A small bird came toward the skiff from the north. He was a warbler and flying very low over the water. The old man could see that he was very tired.
The bird made the stern of the boat and rested there. Then he flew around the old man's head and rested on the line where he was more comfortable.
"How old are you?" the old man asked the bird. "Is this your first trip?"
Now, I suppose, considering my frame of mind recently, that most disciples reading this post will expect me to go on a long reflection about mortality based on this passage from The Old Man and the Sea. Tempting as that is (and it is tempting, I have to admit), I will not inflict that upon you this evening. I'll save it for about 1:30 a.m. when I can't fall asleep and start obsessing about things like the long-term effects of COVID and Donald Trump running for President again and global climate change and the mouse my wife saw in our house this afternoon.
I am tired. It's 81 degrees in my living room. I don't have the energy for any kind of deep thought. Perhaps that's a sign of age. Or of the long-term effects of COVID. Ever since I caught the virus at the beginning of January, I haven't been able really to be productive at night. I can't grade assignments. Can't work on new poems. Sometimes, I can't even stay awake for an entire episode of The Big Bang Theory.
The purpose of this post, then, is simply to say I have survived another 24 hours. I spent most of my day in my office, working on various projects. This evening at the library, I hosted a felting workshop led by one of my best friends.
Now, I will turn off the lights in the living room, lie down on the couch, and sink slowly into madness. (That's an allusion to Jim Carrey's How the Grinch Stole Christmas, in case you didn't know.)
Saint Marty's blessing for today: spending time with one of his best friends.
Love you!❤️
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