Today is Patty’s birthday. AND it’s Christmas Day, as well. Coincidence? Or a diabolical plan hatched by Krampus? No matter. I wish everyone a Merry Christmas, Happy Holiday, and other celebratory situations.
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Regardless of how early I go to bed, my morning blush of energy when I wake is short-lived. Sometimes it lasts long enough to allow me to reach a satisfactory—to me—endpoint in writing a blog post. Other times, my stamina is an invisible hologram; an expectation that does not fully materialize. Sleep can be a refuge from the dangers of consciousness, but sometimes wolves that live in one’s dreams tear through the sanctuary’s walls, pinning the dreamer down in a state of terrified submission.
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Options can seem more like threats than like choices. “Would you prefer to eat broken glass, sir, or to drink gasoline?” Such unpleasant thoughts disappear, though, the moment I hear the “hoo-h’HOO- hoo-hoo” of an owl; presumably a Great Horned Owl, or hoot owl. Though the sounds can seem like they are coming from just beyond the panes of glass of my window, I have read that those notes can be heard over long distances. Mother Nature’s deceit. Forest trickery. If I had better eyesight, more stamina, and enormous patience, I might wade out into the darkness in search of the source of those haunting noises. And, if I did wander into the woods, I might trip over a fallen log, smashing my skull against a large rock. At what point are risks worth the possible rewards of taking them? In the time it took to write that sentence, dull grey illumination spilled through the foggy haze; enough to confirm the impending onslaught of daylight. We are certain of predictions we make, based on repeated experiences. But yesterday’s sunrise is no guarantee that the sun will return to the skies today. Guarantees are iffy propositions, even when “everything is the same.” “Everything” is never “the same.”
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Imagine a child blowing soap bubbles while laughing gleefully at the shining globes floating through the air. Now, imagine those bubbles as they slowly drift to the earth. The moment a bubble is pierced by a blade of grass as it reaches the ground, the little sphere bursts in a nuclear explosion of unimaginable strength. Its heat is so great that the surrounding air instantly zips through several stages—liquid, solid, gas, and one more we’ve never seen before. The child is unphased by the chaos. She goes on smiling and chuckling, mesmerized by the magic of thermonuclear abstraction.
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The spirit has not quite captured me yet this morning. I’ll give it more time.
