The blessings, the beatitudes of Jesus. God bless those who become blessings. You await our blessings.
Blessings to you for earth, sky and sea. Blessings for those who have saved rather than squandered. Blessings for those In need. Blessings for those who loved. Blessings for those who Have turned from judging, who chose not to hate.
Love, with all its blessings, let that be us. Let that be here. Amen
A man that I visited in a nursing home had incurred two broken hips since I had last seen him. He is in his late eighties and apparently facing his remaining life in a room.
There is little about him that is downbeat. He is engaged. Not showing any sign of depression. His demeanor provoked me to look for weakness. Is he crazy, narcissistic, or just a good guy?
I find it easier to find fault than I do in praising him. He has undergone a rite of passage that I don’t think I ever will. I have come and gone into puberty, adulthood, middle age and now early old without any signs of evidence that I ever experience a passage of any sorts. Other than time passing. I feel the same as yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
What I see in him as some kind of psychotic disturbance might be me looking dimly in a mirror. How have I jumped from sixteen to sixty-six without recognition? This man has been in the military and worn several other uniforms, many with badges. Occupations I would have spurned in my younger hours. I wanted recognition but never thought of it doing it the way he did.
Life for me has been more a passing than an entry. Until New Hampshire, moving from one town to another. It is what I see as intriguing about Lee Child’s fictional character Reacher.
Rather than hold to his military exploits, Reacher seems to wander into new realms. Where others might be insecure, he lives one day at a time and becomes prominent as a go to guy, a guy we might ask about life’s meaning. He is a wandering monk. A monastery is his likely next stop, not a nursing home.
One man real, and the other imagination, which one would I rather be?
In Owning Your Own Shadow, author Robert Johnson writes, “Narrow creativity always brings a narrow shadow, while broader talents call up a greater portion of the dark.”
Most of my life I thought that avoiding my shadow meant success. Now I am distressed to learn how totally untrue this is. It is incredible to me that I have found in my writing a willingness to do just the opposite. More than a willingness, I have an almost panicky desire to dance in the shadows. I can’t get there fast enough.
I hope you learned to dance before I did.
I have never liked hospitals or nursing homes. Even saying so makes my superstitious side stand at alert. If I want the Red Sox to win when they are not, I go to my local post office where I know a Yankee fan works, and I yell out to him, “Go Yankees!” He smiles.
This old tree has become part of me. We, twenty years living here, have enjoyed having it by our side.
We saw it survive winds and ice, enjoy heat and humidity, but now to save it requires major pruning. It might not be enough. Eighty years old we figure. It has seen so much, a youngster in the 1930’s.
Born years before us, it is time. I hope it does not hurt. I hope it understands. Trees falling apart are dangerous. They don’t mean to be.
Today I wrote a blog I didn’t’ like. I didn’t feel that way when I posted it, but reading it later. This has happened before, but in those other circumstances I deleted the post. This time I decided to keep it.
Most of what I post stays true to the original blog name, Bob’s Books Blog. It is the blog’s name before I decided I liked Writing Out Loud. The original remains the blogs link electronically and in my brain. Much of what I post comes from a fresh reading of one of the many books active on my shelves. Today’s post on health came from the book A Theology of Compassion by Oliver Davies.
“To your health” is a toast that has had legs. Part of being, much of being, most of being is to have health.
I know fellow bloggers who have struggled with bad health. So do you. Bad health is, as with death, for some other.