I've always loved Holden's statement that he's "sort of an atheist." For an atheist, he sure spends a lot of time in Catcher talking about Jesus and praying and Jesus' disciples. I don't think you can "sort of" be an atheist. That's like being "sort of" pregnant. It just doesn't work. There's a definite spiritual element to Holden's crisis. The fact that he feels like praying in the above passage "sort of" proves that.
I've had a really decent day. Busy. Productive. A little hectic. Overall, though, I'm quite relaxed heading into this weekend. I don't have any major projects that need to completed by Monday (unless you count my Christmas essay, which actually doesn't have to be done for a couple of weeks). I finished correcting my students' midterm exams yesterday. My house is mostly clean, except for the sweeping and mopping and dusting. Like I said, I'm in pretty good shape.
Which reminds me of a story...
Once upon a time, there lived a simple schoolteacher named Ichabid. Ichabid lived in the town of Sleepy Halloo, and his brother, Ichabod, who was also a schoolteacher, lived and worked in a neighboring town.
Ichabid had a good life. He loved his students. The local housewives baked him cakes and pies all the time. The men of the town took him hunting and fishing all the time. Ichabid never had bad days. He had good days, better days, and best days.
One good day, Ichabid finished teaching for the day, locked up the school after his last pupil left, and started walking over to the local inn to partake in the all-you-can-eat Friday venison fry. As was his custom, Ichabid brought along a book to read while he ate dinner.
When he reached the inn, Ichabid found a line of customers waiting to be seated. The inn's hostess told him he wouldn't be seated for over two hours.
'That's fine, my good serving wench," said Ichabid. "I will just sit out on this bench and read."
And Ichabid did just that. He sat down and a bench outside the inn, opened up his book, and read.
Two hours later, the hostess called Ichabid's name and led him to his favorite table in the inn's dining room.
"I'm so sorry you had to wait so long," the hostess said. "I hope you're not upset."
Ichabid shook his head. "Not at all," he said. "I'm having a very good day."
The hostess frowned. "Funny," she said. "I heard from somebody that you had a very bad temper."
Ichabid laughed. "You must be thinking of my brother, Ichabod," he said. "He loses his head over the littlest things."
Moral of the story: No matter what happens, it's all good. OR Don't go to an all-you-can-eat venison fry on a Friday.
And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.
|Don't sweat the small stuff, or you may lose your head|