I remember how terrified I was of having a son. I don't follow any organized sporting events. Can count on one hand the number of times I have fired a gun. The idea of shooting any animal for sport makes me a little ill. And my idea of a great night is a collection of Billy Collins' poems, a gin and tonic, and Mozart playing in the background. The only time I wear a flannel shirt is when I'm being ironic. I am not a typical father.
But, tonight, as I was singing a lullaby to my son, he reached over, took my hand, and said, "I love you singing, daddy." God's love number forty-one: despite my unconventionality, my son loves me.
That little exchange with my son almost made up for the crappy day I had at work. For the time being, the crappy is going to continue indefinitely. I'm back to dreading my day job. So, my question this Ives dip Monday is this:
Is the crappy at my job going to be short-term?
And the Ives answer is:
The Explixa spoke of "existing outside of time." Each moment, as he saw it, one died only to be reincarnated again. With each "little death," one moved inexorably toward the eternal peace of a Supreme Death.
Okay, that is not comforting at all. Little deaths. Supreme Death. Existing outside of time.
Saint Marty is going to eat a Girl Scout peanut butter patty and try to forget that answer.
|Now this is a Supreme Death!|