Bless Their Hearts! :)

I got something in the mail today that made me chuckle and wince and feel a tad irritated all at the same time.  I got mail from the Republican National Committee.  I had been a card-carrying member until a few years ago.  Then I got tired of continual fundraising letters that suggested that if I did not send in extra money immediately, then the Democrats (gasp) would win an extra seat in the House and the nation would suffer terrible things.  It is one thing to have political views and leanings, and I do lean towards the right.  However, it is quite another to think in exaggerated terms of black and white, and of evil and good, with nothing in between.

My guess is that much of this rhetoric came from the fundraisers.  I have run into this before.  While living in Ohio a man representing the Fraternal Order of Police phoned me and was so pushy in his attempts to get me to contribute that I resolved never to give to that organization again.  It was a shame, because I felt that even if I wanted to give (and basically I think the police need far more support from the public than they get), to contribute at that point would encourage this practice of ugly and pushy fundraising.

Back to today's whopper.  Take a gander at this!!!!

Past due?  Past due???????????  If you really want to alienate your donor base, then go ahead and suggest that they are late in paying their bills.  This is not a bill.  It is not a debt or an obligation.  It is, or might have been, a donation.  But this donation will not be donated, certainly not while the organization is wasting its money on incompetent fund raisers.

It is sad, really.  If people talk to me intelligently, I, like most people, I imagine, will listen and consider their request.  But use exaggerated rhetoric, or use insulting words on the envelope, and I will turn my attention elsewhere.

I have no idea whether this particular envelope contained exaggerated rhetoric.  It probably did, but I will never know because this envelope is now in my trash.

Grow up, fundraisers!

The Divine Lullaby

We know that the Word of God is living.  It is not just a book written down and left by the Lord for us to read by ourselves.  He is with us as we read, helping us notice things, and giving us the light and love to see the most wonderful things within those holy pages.  This is why the Word never grows old.  We can, if we open our minds and hearts and bow our heads, learn new things every time we read, seeing things we never saw  before.

I have read the 42nd Psalm countless times, but today, in reading it once more, a small phrase jumped out.  "In the night His song shall be with me" (Ps. 42:8).  It seemed at first to be saying that during the night the Lord sings to you.

Admittedly, the wording is ambiguous.  Perhaps David is the one singing, singing to the Lord "His" song.  This may well be the case, given that the verses continues, "and my prayer unto the God of my life."  If we reflect, though, we realize that even if David is the one singing, he really is not singing alone.

As we read the Word, the Lord is with us in that reading, helping us see and understand.  As we pray, He is with us in the thoughts and feelings behind our words, helping us to know what to say.  And when we sing?  Surely He is with us in our singing, and rejoicing in His being present with us.

Perhaps, the next time you have trouble sleeping, your mind filled with all kinds of useless worries, you can focus on His song, the song of our Father and Savior, the song of the Lord who will never leave us.

Seems like I am still going to have to wear something to protect that foot joint.  I am being sent to get myself a crow boot that will continue to provide support, more comfortably than the current boot does.  I am supposed to wear it most of the time.   Looks kind of forbidding to me.  Here is a pic I pulled offline.  And what a name!!!  Oh well, at least I have my foot.

Trip

And now, with all those old posts transferred over to this blog, it is back to the present!

Trip is the name I have given to my orthopedic boot.  I have worn Trip now for just under six weeks.  Tomorrow, if all goes well with the xray at the podiatrist's office, and the joint in my foot has healed, Trip and I will part ways.  And my life will get easier.

Claudius, 2000-2011

Claudius, one of my two cats, slipped peacefully away right before our eyes this past week.  He began the day hardly able to walk, and crying in pain.  He had weighed over 20 lbs.  Now he weighed nine.  We took him to the vet wrapped, like a little baby, in a blanket.  On the way home we were both crying.  Cats do not just take up residence in your home.  They get inside your heart in a wonderful way.

I wrote this poem today in memory of many happy times over the past decade.

FLY AWAY

Fly away my little friend;
With purrs you warmed my heart.
You snuggled soft upon my lap,
But now we have to part.

Fly away my little friend,
A friend I loved so dear.
You never spoke, you never talked,
Yet your voice I still do hear.

Little darling, little friend,
I am grateful for the days
You shared my home and touched my heart,
In soft mysterious ways.

Patrick A Rose
Feb. 1, 2011.

First published Feb. 1, 2011.

Betty the Bird Brain

Once upon a time there was a Canada goose.  She was a magnificent fowl, as fowls generally are.  She was covered with feathers and had a beak.  Her name was Betty.

Betty looked like a typical magnificent Canada goose.  Deep down inside her birdish soul, though, she had a yearning, a yearning to reach out beyond the limited social realm of bird-dom.  Even though she was not merely a bird, but a goose, she was growing tired of the soul-destroying shallowness of a life spend flying around making honking noises, landing on ponds, and generally fouling their banks.  Betty wanted more.
One day, purely by chance, as she was flying from one pond to another -- alone, because she happened to be in a grumpy solitary mood that day-- she looked down at the front lawn of a house she was passing over.  There in the middle of the lawn was a bright shiny red something.   Whatever it was, it looked powerful.  It looked strong.  It looked so ... mmmmmmm masculine.  Betty's heart started to go plippety plop -- the palpitations of love.

She adjusted her wing feathers -- the bird equivalent of flaps -- and slowed her airspeed.  She banked.  She banked some more.  She was dizzy with love.  And even though she was a bird, she was about to make herself airsick.

Finally she plopped down, clumsily, on the bright green lawn, in front of the bright red shiny masculine machine.

How does a bird that is bored of bird-dom but is nevertheless still cursed with a bird brain, reach out romantically to a machine?  Inevitably, she did so in a stupid way; and it was beyond stupid, for the only word to describe the consequences is "tragic."

Those of the human ilk find much of nature to be savage.  Hence the use of the word "savage" to describe animals, I suppose.  And indeed it can be savage.  Think of the poor male spider who gives it his all, and then is eaten by his mate.  Think of cats -- tom cats -- who get all torn and scratched fighting for the right to mate with that cute little sweetie with wide brown eyes and with whiskers to die for.  Think of germs, which reproduce by splitting in half!!   'Tis a very brutal world.

 No ending was so tragic, though, no love so destructive, no affection so misplaced, as the attraction which Betty had for this machine.

Perhaps Betty imagined, in her bird brain, that the machine had feelings, and perhaps even a name.  She might well have honked, in the language of Canada geese, the words, "I adore you, my love, my love whom I have lovingly named Larry."  Perhaps she did think of him as Larry.  We have no way of knowing, of course.  What we do know, though, is that -- and this is not simply tragic but also horrifying -- "Larry" was not a being with feelings, but was, rather, a machine with blades, big and very fast blades.  "Larry" was a lawn mower.  He was one of those wonderful new remote-controlled lawn mowers.

In his living room, a human called Bud had just replaced the batteries in the remote control for his bright red new remote-controlled lawn mower.  He pushed a button, at the very moment that Betty the shameless was trying to place a kiss on Larry's shining metallic surface.

It would not be appropriate to describe all the heart-rending details of Betty's demise.  Phrases such as "blood mixed with feathers," and "severed webbed feet" come to mind, but will not be elaborated upon here, in this public forum.

Bud is still cleaning up his new lawn mower.  Poor Bud.

And poor Betty.

First Published Oct. 10, 2009.

Piano Practice

There is something to learn from learning the piano as an adult.  It is most likely too late in life to become good enough for Carnegie Hall.  And it is certainly a time of life where hours and hours of practice are simply not possible.  In fact, once one takes into account a very busy work schedule and that undeniable sense of fatigue at the end of the day, it is amazing I practice at all.  Actually, for my last piano lesson I didn't -- practice at all, that is.  Except for the few odd minutes at the keyboard while waiting for a meal to cook.  So... while driving to my lesson, I did what most men are particularly talented at.  I searched for some excuses.  Not just one excuse, but excuses.

The first excuse was easy.  I had been traveling.  Not only had I been traveling, but I had been to Arizona and New Mexico before heading back to Atlanta.  I was thinking of throwing in a related excuse and mentioning that I had gotten some desert dust in my eyes in New Mexico, but decided against it.  It is never good to appear too pathetic.

The second excuse suddenly hit me -- fortunately only in a metaphorical sense, since I was driving.  The mot du jour would be "dabble."  Not only does the word have a certain breezy sound to it -- try saying it quickly five times in a row -- but it was the TRUTH!

Oh yes, I have been taking piano lessons for about ten years now.  But I have not been practicing that much for those lessons.  I have learned a fair amount, for sure.  But I could have learned so much more if I had not dabbled.  I dabble at learning the piano.  But -- and here was the sudden insight that metaphorically hit me while driving -- it is not necessarily bad to dabble.

We cannot excel at everything.  We do not have the time to excel at everything.  And it is just as well, because we would than fail to excel at being humble.  Adult piano lessons are not about excelling.  They are about adding something of balance to one's life.  They help one understand music better, enjoy music better.  They enrich the mind.  They lend cultural depth in an electronic instant world.

I was set.  I sat down at the piano, and explained to my teacher that I had been traveling, so had not had a chance to practice.  Then, after a subtle but calculated pause, I added that what what I was really doing was dabbling at the piano.  I mentioned the way it added a certain balance to my life. 

She nodded wisely and agreed wholeheartedly.

I have a terrific teacher, don't I?

Originally published July 4, 2009.

My Mum

Stella Rose, my mother, and one of my very best friends, left for Angel Land on Monday, Dec 1, just  over three weeks short of her 83rd birthday.

I am going to miss you a lot, Mum...all the wonderful phone conversations...all the silliness...and your gentle but deep insights into people and into life itself.  You are going to be a terrific angel, though, I suspect, one of the more mischievous angels.  Heaven is a beautiful place.  It is also wonderful fun.

"There's a better home awaiting,
In the sky Lord, in the sky."

Originally published Dec. 3, 2008.

My Brother

My brother died last week.  He led a hard life and had been sick for a long time.  I shed tears at his passing, and I send forth smiles at the knowledge that has woken up in a better world.  One day we shall meet again, Michael.  Little brother, I have written this poem for you.

My Brother's Journey

Life's journey is a mystery,
Winding path to heaven's love.
Our lives are each a story
Which ends far up above.

My brother's path led downwards,
Down to years of pain.
His steps were merely shuffles.
The road  was dark with rain.

Yet deep within his spirit,
His fire was carefully kept.
His love, his passion, glowing,
His brilliance merely slept.

Today his eyes do sparkle,
His mind is filled with fun.
He walks that world where all shall go,
The paths of angel-land.

    Patrick Alan Rose,  Nov 25, 2008

Originally published Nov. 25, 2008.

Sinuses and Foreign Heads of State

Last week I went to an ENT for a problem with a sinus infection  As I walked into the office of this new doctor, I was blithely unaware of the potentially international significance of my two innocent-looking nostrils.  Soon, though, I was asked to sign the Notice of Privacy Practices of this Ear, Nose & Throat Clinic.  Listed were the many circumstances in which they would be permitted to release my Individually Identifiable Health Information ((IIHI).  Yes, you may have guessed it!  They are allowed to release information about my nostrils "in order to protect . . . foreign heads of state."

Nostrils may be small seemingly insignificant orifices.  They may produce unpleasant discharge (sinuses not overly terrific, or S.N.O.T).  But who would have guessed that they have their own small place to play in international affairs?

Originally published Nov. 25, 2008.

Ballet and Parking Lots

I did not start going to the ballet until late into my forties.  It seemed like something to avoid.  My sister had had ballet lessons.  My daughter had had ballet lessons.  Ballet seemed like an alien feminine pursuit, something to be ignored.  I don't even remember how or why I first went to a ballet, but wow!  We were living in Cincinnati at the time, and the Cincinnati Ballet was exceptional.  I was hooked.  These people floated through the air.  They painted scenes with motion instead of pigments.  They sang with their bodies.

Ballet is not as popular as, say, [fill in the blank].  The people that go to ballet are not just any people.  They have been captured by the magic of a gentle world.  And this was obvious after we left.  The parking garage was awfully badly designed, and very hard to get out of.  Yet, there was no aggressive garage-exiting.  People were polite, and polite beyond anything one might ever see elsewhere.  They waited for their turn to merge into the one lane heading out of the one exit.

Politeness is something kind and human and gracious and civilized.  Politeness behind the wheel was a fitting postscript to the gentleness of dance.

Originally published May 15, 2008.

He Sits

One of my cats sits next to me.  He sits and he is warm and quiet.  He and I are comfortable together.  We know each other.  I have had him since he was a kitten, and he is almost eight years old now.

I suppose it is this sense of belonging, of shared experience, that makes us part of one family.  Even though our experiences of this relationship must surely be very different, still, I am his owner and he is my cat.  And it feels good.

Originally published May 13, 2008.

I am in the process now of transferring my blog from TypePad back to here  -- to save money.  Why not?

I am going to be copying over the best of my old posts.