We can’t always live In the daylight…
Some things remain
Away, aweigh, ’tis love which calls us forth;
The love which calls shall push us there as well.
When globe reveals what’s east, west, south or north
‘Tis heaven’s heat which rescues from cold hell.
I used to think
I prayed daily for the (disappointingly rare) “indoor recess” which would protect me from having to reveal any further my painfully evident dearth of kinesthetic intelligence.
We can’t get enough
In a virtual world,
The Magi showed up / And revealed / Divinity
I have nothing to write today, so I colored. Here is my contribution to the cosmos.
Unopened doors in neverending halls / I know I have the choice to alter clime
I put my finger on the “thing” / But then “thing” moved – or was it me?
This is how it will always be.
I am so, so, sick
Last night, my adopted son who bears my name met his paternal biological grandparents for the first time.
It’s “Boxing Day” which means the season’s o’er? In ‘Murica, again, we have it wrong.
You don’t have to like it; you don’t have to eat it. I will.
Who would do /
This / On purpose?
In general, I find a great deal of peace and predictability in the turning of the liturgical seasons. In other ways, it’s tremendously troublesome.
Always waiting. Always looking for what’s next. “OK, that one’s done, and I guess it didn’t ‘work’ either. What do we wait for next?”