity rarely lauded in our day.) But the greatest testament to love is what is above them: the same uncreated, unshaped block that is below God. The greatest gift of love: their awareness of a God who loves His creation and trusts them enough to let them also create. Who knows what can spring from such love?

Swimming Upstream...

Ok...first things first...I am not a writer. Oh, I know how to write (thanks to Mrs. Proctor in 1st grade), and I know many large, hard to spell words. I always found the tools and the activity, however, to be relatively independent of each other. The act of writing itself, except in completely productive ventures, is hard for me to sustain. I enter with great expectations (pun intended), but the will to persevere ebbs over time. Historically, the pace of my life is just too uneven to establish the habit. So we are faced with the first question, boys and girls....is writing a habit? I tend to think not. We do what we love. We do what we perceive to be a strength. We do what we, in the final analysis, want to do. My wife is a prolific writer. She writes about many things, and she does so with flair, wit, and insight. The fabric of her writing, however, is woven with the thread of her loves. God, family, her quest discover the person she is destined to be. All loves, all passions. She has the desire to chronicle her thoughts....for an audience of one....herself. Her writing is her way of giving life to her thoughts, exposing them to the unflinching light of "real".

So.....what does that say about me...my hope is that this blog will allow me, force me, to give life, give "real" to my own thoughts and loves. I know they are in there. I can bring them into focus in my minds eye, but, exclusive of my love for my family, they have never really been exposed in any more detail than you would see through rather thick bathrooom glass. I know that I could care less whether another soul reads these inane musings, and for that I guess I am ahead of the game on my internal scoreboard. My hope is that they don't resemble something from the keyboard of some warped Larry King news and views....the pointless stream of consciousness that already runs through my mind. So as I embark on what to me is something akin to the journey of those salmon I saw in those mind-numbingly boring 5th grade nature films, don't say I didn't warn you...

who has time for this...

...not me on my youngest child's fifth birthday...so just a quick memory, little one, to remind me how you grow so fast. You are so excited. This is what--only the third one of these "birthday" things that is memorable for you. (Kind of seems like that's the case for me, too, hehe.) I remember not that long ago, a couple of years maybe, you singing to yourself in the back seat of the car this new song you'd learned: "Old MacDonald had a farm...ee--i--ee--i--oh-----. And on that farm he had a cow, ee--i--ee--i--oh----. With a moo moo here, and a bow wow there, and a chicken-----"
I busted up. So what will you be when you grow up? A poet or an efficiency expert? Do you think people will be able to see the path that bridges the gaps you leave? You are so very much my son...I love you, little one. Let's have a wonderful party tonight!

Thanks for nothing...

The monkey is on my back today...
A few years ago, a thyroid issue threw me into a hormonal disorder: fibromyalgia. Although the thyroid is no longer a problem (it being gone,) the fibromyalgia stays with me as a thing I must forever "manage." Going out dancing wasn't wise management...as I was already over-tired. So today, I lay in bed as if I suffer a weird cross between the flu and severe arthritis, but it is really just a "lie" my body tells my brain, as pain receptors go crazy for nothing.

But then again it's not really for nothing...I look at what I wrote last night, and I realize that part of why I have the capacity to appreciate moments that might instead just reflect wildly off the convex glazing of my eyes is that it always costs me something. Having good friends over that haven't visited for a while but who need to make the visit late at night? Is it worth it? What will the exhaustion cost me tomorrow? By the ounce, I can weigh the cost of pain on a sensitive scale...but such weighing of the cost...it puts the tangible value on many things that I might otherwise sashay past without any respect, any purposeful appreciation...
So I guess thanks for nothing, Body. You, too, Brain. My only hope is that others don't realize when it is costing me something to give myself to them...because it would turn our moments together pathetic. And my other thanks is that I have a husband who gets all of this about me, and doesn't let me get pathetic all on my own (grin).

He took me dancing...

...and now I can't sleep. I'm thinking about dancing to rhythm and blues...I'm thinking about the guy on the stage in the Dragon print shirt and the old grey fedora, smoking a huge cigar when he wasn't cranking out soul on a sax that has long since lost its lacquer...and he was perfect. I'm thinking about the old black man in the red and black checkered hunting cap dancing and making me feel like I'd stepped back in time...if I could see with his closed eyes, I'd see a bayou and be inside a young boy many years ago...and he, too, was perfect.

Tomorrow, if I can wake up...I'll go to church, and I'll dance there, too. Maybe not as vigorously...more like swaying, but my soul will be just as much like a baby bird opening its mouth to be fed. And I'll see perfect ones there, too, and again not for the reasons other people see "perfect" in church, I'd expect.

How can it be that in both places so many people sit like lumps and stare at nothing and think about "other things" and receive nothing? How can it be that they show up for life more out of habit than for any other reason?
This is the thing that grieves me most. It is the one congruity between tonight and tomorrow that should not be...

First try...

....1 billion people can't be wrong. So blogging must be good (or at least acceptable). Now, the trick is to make this a habit, and more importantly, find the value in the effort. Who knows what form that will end up taking, but, as I said, 1 billion people see something in it.