Thursday, February 14, 2013

Ode to St. Valentine

I never much liked Valentine's Day.  The nuns at Sacred Heart of Mary insisted on us dispensing cards to every one of our classmates.  I think that fired the psychotic in some of the odder examples of humanity in our class.  People always acted funny on that day, particularly in the eighth year, when the hormones were just beginning to stir. For some reason, though, it was one of my Dad's favorites and he never forgot to grace my sister and me with a small, heart-shaped box of chocolates.  It was nice, and I like nice memories.

I always made it a point to avoid the practice myself.  It's nothing to do with the saint himself.  Or both of them, depending on which history of the church you read.  I suppose it's got value, in that it does remind people of the concept of love, something that gets lost in the myriad of forensic scientists and murderers, soccer players, politicians, and the rest that are paraded through their minds by the media.

I am, myself, a great fan of love, but not of romance.  I would die for love, which is to say, I would risk my life to save another sentient being.  Compassion.  Everyone should try a taste of it.  Love is a good thing.  Don't you forget it. It may actually be love that makes the world go round.  The science of mind is beginning to understand itself, the zeitgeist is turning mystical. I'm going to sit quietly for the next twenty minutes or so, and do my part to hold the universe in balance.  Peace and love to all of you!!  Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day.

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

A Month of Sundays

January began with a cold.  I was on my back or buttocks more than my feet for the first few weeks.  Somewhere between a sneeze and a cough, I managed to pinch my sciatic nerve once again.  It was a particularly harsh episode and it was at least a week before I could sleep more than two hours at a time.  Eventual, I took on the form of a sadly deformed pretzel, left side to the mattress, right hoisted in the air at an absurd angle to the other and then, a twitch and a tuck and sleep was upon me.  I've taken my walks, short ones, one to two kilometers, not particularly enjoyable in the wet snow or almost frozen rain, but respites from buttock or back and an intake of something other than pipe smoke and dust.  One good thing's come out of it, though, I've redefined Sunday.  We'll leave the semantics lesson for another time, but I thought I'd let you know that Sunday is a day when you don't write, or carve, or even think.  Sunday is the mindfulness of mindlessness.  I've had a month of them and am looking forward to the rest.