Sunrise With Schubert: February 21, 2018

Ever have a tough week? I have. When it happens, I go back and watch videos of Kristallnacht, or 9-11, then to St. Jude’s website where I normally make a contribution.

This may be one of those weeks. It’s shaping up to be a dandy, so I may extend my Plädoyer für Stärke (plea for strength for which our Jewish brothers and sisters must have wished) generosity to the Southern Poverty Law Center as well. I might even extend the salve of serenity to the Cure Alzheimer’s Fund. Bestowments can sanctify, as I have always found.

Like I say, it’s not looking good, though. This week. I’m in line for an adult dose it seems.

First, our country is still reeling from a national tragedy. Instead of comforting one another, we have divided into camps and the “insults of blame” grow more furious and frivolous with each passing hour. Whereas we once had leaders who offered healing words in times like this, this “new batch of railroad bums” seems to revel in our discord. Few people look to religion for common healing anymore because, it seems to me, that so few people seem to worship grace and love in these bewildering times. I’m sure that both the Galilean and the Apostle would weep to hear Franklin Graham speak for them.

And, our part of the country is facing a deluge that may evoke a minor Katrina or Harvey. The first day of the rain event has already flooded ground that was already soaked and we have four more days to go. The weather, in recent years, has become a monster of extremes and shows no signs whatsoever of forgiving us for our sins against its planet.

On a personal level, our familial responsibilities have entered a new and more despairing phase. The fact that it was inevitable and expected doesn’t lessen the pain.

My body aches of a morning. The spirit of T.S. Eliot just walked by, mocking me with:

“I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”

Pardon me. I need to take a break.

Back now. Just walked into the bedroom to get a robe when a rain-darkened sky allowed just enough light to illuminate the face of my dear companion, still sleeping. She must have been dreaming of pleasant times. We have, after all, had our share. She smiled in sleep, and the glow of it slapped me in the face like a blast of warming heat on a frozen field.

Suddenly, I was beautiful again.

Now, where’s my ZZ Top CD and that dad-blasted checkbook?

"Suck it up Jocko.
We'll always have Wattensaw."
That always helps.