All the days are Saturday

There are days and there are days. Knowing which day it is when well into retirement is a challenge. I admit, much of the time I don’t care what day it is. They blur into each other whether I’m scheduled or blissfully without any demand on my time whatsoever.

I have to remember that once a month, in the evening, I spend a few hours with other writers under the direction of a woman who really knows her stuff. The other writers are worth their weight in gold, their critiques keeping me honest and focused. Checking out their work in progress  (WIP) pushes me to entertain type and style and subject, an effort I had to grow into.

Midweek I drive to a Bible Study where I have gone for a number of years. The study is very structured, which I like. Preparing for it requires a part of every day, a discipline that keeps me in Scripture, not speculating, but examining what is presented. This year, though, the subject is nebulous, mysterious, frustrating because the guidelines are wispy, the structure feels missing, and there seems to be no hard and fast information to get me through the book. This year it is the Revelation of St. John the Divine. Allegory. Vision. Dream state. Symbolism. Sci fi?

I gaze across the crowded sanctuary and count the high number of white haired ladies and think the wisdom held in them would fill a good sized library. When I first came to this study, decades ago, the study was about the minor prophets. Now, there was structure. History. God visible in His handiwork. Revelation, on the other hand, is psychedelic. A hint of the weed. Hallucinogenic. We work hard to make sense of it. Slow going. The sound in my head as I listen to the lecture: “hmmmmmmm”, to break into living sound: “really?” But I persevere. Hope springs eternal, to quote someone or other. I look toward lunch.

Thursdays forever were the highlight of my week, when I drove 40 minutes to choir practice, looking forward to hours spent with friends,  preparing for Sunday, or concert, or prison. Singing in the prisons of my locality was always rousing fun filled joy. Driving home, I sang myself hoarse. Thursdays now are just Thursday. Thirty years of singing for God is a very hard habit to break, leaving a huge void in the fabric of my life. My worship,  dedication, purpose, gone at the whim of one person. But in truth, to ever pick that up again on a permanent basis, whew! Not in the cards.

It’s winter. I’m a dullard. I sleep in. I sort and toss and rearrange all things in my house. I need spring. That has always been so. But usually I didn’t need it before winter even started. I usually got through February before I began to suffer the stifle of winter. This awfulness set in before Christmas arrived.  Well, time flies, even though in winter, for me, it really stalls. I’ve set a fire in the fireplace, but never lit it. I should do that. Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe I need a nap.


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