Meteorologists’ job seems to be to make us uncomfortable with what we have.
It’s either too hot or too cold. (Or it’s too humid or too rainy or too sunny.)
Are they fomenting revolution or at least unhappiness? Something is wrong whether it is or it isn’t. “It’s going to be not-ideal, but wait a while and it’ll get better.” “It’s a beautiful day, but don’t worry, storm clouds are on the horizon to ruin it.”
They seem happiest when cruising through a terrible storm, a madness of nature that threatens doom.
“Hi, it’s me with the weather to tell you no matter how wonderful life is, eventually something will come along to destroy all you know. Don’t be happy in the present moment, because this will pass and you need to be ready for the pain and the sorrow and the disappointment. Clouds will thicken, sure as the sun rises and sets.”
Take it as it comes, sunny or cloudy, and try not to fret. Something bad is always in the forecast if you look for it, but so is something good.
What’s with all the discouraging words? Home, home with the strange, where the crackpot politicians play, where seldom is heard an encouraging word and the skies are just cloudy all day.
Sow discord, reap the whirlwind. These gardeners have been tilling the soil with seeds of hate, envy, fear and loathing for so long, it’s hard to breathe with all these weeds choking the air.
Fortunately, there is a solution. Stop listening, for one. Much of their power is in the silver tongue of false promises and false prophecies. (”The world as we know it will end unless you give me more power!!!”)
Whatever is good – think on those things. Listen to those who add value to life: the builders, not the petty demolition experts. Turn off the noise …
It’s a busy day, spring/summer finally here, 86 degrees with a chance of thunderstorms in the near future – but for now the sun is shining.
I’m at a picnic table at a park along the water – I snap a photo to illustrate whatever blog post might come of this writing. Oh my, writing! I have so much writing to do. Good thing I love to write, but even the things you love can become a chore when you have set expectations, right? Continue reading “Peace for a moment”
Sometimes morning comes with a splash of creativity, bombs bursting in air with passion’s red glare of urgent joy. Sometimes morning eases tenderly into the sun, softly whispering, “Oh gracious, is it time already?” Sometimes morning is an old dog content to sit at the top of the back stairs, waiting for her human to come out and sit next to her with his arm around her shoulders.
We all find peace in separate ways, but peace seeks us out in the morning. Something about sleep clears the mind, and in the waking hours of dawn, we know what we need and what we must do to get there, even if we can’t put it into words. Continue reading “Ignition: This is The Day”
No one likes the raging and the hatred.
It makes them enraged – they hate it – and the circle rolls on.
The solution is as easy as Love Your Neighbor.
Even if your neighbor is spouting hatred and nonsense? Especially then. The circle will only stop rolling when enough people choose not to participate. Continue reading “Oh, just stop shouting”
The day had come and gone without his notice. He had buried his face in the everyday and could not say whether the sun had shone all day or if snow had dusted the neighborhood. It was as if he had slept all day, but he remembered waking.
Outside, he knew, there was a cold colder than the coldest cold and a land anxious for spring, but he hadn’t glanced out the window, as far as he could remember, so he couldn’t say if the ground was softer or harder or ice-covered or some lingering grass was visible. He thought he may have communicated with the outside world but couldn’t remember the details. Continue reading “A day lost and found”
The thoughts bombarded him like an automatic machine gun spraying the yard like lethal missiles. Overstimulated, he folded into a stupor, unable to think straight enough to take a step one way or another. Sounds, blinking lights, and hundreds of people dashing or walking this way and that.
He knew he had somewhere to go but suddenly had no interest or memory of where that might be, only an overwhelming urge to process the scene in front of him. It was if he had been dropped into a teeming ant hill: Everyone about him knew where they were going and was going straight about their business, but it looked like chaos. He wanted to see the pattern, he wanted to see how it all fit together, the infinite combinations. Continue reading “Lost in the flit”
“The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago. The second best time is now.” — Chinese proverb
The best time to write a novel was 40 years ago. The second best time is now.
The best time to apologize to your friend was right after it happened. The second best time is now.
The best time to switch careers was when you were X years old. The second best is now.
Fear not that you missed the best time to do anything worthwhile, because the second best time is right here and now.