Updates and thoughts on passion—no, not that kind!
Sophie in her donut collar. She is now old and mostly blind, and it shows in
her expression which clearly says
"Why are you doing this to me?"
I have no idea how to tell her it is for her health.
Update on Sophie: she isdocile about the donut collar, and the shot-givers have all learned to avoidthe tender areas, so no more snapping. Her cellulitis bump is going down, andshe sleeps through the night. Praise be!
Update on the plumbing crisis:my native plant bed is totally destroyed, filled with large rocks—who knowswhere they came from? No hole in the floor yet, but the handyman is preparedshould that happen. And it goes on. Today, Saturday, there is one man hereworking. I have no idea what he’s doing.
Update on Judith: I am facedwith chores I dislike—my tax organizer arrived, so did a multi-pagequestionnaire to complete before a ophthalmology appointment next week, mymiscellany holder on the desk badly needs sorting, and I need to check the Discoverbill. The great American novel will haveto wait, though I have yet to figure out the resolution, so maybe that’s a goodthing.
I’ve been chewing on theconcept of gratitude lately. I try to make it a part of my life because I trulyfeel blessed. I was born white (not racist to say that’s worked in my favor),fairly intelligent with a comfortable life and a loving family. My refrigeratorand freezer are overflowing, and I sink into a comfortable bed with a secureroof over my head each night. I am, I think, the epitome of privilege. It couldhave been so different; I could be an immigrant at the southern border,desperate for a new life in America, or a child hiding in a makeshift shelternext to my dead sibling in Gaza, or a farmer in Ukraine, or a nonbinary teen inOklahoma. And somehow I think gratitude accounts for what Christian called mypassion for my beliefs. It is simply because I am not that teen in Oklahomathat my blood boils when I hear a legislator refer to them as “filth” andproclaim, “We are a Christian state.” (Ironic for someone in a state with ahigh native American population and for someone who proclaims himself aChristian.) Gratitude is why I despise Greg Abbott’s cruelty with his cursedrazor wire at the border—because I am not that pregnant woman who got entangleand died. I know life doesn’t have to be like it is for those and millions ofothers throughout the world.
There’s not a lot I can dofrom a walker in a cottage in Fort Worth, Texas, living on a fixed income. Ican’t walk the block or go to rallies; my financial contributions are so smallas to be insignificant, even though one of my favorite candidates insists $3helps. Were I wealthy beyond measure, the list of politicians and charities Iwould support would be long. Progressive politicians like Katie Porter inCalifornia or John Tester in Montana or our own Colin Allred here in Texas. Addto that environmental organizations, wildlife and animal welfare causes,women’s rights, and others. Someone said to me that money rules the world (Ithink greed was implied), and I reluctantly agreed. When I protested that somepeople use wealth for good causes and cited Joe Biden, Christian immediatelysaid, “He’s a millionaire.” But that, I countered, is not the operative thingabout him. His life is shaped by his passion for democracy. I believe the sameis true of Obama or Beto O’Rourke and was true of Ghandi, Mother Theresa. Wehave role models in this world. It’s just that too many of us ignore them.
One of the things I’m gratefulfor is that I have a church home where I am comfortable—and challenged to dowhat I can to make the world better. I like the Jewish concept of Tikkunolam, literally “repairing the world.” And I think it’s precisely because Iam so blessed that I am bound to do what I can to repair our obviously brokenworld. And so I speak out. I don’t hide what Christian calls my passionatebeliefs. Some have asked if I worry about alienating readers, and my answer isnot at all. (Besides my career is winding down).
I’ll end this rant by quotingMartin Niemöller, “Then they came for me/And there was no one left/To speak outfor me.” (see the complete poem here: HolocaustMemorial Day Trust | First They Came – by Pastor Martin Niemöller (hmd.org.uk)
