OK, my credentials should pass muster (what the hell does 'pass muster' mean? need to Google it....)
I am, after all, an Episcopal priest for 38 years--a 'professional Christian', if you know what I mean. But there is one heresy I'm especially fond of.....
I teach classes at U.Conn in Waterbury on various of the so-called Gnostic Christian texts. Someone always brings up that there is a sniff of heresy about them. When that happens, I do two things.
First, I make it clear that 'heresy' is what the Church has 'said' it is. Just as the winners write the histories of the wars, the 'orthodox' Christians, who won against the so called Gnostic Christians, wrote the history of what was heretical and what wasn't. God didn't say it was 'heresy', the Church did. Just to get that straight.
Then I prove to the group that they are all heretics of the first order, hell bent toward the gallows in a less gentle and more relevant time in Church history. I ask them, "who believes in 'the immortality of the soul'?"
Almost all the hands go up. Then I point them to the Nicene Creed that tells us 'orthodox' Christians believe, not in the soul's continued existence after death, but "the resurrection of the body..."
Heretics, each and every one of them.
Here's my heresy of choice: that Christianity is not a 'revealed' religion, but an 'unconcealed' religion.
"Revelation" is a big D-doctrine. It says that we know the Truth of God in Christ because it was 'revealed' to us through the incarnation and scripture and church teaching.
We know nothing, according to that, that God didn't whisper in our ear or shout from the rooftops in some way.
For me, the life of a Christian isn't informed by some revelatory knowledge but by un-concealing God in our midst.
For me, life is like wandering through a dark room with all the furniture covered in drapes and bumping your shin against something, wiping the blood away and realizing, in some way you can never quite explain or understand that you just bumped your shin against God.
God, for me, is not a Being that has 'revealed' its Being to me, but something I discover, uncover, trip over, bump up against and then, not knowing what else to call it, I call it God.
Sometimes I realize where my aching shin got the bump in the moment and sometimes it is hours, day, years later when I reflect and ponder that particular scar and realize, "Jeeze, that was God....."
Christians who believe our faith is only and always "revealed" are clear on stuff I'm rather foggy about. They tend to know how 'right' they are and how 'wrong' all the other stumbling folks like me are.
But here's what I think--bumping into God by accident rather than knowing up front what is God and what isn't, is a lot more exciting and intimate and lovely and serendipitous and full of grace than their way is.
Wander around a bit. Bump into things. Eschew assumptions and preconceptions. about Who, What, Where God is and how God shows up.
Look under the sheets and move the stuff on top. Dig down. You might just be surprised and even delighted to find God where you least expected God to show up....
A heresy well worth pondering....
Saturday, February 9, 2013
What's in a name?
Going out on the back deck and not being able to see the Adirondack chairs was the first hint something had gone terribly wrong.....That and having the snow in the front yard the same level as the front porch....And that white picket fence on the East side of our yard, it seems to have disappeared.
But what's the name of this storm?
The weather channel calls it Nemo and the local channels insist her name is Charlotte!
What's up with that? Can't we all come together on something as non-political as a blizzard? I don't see any implications for this name disagreement. This isn't the national debt or gun control or immigration--it's a snow storm for goodness sake...let's agree on a name....
We didn't lose power at all so we're warm and comfortable as we are stranded. The snow piles our neighbor Mark made when he borrowed another neighbor's snow blower, are over my head where our driveway meets Cornwall Ave. And Cornwall is barely a lane wide with four or five inches of snow on it. The plows simply have nowhere to pile the snow.
Church is cancelled tomorrow. so we have another day to fool around moving snow from one pile to another.
It all came down in around 24 hours--more than two inches an hour since some places it's over 3 1/2 feet around here.
Amazing and a bit awe inspiring about Nature and all....But we have electricity. Nemo/Charlotte seems like the Devil in White to many people in New England right now.
And their best strategy right now might be to find shelter if they can because the temperature is dropping fast....
Stay warm, if you live up here. If you live outside New England, feel blessed Nemo/Charlotte didn't come your way....
But what's the name of this storm?
The weather channel calls it Nemo and the local channels insist her name is Charlotte!
What's up with that? Can't we all come together on something as non-political as a blizzard? I don't see any implications for this name disagreement. This isn't the national debt or gun control or immigration--it's a snow storm for goodness sake...let's agree on a name....
We didn't lose power at all so we're warm and comfortable as we are stranded. The snow piles our neighbor Mark made when he borrowed another neighbor's snow blower, are over my head where our driveway meets Cornwall Ave. And Cornwall is barely a lane wide with four or five inches of snow on it. The plows simply have nowhere to pile the snow.
Church is cancelled tomorrow. so we have another day to fool around moving snow from one pile to another.
It all came down in around 24 hours--more than two inches an hour since some places it's over 3 1/2 feet around here.
Amazing and a bit awe inspiring about Nature and all....But we have electricity. Nemo/Charlotte seems like the Devil in White to many people in New England right now.
And their best strategy right now might be to find shelter if they can because the temperature is dropping fast....
Stay warm, if you live up here. If you live outside New England, feel blessed Nemo/Charlotte didn't come your way....
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
My favorite person I've never met....
We all have 'favorite people' we've never met, right?
(Just checking that out since I tend to think I'm the norm of the universe and I certainly have favorite people I've never met.....)
So, if we agree on the premise, then here are some of mine: Bob Dylan, Derrik Jeter, Barack Obama and his family, Jon Steward, Denzel Washington, Tom Hanks, Bette Middler, P.D. James, Bill Moyers, George R. R. Martin, Rachel Maddow....like that.
But my most favorite person I've never met (though we've emailed and talked on the phone) is Linda S., who works for the Church Pension Fund Group. What she does is be an advocate for members of the Episcopal Church Medical Trust when they're having trouble with the Insurance Companies that have contracts with the Episcopal Church.
Linda S. (I'll not tell you her name since I never asked her if I could write about her) helped me out of a mess of my own making back in 2009. Something changed in the Diocesan Insurance Plan and I payed no attention and kept going to a Dr. who was no longer covered on my plan (though I could have chosen a plan that made him covered) and he did a sh**-load of tests (including a full body scan that allowed me to look at my skeleton. Have you ever seen your skeleton? I guarantee it won't look anything like you imagined and will make you either decide to believe in the whole evolution side-by-side with ape thing or totally embrace it.....)
The bills started being sent to C*G*A--I have cleverly obscured the name of the Insurance company by putting a * in place of the I and N--and were denied en mass.
It WAS my fault, but somehow, Linda S. and the moral authority of the Church Pension Group, got that unnamed insurance company to pay some $7000+ that they could have, legally, denied.
And just since I've been sick, the same company, *IGN*--denied paying thousands and thousands of dollars of lab work because they said no "provider" had requested it. Well, it was all about Bern's pancreas and I would sell the house to pay for the results we got, but, excuse me, the Dr. C**NA paid to do all the medical procedures requiring the Lab Work CIG** denied was, ultimately the 'provider' requesting that Lab work. But since it came, not from her but from Yale-New Haven Hospital--*IGNA denied the claims--about four mortgage payments of claims.
But I know Linda will have it handled by Monday if not tomorrow.
She's my favorite person I've never really met....
(Just checking that out since I tend to think I'm the norm of the universe and I certainly have favorite people I've never met.....)
So, if we agree on the premise, then here are some of mine: Bob Dylan, Derrik Jeter, Barack Obama and his family, Jon Steward, Denzel Washington, Tom Hanks, Bette Middler, P.D. James, Bill Moyers, George R. R. Martin, Rachel Maddow....like that.
But my most favorite person I've never met (though we've emailed and talked on the phone) is Linda S., who works for the Church Pension Fund Group. What she does is be an advocate for members of the Episcopal Church Medical Trust when they're having trouble with the Insurance Companies that have contracts with the Episcopal Church.
Linda S. (I'll not tell you her name since I never asked her if I could write about her) helped me out of a mess of my own making back in 2009. Something changed in the Diocesan Insurance Plan and I payed no attention and kept going to a Dr. who was no longer covered on my plan (though I could have chosen a plan that made him covered) and he did a sh**-load of tests (including a full body scan that allowed me to look at my skeleton. Have you ever seen your skeleton? I guarantee it won't look anything like you imagined and will make you either decide to believe in the whole evolution side-by-side with ape thing or totally embrace it.....)
The bills started being sent to C*G*A--I have cleverly obscured the name of the Insurance company by putting a * in place of the I and N--and were denied en mass.
It WAS my fault, but somehow, Linda S. and the moral authority of the Church Pension Group, got that unnamed insurance company to pay some $7000+ that they could have, legally, denied.
And just since I've been sick, the same company, *IGN*--denied paying thousands and thousands of dollars of lab work because they said no "provider" had requested it. Well, it was all about Bern's pancreas and I would sell the house to pay for the results we got, but, excuse me, the Dr. C**NA paid to do all the medical procedures requiring the Lab Work CIG** denied was, ultimately the 'provider' requesting that Lab work. But since it came, not from her but from Yale-New Haven Hospital--*IGNA denied the claims--about four mortgage payments of claims.
But I know Linda will have it handled by Monday if not tomorrow.
She's my favorite person I've never really met....
Monday, February 4, 2013
Voyage to a Strange Shore
OK, I haven't written here for over a week. I've been away to the land of Flu, lost in it's winding lanes, overheated by it's tense sun, wooed to sleep at ever corner.
When I was little, I slept through every major childhood disease. At 7 or 8 I contracted both the measles and the chicken pox and went to sleep for a week or so. At 12 I had the mumps and was asleep in in room with the blinds drawn for about the same amount of time. I remember people waking me up for soup and water or to go to the bathroom or to take some noxious potion or another, but essentially, I slept through.
Here's the thing about doctors--they don't believe me and you....I called on Wed. morning and told him I had the flu. He's been my doctor for almost 25 years but still doesn't believe m on the phone. He asked 10 minutes of questions and pointed out I was missing several major symptoms (fever, loss of appetite and muscle ache, mostly) said it was probably a cold and to give it a day or two. I told him all those symptoms were in route, they simply hadn't arrived yet. He laughed but said, "really, give it a day or two...besides, you had a flu shot...." I pointed out the flu vaccine doesn't help between 30% and 40% of the people who get it.....That, I know, was being uppity and a mister know it all.
So I gave it a day or so and all the ships reached port! I didn't feel like eating 'anything', my hips and legs ached, my temperature (which normally is 97.5 or so, I know, I know, I am 'cool'....made it over 102. I called him back.
"I have the Flu," said, a proceeded to describe my misery, even the day I slept for 9 p.m. til 9 a.m. and then took a couple of 2 1/2 hour naps before bed at 9 p.m. He reluctantly put me on Tana Flu and I told him I needed an antibiotic as well. "No need for that," he said. What he meant was "liar, liar, pants on fire!"
So, when I went to the office today, he examined me and said, "you're on the antibiotics, right?"
"No," I explained, "you wouldn't give it to me."
"I'm sure I emailed it in...."
"Nope, sorry...."
So, now I'm on the Tana Flu, one of those GI track drone antibiotics and, if my breathing peak flows aren't better tomorrow, I'm to start a round of Prednisone!
But I just had a cold and had gotten my flu shot.
The Land of Flu is a strange destination. I can't concentrate for longer than 5 minutes (of course, I can't do much more on a good day but this is a good excuse!) And there are the dreams: I've had two kind of vivid and very real dreams--the mathematical dreams and the dreams where I've lost the dog and am naked in a place I've never seen before. The Math dreams are endless varied: I spent a whole dream working, over and again, out what 1.5 billion squared is in my head. It was always 2.25 billion but I kept being asked again and since I had it nailed, I kept doing it. There have been several dreams about graft paper and geometrical shapes. And one about a math task I never really understood.
Lots of varieties of Math.
The 'lost-my-dog-naked-somewhere-I've-never-seen-before-dreams' are pretty much alike....
It's also an odd place to deal with medical folks. There ought to be a class in medical school titled "They are IN their body, you're NOT".
Because I was having respiratory issues, I called the specialist who has kept me so healthy in that concern for so long. He seldom believes me.
My GP does believe me. He realized he's not inside me and has no way to discern what's going on there in the dark of the insides of my body besides what I tell him. I always appreciate that so much...
Today, because I remember weird, random quotes as I'm going to sleep or waking up, I remembered this one from Groucho Marx: "outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read...."
When I was little, I slept through every major childhood disease. At 7 or 8 I contracted both the measles and the chicken pox and went to sleep for a week or so. At 12 I had the mumps and was asleep in in room with the blinds drawn for about the same amount of time. I remember people waking me up for soup and water or to go to the bathroom or to take some noxious potion or another, but essentially, I slept through.
Here's the thing about doctors--they don't believe me and you....I called on Wed. morning and told him I had the flu. He's been my doctor for almost 25 years but still doesn't believe m on the phone. He asked 10 minutes of questions and pointed out I was missing several major symptoms (fever, loss of appetite and muscle ache, mostly) said it was probably a cold and to give it a day or two. I told him all those symptoms were in route, they simply hadn't arrived yet. He laughed but said, "really, give it a day or two...besides, you had a flu shot...." I pointed out the flu vaccine doesn't help between 30% and 40% of the people who get it.....That, I know, was being uppity and a mister know it all.
So I gave it a day or so and all the ships reached port! I didn't feel like eating 'anything', my hips and legs ached, my temperature (which normally is 97.5 or so, I know, I know, I am 'cool'....made it over 102. I called him back.
"I have the Flu," said, a proceeded to describe my misery, even the day I slept for 9 p.m. til 9 a.m. and then took a couple of 2 1/2 hour naps before bed at 9 p.m. He reluctantly put me on Tana Flu and I told him I needed an antibiotic as well. "No need for that," he said. What he meant was "liar, liar, pants on fire!"
So, when I went to the office today, he examined me and said, "you're on the antibiotics, right?"
"No," I explained, "you wouldn't give it to me."
"I'm sure I emailed it in...."
"Nope, sorry...."
So, now I'm on the Tana Flu, one of those GI track drone antibiotics and, if my breathing peak flows aren't better tomorrow, I'm to start a round of Prednisone!
But I just had a cold and had gotten my flu shot.
The Land of Flu is a strange destination. I can't concentrate for longer than 5 minutes (of course, I can't do much more on a good day but this is a good excuse!) And there are the dreams: I've had two kind of vivid and very real dreams--the mathematical dreams and the dreams where I've lost the dog and am naked in a place I've never seen before. The Math dreams are endless varied: I spent a whole dream working, over and again, out what 1.5 billion squared is in my head. It was always 2.25 billion but I kept being asked again and since I had it nailed, I kept doing it. There have been several dreams about graft paper and geometrical shapes. And one about a math task I never really understood.
Lots of varieties of Math.
The 'lost-my-dog-naked-somewhere-I've-never-seen-before-dreams' are pretty much alike....
It's also an odd place to deal with medical folks. There ought to be a class in medical school titled "They are IN their body, you're NOT".
Because I was having respiratory issues, I called the specialist who has kept me so healthy in that concern for so long. He seldom believes me.
My GP does believe me. He realized he's not inside me and has no way to discern what's going on there in the dark of the insides of my body besides what I tell him. I always appreciate that so much...
Today, because I remember weird, random quotes as I'm going to sleep or waking up, I remembered this one from Groucho Marx: "outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read...."
Sunday, January 27, 2013
worrying about Luke
Ok, I know I write too much about our creatures. But we love them so.
Maggie, the parakeet is listening to classical music right now--her favorite thing. We switched from WNPR to WSHU because the talk agitates her--and us too--I'm much calmer with Mozart and Bach than with endless political talk.
God knows what Bela, the Puli is up to. Tonight he grabbed one of Bern's socks from where she'd dropped it in the bedroom, took it to the TV room, shook it at her and ran, making her chase him to get it back. Then, just now, in the dark, he went off into the back yard and wouldn't come when I called him, making me search for the flashlight (he's so black--as black as midnight in a cypress swamp--that I can't see him in the dark) but then he came to the kitchen door and barked.
Luke, our cat, is, I now know, 13 years old. I know that because I asked Bern (linear time being a confounding thing to me) and she told me we got him when Mimi was 22 and now Mimi is 34 and (wonderful) and Luke wasn't a kitten but half grown when we found him at MEOW, a cat rescue place, so he's probably 13.
I've probably mentioned my affection for Lukey, not being naturally a cat person though we've had a lot of them over the years. I sleep later (except on Sundays) than Bern, so she lets him into our bedroom when she gets up and he curls up around my head. I wake up with a Maine Coon Cat on my head and a Puli against my legs. Not a bad way to wake up, by the way. Astonishing, actually. So I rub them both for a while before getting out of bed and going to the bathroom where I first draw Luke a glass of water before doing the other things people do in the morning in the bathroom.
He drinks a great deal of water, which worries me, since many cats die of kidney disease. He hasn't been to a vet since MEOW had him. He's been an indoor cat and never sick. But now that I know he's 13, instead of 10 or 15, which were my two guesses being unstuck in linear time, I'm concerned.
I'd like to always wake up with a yellow Coon Cat around draped around my head. Maybe, if God is in his heaven, the afterlife will involve a yellow cat around your head in some way. I'd appreciate that kind of Eternity.
So now, I know, I'll start noticing even more how much water he drinks and checking that his nose is pink and that he seems energetic (he still is because when I came down the hallway to my little office to write this, Luke raced ahead of me, jumped up on the banister to the back stairs and laid on the table beside the table where my PC is for a while, rolling and showing me his belly.
The older I get, one of things I don't understand even less than I did, was how people without critters get along. Dogs and cats and birds, I know, intellectually, aren't everyone's cup of tea. But I love them so. I really do. They teach me so much about dependance and joy and love....
We once had a cat who lived to be 23. I hope Luke does and I hope, if he does, I'll still be spry enough to bury him beside our deck, with generations of creatures, with dignity....That would be good, I think....I believe....I know....
Maggie, the parakeet is listening to classical music right now--her favorite thing. We switched from WNPR to WSHU because the talk agitates her--and us too--I'm much calmer with Mozart and Bach than with endless political talk.
God knows what Bela, the Puli is up to. Tonight he grabbed one of Bern's socks from where she'd dropped it in the bedroom, took it to the TV room, shook it at her and ran, making her chase him to get it back. Then, just now, in the dark, he went off into the back yard and wouldn't come when I called him, making me search for the flashlight (he's so black--as black as midnight in a cypress swamp--that I can't see him in the dark) but then he came to the kitchen door and barked.
Luke, our cat, is, I now know, 13 years old. I know that because I asked Bern (linear time being a confounding thing to me) and she told me we got him when Mimi was 22 and now Mimi is 34 and (wonderful) and Luke wasn't a kitten but half grown when we found him at MEOW, a cat rescue place, so he's probably 13.
I've probably mentioned my affection for Lukey, not being naturally a cat person though we've had a lot of them over the years. I sleep later (except on Sundays) than Bern, so she lets him into our bedroom when she gets up and he curls up around my head. I wake up with a Maine Coon Cat on my head and a Puli against my legs. Not a bad way to wake up, by the way. Astonishing, actually. So I rub them both for a while before getting out of bed and going to the bathroom where I first draw Luke a glass of water before doing the other things people do in the morning in the bathroom.
He drinks a great deal of water, which worries me, since many cats die of kidney disease. He hasn't been to a vet since MEOW had him. He's been an indoor cat and never sick. But now that I know he's 13, instead of 10 or 15, which were my two guesses being unstuck in linear time, I'm concerned.
I'd like to always wake up with a yellow Coon Cat around draped around my head. Maybe, if God is in his heaven, the afterlife will involve a yellow cat around your head in some way. I'd appreciate that kind of Eternity.
So now, I know, I'll start noticing even more how much water he drinks and checking that his nose is pink and that he seems energetic (he still is because when I came down the hallway to my little office to write this, Luke raced ahead of me, jumped up on the banister to the back stairs and laid on the table beside the table where my PC is for a while, rolling and showing me his belly.
The older I get, one of things I don't understand even less than I did, was how people without critters get along. Dogs and cats and birds, I know, intellectually, aren't everyone's cup of tea. But I love them so. I really do. They teach me so much about dependance and joy and love....
We once had a cat who lived to be 23. I hope Luke does and I hope, if he does, I'll still be spry enough to bury him beside our deck, with generations of creatures, with dignity....That would be good, I think....I believe....I know....
Friday, January 25, 2013
Going to see Mimi....
Tomorrow I'm going to see Mimi...and Tim, two of the people I love most in the world. I'll get on the train in New Haven at 9:27 or so and I'll be at Grand Central by 11 something and I'll find my way to the 4 or 5 train and ride to Brooklyn and be at their apartment on South Elliot by noon or so. I bring the stuff Mimi couldn't take home with her because she flew to Florida the day after Christmas and I'll take their Valentine's gifts (a bit early) that Bern takes so seriously and looks so hard for. Some of them hilarious and some touching. And I'll take them to lunch somewhere in Fort Green and we'll talk and laugh and be happy. What could be better than that? Then I'll ride the train back to New Haven at 4:34 or so and be home to my life.
(My whole life is like "going to see Mimi". I live in a house I love and we almost own outright--a couple of more years--with a dog and cat and bird {a gift from Mimi} and a woman who, in our latest marriage [we've had a few!] I love more than you can imagine, more, even, than I can imagine. And we have enough money and don't lock our doors and live in a wonderful town and read lots of books and cook good food and sleep soundly and don't worry or fret about much of anything. And I have two miraculous children--Josh and Mimi--and three astonishing grand-daughters--Morgan and Emma and Tegan--and two wonderful partners to those two children--Cathy and Tim. And, to my knowledge, I did absolutely nothing to deserve the life I love so much. I'm not particularly brave or strong or noble or even good. Yet my life has turned out so incredible, so well, so perfect, in many ways.)
I'm trying, these days, to live a life of total and eternal gratefulness. I don't pinch myself because I'm afraid I might wake up and things would be a mess. I teach at UConn and love it. I work in the Middlesex Area Cluster Ministry and love it. I have good health, in spite of smoking and drinking white wine to a bit of excess. I have good friends who give me great joy. I dream dreams that either make me ponder or bring me an excess of joy. I do whatever I want whenever I want.
How could anyone deserve all that?
I don't, I know. I don't 'deserve' it. It is a gift from God or wherever that I can neither deserve or earn...I long ago quit trying to earn it!
So, what to do with all that? Ponder it, certainly. Be profoundly thankful, that goes without saying. And get up tomorrow and go see Mimi and Tim and ride the train and read a book and have a good lunch and deliver gifts and be with people I love so much it hollows me out so I can be filled up anew in their presence.
Just that. And, if it doesn't seem too presumptuous or arrogant, pray for all those who don't have my life, that they might. That they might....
I was just talking with Bern about our life. The way she put it is this: "it's all right". Most people worry, she said, that 'things won't be all right'. And for us, they are.
I've quit fretting about why my life is so good (there's no reason, really, so why fret about it?) And I don't, any longer, feel guilty about being joyful and fulfilled. Something about 'grace' in there. But I realize I am profoundly blessed and know that blessedness will give me the strength to deal with things when they aren't alright, which will happen, I surely know.
But for now, all I'm thinking of is going to see Mimi and the wondrous joy of all that, and how eternally thankful I am.
Something to ponder: living a life of eternal thankfulness....
(My whole life is like "going to see Mimi". I live in a house I love and we almost own outright--a couple of more years--with a dog and cat and bird {a gift from Mimi} and a woman who, in our latest marriage [we've had a few!] I love more than you can imagine, more, even, than I can imagine. And we have enough money and don't lock our doors and live in a wonderful town and read lots of books and cook good food and sleep soundly and don't worry or fret about much of anything. And I have two miraculous children--Josh and Mimi--and three astonishing grand-daughters--Morgan and Emma and Tegan--and two wonderful partners to those two children--Cathy and Tim. And, to my knowledge, I did absolutely nothing to deserve the life I love so much. I'm not particularly brave or strong or noble or even good. Yet my life has turned out so incredible, so well, so perfect, in many ways.)
I'm trying, these days, to live a life of total and eternal gratefulness. I don't pinch myself because I'm afraid I might wake up and things would be a mess. I teach at UConn and love it. I work in the Middlesex Area Cluster Ministry and love it. I have good health, in spite of smoking and drinking white wine to a bit of excess. I have good friends who give me great joy. I dream dreams that either make me ponder or bring me an excess of joy. I do whatever I want whenever I want.
How could anyone deserve all that?
I don't, I know. I don't 'deserve' it. It is a gift from God or wherever that I can neither deserve or earn...I long ago quit trying to earn it!
So, what to do with all that? Ponder it, certainly. Be profoundly thankful, that goes without saying. And get up tomorrow and go see Mimi and Tim and ride the train and read a book and have a good lunch and deliver gifts and be with people I love so much it hollows me out so I can be filled up anew in their presence.
Just that. And, if it doesn't seem too presumptuous or arrogant, pray for all those who don't have my life, that they might. That they might....
I was just talking with Bern about our life. The way she put it is this: "it's all right". Most people worry, she said, that 'things won't be all right'. And for us, they are.
I've quit fretting about why my life is so good (there's no reason, really, so why fret about it?) And I don't, any longer, feel guilty about being joyful and fulfilled. Something about 'grace' in there. But I realize I am profoundly blessed and know that blessedness will give me the strength to deal with things when they aren't alright, which will happen, I surely know.
But for now, all I'm thinking of is going to see Mimi and the wondrous joy of all that, and how eternally thankful I am.
Something to ponder: living a life of eternal thankfulness....
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
the beetle in our bathroom
OK, after my rather elongated navel-gazing last post, I realized what I was trying to say is encapsulated in a poem by a woman I think named Elsie Langstrom called "Song to my other self". Neither of which--her name or the poems name--I could find anywhere on line. But today, I realized where I read it: in a book called Our Many Selves. So, I went to Amazon and found the book and ordered it, paying for express shipping, so I hope to share that poem with you soon.
After all that and a trip to the Y where I walked for 2 miles on a treadmill and read a book called The Beautiful Mystery, which is really good, I came home to take a shower.
When I opened the shower, there was a beetle in the middle of the floor in the shower. I'd seen him a couple of days before and wanted to keep him going so I put him in the sink while I took a shower. After my shower, I put him on the floor (it could be a female beetle, I realize) but he/she wandered off toward a little hole in the wall. A house built in 1850 has lots of places beetles can squeeze through.
But, after all, what is a beetle doing in our bathroom when it it 8 degrees outside? Where did he come from and what's the chance she could stay alive until spring? I don't even know how long beetles live. And, by the way, I'm not even sure it's a beetle. It's about an inch long and has a triangular head and a square body--but, not knowing what it is (and knowing it's not a roach of any kind) I wanted to give it a fighting chance. How did he/she get in the shower--the door is always shut when it isn't being used...?
Lot's of thing to ponder about this bug that has ended up, on the coldest day of the winter, in our bathroom. Well, if you were a bug and were in our house, which we keep at 65 degrees, I guess one of the bathrooms would be the best bet where there might be some steam and an electric heater for taking showers. So s/he is showing some intelligence.
It is very cold. When I went to bed last night the thermometer on our back porch read 6. When I got up it was 4. I don't think it got above 12 all day. (All those are Fahrenheit, by the way, though the Celsius reading make it sound better.)
I just went downstairs and had a cigarette and saw it was 4 degree (-21 Celsius) so the Celsius readings don't sound better at all! Which reminds me that I'm personally glad that the US never accepted Celsius and Metrics. It never made sense to me and I'm gratified that it is only +4 rather than -21 right now. And the Australian tennis Open, which I watch from time to time since Bern watches it pretty much all the time, records the miles per hour of serves in the metric system, which makes less than no sense.
But I was writing about the cold. I don't mind the cold nearly as much as I did when I was younger. When I was younger, I loved heat. People would say when it was 92 or so (which honors heat better than saying it's 34 degrees Celsius) "Is it hot enough for you?" And I would answer, "Hell no! And I'd like a little more humidity!" When I was young, I loved to sweat and steam.
But now, as I'm a senior citizen (I got 15% off a pair of jeans today at Bob's because it was Wednesday and I'm over 55...) it's no big deal to go out in 4 F/-21 C to have a cigarette. I even say a little longer to look at Jupiter and the moon with just a hat and a wool sweater.
So, it seems to me, I'm not a typical elder person. I wouldn't live in Florida for a million dollars (well,maybe $1,000,000 but not by choice). I'd move further north though Connecticut suits me fine. Not so hot as some places and colder than many.
I grew up in an apartment in Anawalt, WV that didn't have central heat. We had a warm morning stove in the living room and a wood/coal stove in the kitchen. But both were 25 feet or so from my room. So it got cold during the winter. I would turn my electric blanket up so high that when I woke up in the morning, my pajamas would be pressed. And our bathroom wasn't heated at all except by a kerosene heater that covered your wet body with little black dots when you got out of the bathtub--no showers in my childhood. So, I was cold a lot back then.
But now, 65 degrees seems pretty warm (and I have lots of hats and sweaters) so the cold, I suppose, just isn't as big a deal as it was earlier in my life. I've even started calling it 'brisk', the way real New Englanders do (though I'll never be, really, one of them). I actually like the cold better than the heat, so go figure.
But I'm still pondering the very existence of that bug I call a beetle. I'm glad to keep rescuing him, but what in creation is he doing in our bathroom?
After all that and a trip to the Y where I walked for 2 miles on a treadmill and read a book called The Beautiful Mystery, which is really good, I came home to take a shower.
When I opened the shower, there was a beetle in the middle of the floor in the shower. I'd seen him a couple of days before and wanted to keep him going so I put him in the sink while I took a shower. After my shower, I put him on the floor (it could be a female beetle, I realize) but he/she wandered off toward a little hole in the wall. A house built in 1850 has lots of places beetles can squeeze through.
But, after all, what is a beetle doing in our bathroom when it it 8 degrees outside? Where did he come from and what's the chance she could stay alive until spring? I don't even know how long beetles live. And, by the way, I'm not even sure it's a beetle. It's about an inch long and has a triangular head and a square body--but, not knowing what it is (and knowing it's not a roach of any kind) I wanted to give it a fighting chance. How did he/she get in the shower--the door is always shut when it isn't being used...?
Lot's of thing to ponder about this bug that has ended up, on the coldest day of the winter, in our bathroom. Well, if you were a bug and were in our house, which we keep at 65 degrees, I guess one of the bathrooms would be the best bet where there might be some steam and an electric heater for taking showers. So s/he is showing some intelligence.
It is very cold. When I went to bed last night the thermometer on our back porch read 6. When I got up it was 4. I don't think it got above 12 all day. (All those are Fahrenheit, by the way, though the Celsius reading make it sound better.)
I just went downstairs and had a cigarette and saw it was 4 degree (-21 Celsius) so the Celsius readings don't sound better at all! Which reminds me that I'm personally glad that the US never accepted Celsius and Metrics. It never made sense to me and I'm gratified that it is only +4 rather than -21 right now. And the Australian tennis Open, which I watch from time to time since Bern watches it pretty much all the time, records the miles per hour of serves in the metric system, which makes less than no sense.
But I was writing about the cold. I don't mind the cold nearly as much as I did when I was younger. When I was younger, I loved heat. People would say when it was 92 or so (which honors heat better than saying it's 34 degrees Celsius) "Is it hot enough for you?" And I would answer, "Hell no! And I'd like a little more humidity!" When I was young, I loved to sweat and steam.
But now, as I'm a senior citizen (I got 15% off a pair of jeans today at Bob's because it was Wednesday and I'm over 55...) it's no big deal to go out in 4 F/-21 C to have a cigarette. I even say a little longer to look at Jupiter and the moon with just a hat and a wool sweater.
So, it seems to me, I'm not a typical elder person. I wouldn't live in Florida for a million dollars (well,maybe $1,000,000 but not by choice). I'd move further north though Connecticut suits me fine. Not so hot as some places and colder than many.
I grew up in an apartment in Anawalt, WV that didn't have central heat. We had a warm morning stove in the living room and a wood/coal stove in the kitchen. But both were 25 feet or so from my room. So it got cold during the winter. I would turn my electric blanket up so high that when I woke up in the morning, my pajamas would be pressed. And our bathroom wasn't heated at all except by a kerosene heater that covered your wet body with little black dots when you got out of the bathtub--no showers in my childhood. So, I was cold a lot back then.
But now, 65 degrees seems pretty warm (and I have lots of hats and sweaters) so the cold, I suppose, just isn't as big a deal as it was earlier in my life. I've even started calling it 'brisk', the way real New Englanders do (though I'll never be, really, one of them). I actually like the cold better than the heat, so go figure.
But I'm still pondering the very existence of that bug I call a beetle. I'm glad to keep rescuing him, but what in creation is he doing in our bathroom?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)