On Self Importance

Old story about a Rabbi, a Cantor and a President of a Congregation. In a moment of experienced humility before his god, the Rabbi prostrates himself and says: God, before you I am nothing. The Cantor moved by the Rabbi's closeness and devotion to his god and to tears falls to the ground and repeats: Before you, god, I am nothing. The Executive Officer of the Board, the President, quickly drops and admits his nothingness, too.

With all three now lying flat in front of the Congregation, the Cantor turns to the Rabbi and says: He-He-Hee ... Look who thinks he's nothing, now.

I should be taking long bike rides like my 71 year old brother, instead of eating Bon-Bons and getting fat while writing but my arrhythmias have made it pleasant to join in on online discussion boards with colleagues. It beats the crap out of re-runs of Lassie and the Cisco Kid, y'know.

And it never fails that there is some kind of kerfuffle between various folks involved in some theoretical pissing match. nd if one thionks that only men try, many a woman joins in the Winterfest Activity of trying to demonstrate that she, too, can do a job on melting the snow with their god-blessed stream. I remember a dear friend who would continually say that her latest theoretical incarnation represented the "cutting edge" in thinking about what we do. She's 83, I think, right about, now ... maybe not Cronus ... just the Old Crone God. She was very smart and maybe still is. Haven't seen her in a bit.

Whenever I visited Day Rooms in Psychiatric facilities, there was never a lacking of Christs.

"I'm Jesus."

"Funny you should say so, I'm Jesus, too. Was your Mom, Mary."

"Yes, Mary and Grandma Anne. What a coincidence!"

On these discussion boards, when Jesus meets Jesus, there are sparks.

Left Fielder: "I got the ball."

Center Fielder: "No. I got the ball."

Third Base Coach: "Hey, just somebody catch the fucking ball."

Strange to me at this juncture in life ... all these people fighting ... jockeying for position ... hell, some falling over the rail or off the wagon. I've come to believe that the Archangel Michael visits each of us in our Mom's belly and gives us a canvas ... a blank, stretched piece of canvas over a wooden frame. From that moment on, we get to scribble, fingerpaint and eventually play beautifully on that canvas. Canvases are similar ... person to person ... but by no means identical. I was blessed that my particular canvas -- even if it wasn't cast among the canvases of the 1%'ers -- was set out to play among those who do love to paint ... errr ... to write and to think and love.

"Make Love, not War," 

the posters -- when I was coming up -- read pretty clearly.

Today ... the dew point is supposed to be in the 50's and the temp warm. Sphinctor Magnums will be arguing online about who melted the snow faster and others will just be pissing and moaning that they deserved a richer or better ir bigger canvas. My collocutors online will do fine blowing their own horns without me. I and M will be seeing three of own six grandkids and half of our own kids. Maybe I can get one of them to join me on a bikeride in the afternoon. I know this lake, Lake Galena, with a six mile path around it. Or maybe, I'll just ride around with whoever joins me, singing:

"How great is the nature you made, god; How deep! your thoughts." 

It ain't bug-free and some hills need to be walked by old men in a-fib, but the air promises to be fresh and the company fine and my 1974 Raleigh International pedal-bike must've been fashioned by someone sitting just to the right of the godly throne.

"Blessed are you, god, master of the Universe, who has lent me this wondrous machine."