11:46 p.m. My friend Joan -- actually, that's a funny thing to be typing. You see, my best friend in the whole wide world is Joan from the old neighborhood, but so far, she doesn't know about this journal. She will be thrilled and happy when she finally discovers it, but she's no computer geek, and until I actually point it out to her, it's not on her radar. No, I was talking about another Joan, one of my invisible friends.
I believe she's as real as rain, and you probably do, too -- it's just that we only know each other through the medium of these messages. She's another online journal writer and recently she posted one of her poems, with an illustration. It's a fine poem called "Drink", but the interesting thing is how it's placed on her daily grid. The poem goes up on a Saturday and it hints at how hard it can be to just appreciate the moment. Be conscious of the Zen blossoms outside your window.
But then, on Sunday night a terrible thing -- better to let Joan tell it -- and suddenly, the simple little poem is seen in a whole new light. It certainly makes you think. Why are we here, cluttering this earth, if not to think? It's our one special gift, after all. To think, perchance to hope, maybe even to plan ... but ...
Then the big world huffs and blows your dandelion plans right out of your hands. What do you think of that? You are not in charge here -- has anyone told you that yet? You do not know who's going to suddenly veer into the oncoming. You cannot contain the flood surge. One minute you're flying high -- the next minute you're fuselage.
Your only response is to figure it out. Find out why you are the witness and the drawing board. Think, Filbrick, think! I really believe that praying is a form of thinking, and that writing is a form of praying. I believe that moving thoughts from your brain to another's is the highest calling. I believe for every drop of rain -- no wait. That's not mine.
Maya Angelou has said on a number of occasions, and always eloquently, that words are real things. They have the power to hurt and to heal. But before you can even form the words, you've got a lot of thinking to do. You have to choose your thoughts as carefully as you choose your food, or your shoes.
People who are foul can be avoided. Mail that is just plan mean can go unread. Phone messages that dig gashes into your gentle day can be fast-forwarded. The channel can be switched, the page turned, the back button selected. You can choose how to build the house you live in.
I like white walls. I believe in attacking entropy with a scrub brush. I know I'm not put on this earth to feel good, but to do good.
It would be so nice if we could just round up the bad guys and carve out a new state in the middle of the country and make them all live there, with one another, instead of with us. Let them steal from each other and wreck mayhem and litter. Maybe Disney could work on this and call it Criminal World -- sort of like Pirates of the Caribbean, only dryer and with less pouffy sleeves.
Something to think about, anyway.
Tomorrow? If we only knew ...
email Street Mail Shadow Lawn Press archives
yesterday September tomorrow
all verbiage © Nancy Hayfield Birnes