“Oh,” I said, when I came across the shell, “Sorry.” But why be sorry for a vicious predator?
“Oh,” I said, when I came across the shell, “Sorry.” But why be sorry for a vicious predator?
“Nothing is more dangerous than an idea when it is the only one you have.”
someday, this compared-to-us giant will burn down its hydrogen, convert to using its short source of helium, expand enough to consume Mercury, Venus, and Earth, then, having made a mess of life as we know it, Ka-boom!
At some point necessary to earth’s rotating rules, while the side I live on remained a few hours short of light, I should have been sleeping. I wasn’t.
It’s a celebration day—this June 7th.
It’s a cold day, however.
Oh, not weather cold but rather, my husband and I each have one—a cold, that is. One of those shared things. His arrived several days ago and only yesterday did it jump the barrier of resistance and land in my throat.
Our window was lifted, not flung. So, before approaching the Thought that drew me from the bed an hour earlier than usual, I’m following a distraction: an image. A window. Flung.
Normally, swear words are rare between us. As Dave ran the distance, his ever alert wife leaned from the sofa, opened the rear starboard salon window, reached to the narrow deck walkway where the tank filling hole is, and pulled the spewing hose free.
Look, I’m not complaining (spin), it’s just that since we moved to this small apartment and I rid myself of probably half my books, there are occasions when—like this morning—I need a particular book
Arketa’s story is like no other. Hers was a privileged childhood, as privilege goes in a place without phones, power, plumbing, or peace. Her grandfathers were chiefs, her parents, London educated professionals, her training as a midwife was a coveted honor, and her husband, traditionally and admirably selected. But privilege gave way.
~ ~ ~
It was not enough that five men swinging knives in God’s name decapitated her young husband. They raped Arketa—there, on the floor where Joseph’s headless body lay twitching. March 1984—the month of their first anniversary, her twentieth birthday, the third month of their son’s life, and the first of many proofs that her privileged life had ended.
How does she feel, the mother of Jesus, the woman “favored of God;” she who was promised to be blessed among women. Really? Shall we imagine ourselves a matter of only hours after our child’s torture and death? How does she feel?
Many of us,
perhaps most of us,
know how hard it is, waking “toward the dawn,”
after some heartbreaking event.
This v-e-r-y long blog entry is accompanied by a picture of an Easter egg, one of many mysteriously appearing in crannies and corridors of our apartment complex. Of Easter they are, of pagan origins they are, ancient symbols of rebirth, but few among us who enjoy Easter eggs, think about that. Yet some of us do. I do.
I’m convinced that the beginnings of Stuff, surely the beginning Big Bang, did not evolve. Consider the demands of exactitude required when, about 13.8 billion years ago Matter, at some infinitesimal point somewhere in—in what, space? What space?—began explosively, expansively, becoming Universe; began becoming all that we puny inhabitants of one of its innumerable objects seem to think it is: a center-less, bending, rule-abiding, complex Thing. Nothing located in Nowhere began Something about 13.8 billion years ago.
Meanings matter. Word meanings matter most when attached to beliefs or when robbed of resilience.
Take “Lent,” for instance. I recently meant to, but got sidetracked by wordplay that led me to seriously consider what significant words can do to those of us of strong beliefs. Unexpectedly, I thought of Christmas and my maternal grandmother.
My reading Peter Enns work is like being the dog lifted by a tornado, dropped, sopping, shocked, and slightly injured into the yard of a faraway and unfamiliar family that welcomes him, bathes him, feeds him, but understand that sadness accompanies him.
Let me begin by saying, there’s little to criticize about the mind of C.S. Lewis.He was one brilliant rationalist. Still, he once warned his readers that in encountering a rose, we might get so caught up in the ‘science’ of smell and sight, of scent and color (or as he in his British English would write, “colour”) that we might lose the experience of “Rose” altogether.
Look, I found the little flower pictured alongside this posting while walking my dog.
I would love to be writing a Ha, Ha, Ha bit of blather. I have reason to. Recently, along with seven others, my husband and I were dinner guests of an eatery eager to impress.
Let me begin by saying, the table water glasses had been filled. Our presence had been anticipated. This proved significant, good even, for the survival of any who wait, and wait, to be given attention; or for starters, given menus.
By the time thirty minutes or so had passed (but who counts while waiting for food?) . . .