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| 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 is docile about the donut collar, and the shot-givers have all learned to avoid the tender areas, so no more snapping. Her cellulitis bump is going down, and she sleeps through the night. Praise be!
Update on the plumbing crisis:
my native plant bed is totally destroyed, filled with large rocks—who knows
where they came from? No hole in the floor yet, but the handyman is prepared
should that happen. And it goes on. Today, Saturday, there is one man here
working. I have no idea what he’s doing.
Update on Judith: I am faced
with chores I dislike—my tax organizer arrived, so did a multi-page
questionnaire to complete before a ophthalmology appointment next week, my
miscellany holder on the desk badly needs sorting, and I need to check the Discover
bill. The great American novel will have
to wait, though I have yet to figure out the resolution, so maybe that’s a good
thing.
I’ve been chewing on the
concept of gratitude lately. I try to make it a part of my life because I truly
feel 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 refrigerator
and freezer are overflowing, and I sink into a comfortable bed with a secure
roof over my head each night. I am, I think, the epitome of privilege. It could
have 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 shelter
next to my dead sibling in Gaza, or a farmer in Ukraine, or a nonbinary teen in
Oklahoma. And somehow I think gratitude accounts for what Christian called my
passion for my beliefs. It is simply because I am not that teen in Oklahoma
that my blood boils when I hear a legislator refer to them as “filth” and
proclaim, “We are a Christian state.” (Ironic for someone in a state with a
high native American population and for someone who proclaims himself a
Christian.) Gratitude is why I despise Greg Abbott’s cruelty with his cursed
razor wire at the border—because I am not that pregnant woman who got entangle
and died. I know life doesn’t have to be like it is for those and millions of
others throughout the world.
There’s not a lot I can do
from a walker in a cottage in Fort Worth, Texas, living on a fixed income. I
can’t walk the block or go to rallies; my financial contributions are so small
as to be insignificant, even though one of my favorite candidates insists $3
helps. Were I wealthy beyond measure, the list of politicians and charities I
would support would be long. Progressive politicians like Katie Porter in
California or John Tester in Montana or our own Colin Allred here in Texas. Add
to that environmental organizations, wildlife and animal welfare causes,
women’s rights, and others. Someone said to me that money rules the world (I
think greed was implied), and I reluctantly agreed. When I protested that some
people use wealth for good causes and cited Joe Biden, Christian immediately
said, “He’s a millionaire.” But that, I countered, is not the operative thing
about him. His life is shaped by his passion for democracy. I believe the same
is true of Obama or Beto O’Rourke and was true of Ghandi, Mother Theresa. We
have role models in this world. It’s just that too many of us ignore them.
One of the things I’m grateful
for is that I have a church home where I am comfortable—and challenged to do
what I can to make the world better. I like the Jewish concept of Tikkun
olam, literally “repairing the world.” And I think it’s precisely because I
am so blessed that I am bound to do what I can to repair our obviously broken
world. And so I speak out. I don’t hide what Christian calls my passionate
beliefs. Some have asked if I worry about alienating readers, and my answer is
not at all. (Besides my career is winding down).
I’ll end this rant by quoting
Martin Niemöller, “Then they came for me/And there was no one left/To speak out
for me.” (see the complete poem here: Holocaust
Memorial Day Trust | First They Came – by Pastor Martin Niemöller (hmd.org.uk)
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