All the Rest . . .

Sometimes, like this evening, life gets in the way of living. Most of the time these days, it is not so. There is just living and dying to live more. But then, little life wedges its tiny self into the cracks—small cracks, to be sure—that are around.

It’s because, I suppose, of the Fall, that moment in garden number one, when a choice was made. It was a choice that had the potential to take away magic and miracle for all time. But that has all been set right. Of course, there are magic and miracle, holding hands in the moments of every day; we are living proof of it. But life gets in the way, as I said, and as I supposed, it is because of the remnants of the Fall. I have no idea, really.

You Are Repose was just sung on the radio, and it was both heard and returned. There seems to be a lot of Brahms these days, and today the announcers said the word “pastoral” so many times that it became true. And over the course of a few days I have heard—let me check my notes, scribbled on bits of paper while I drive—“let it wash over you. Respite. Comfort. Fun. Excitement.” And “pastoral”. Pastoral. Pastoral. The particulars of the music played are a matter of public record just a few clicks away. But their meaning is not clickable. What happens in a heart, even one in a guy in a truck in the heat, is just not so easily found. Not searchable in a database. Not hidden, of course, it resides on the sleeve of a light blue USPS shirt most of the time, but it is covered over, sometimes, by that tiny life wedging into the cracks.

Oh well, I could explain why this is tardy once again. I could say that I thought I needed a few things from the store, an easy bus ride away. And that when I only bought three things and realized that I needed none of them, it made me feel foolish. And the return bus was nowhere to be found, so I walked more than a couple of kilometers back home; might as well call it 3K.

But, I saw a few things on the way. In fact, here are some things I found throughout today, all for you:

It happens.

Here’s to all the Rest.

Shabbat Shalom . . .