Not Lauging

Some people think they are just so damn funny...

Good Things

I cannot teach you how to pray in words. God listens not to your words save when He Himself utters them through your lips. And I cannot teach you the prayer of the seas and the forests and the mountains. But you who are born of the mountains and the forests and the seas can find their prayer in your heart, And if you but listen in the stillness of the night you shall hear them saying in silence,

"Our God, who art our winged self, it is thy will in us that willeth. It is thy desire in us that desireth. It is thy urge in us that would turn our nights, which are thine, into days which are thine also. We cannot ask thee for aught, for thou knowest our needs before they are born in us: Thou art our need; and in giving us more of thyself thou givest us all."
Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Pithy will go out of our way to step on a crunchy leaf. It crackles underfoot, and we say thankyou for the childish delight that takes some sting out of the passing summer. We notice how our list of gratefuls has changed with us. As kids, we rested in the comfortable security of family, the quiet joy of imagination and the assured consistency. Each cold afternoon snuggled with a warm book, and cocoa was the surest recipe for a smile. Thanksgiving meant a day of turkey, orange rolls, cleaning--being together. We were grateful to those who filled our Christmas stockings, sometimes forgetting to thank God for filling our stockings with legs.

These days we actively focus our gratitude. Acknowledging that the hardest arithmetic to master is that of counting blessings, we work on our simple thankyous. It's not snowing right now. Facebook provides means of chatting--even when we are only ten feet apart. There is just enough toilet paper on the role. I got the last piece of lunch meat and someone left five dollars worth of gas in the car. I get the "sweet spot" in the parking lot at school before my eight o clock. Children's smiles still make us smile. That, despite it all, we still know that God will be there to help us get through to Christmas.

At times our internal light goes out. We rely on those around us to rekindle us with a little spark of their own. This year, we have cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lit our flame.

We remind ourselves that if the only prayer we ever said was that of "thank you"--that would be enough, hoping also to remember that saying the words is the easy part. The highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them--each breath drawn a reminder of how preciously fragile is our next.

"Thou hast given so much to me,
Give one thing more, - a grateful heart;
Not thankful when it pleaseth me,
As if Thy blessings had spare days,
But such a heart whose pulse may be Thy praise."
George Herbert

3:26

Sometimes we lose. Life--the world, and everything--presses in. Struggling like an underwater swimmer, we kick towards the surface, only to have it remain stationary, teasing just beyond our grasp. We become immune to these forces, eventually starved for air and numb. Many get stuck here in this halfway place--that tenuous balance that teeters on the edge of complete uproot. It becomes second nature and soon evolves into the real.

Jerry often walks home--thirty minutes of reflection to study fellow tight rope walkers. Some seem to say "I...can't --- breathe...."--their eyes clouded as they keep to their side of the walk. So many bodies moving in the unconscious orbits of their lives. Alienation widens the sidewalk--we move on.

Sometimes we lose. But sometimes, one or two break the surface. The car passes and I see the driver. Windows up, radio up, she sings--smiling. She probably doesn't sound good--the notes stretching the limits of her accountant abilities. But for the 3:26 of the music, she breathes in the simple freedom nostalgic of childhood--where we just go for it. We go for the cookie, we dance because we can't help it, we pick the booger, we don't laugh--we giggle, we remember to slow down and love someone.

We move on. The song finishes and we sink back to that place where we laugh at those who sing, where those who dance look funny, and we are safe in our isolation. We settle in to wait for the next moment where our guard weakens, where we can shore the 3:26 against our ruin.

They call me...

So, the dryer pretends it's a magician--in a Woody-Allen, garage-hobby kinda way. This puff began as Tom's sock, but, as is apt to happen with semi-professionals, something went terribly wrong. BTW, this black magic is the result of ONE batch of practically-clean-made-out-of-only-the-tightest-fibers clothes. Our task was to remove this testament to don'ttrythisathome in one piece and preserve it for you, internets. Your job, to offer the best tagline for our photos. Begin!