When Prudence Falls Short

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Princess Fiona

“Everything you can imagine is real.”  ~ Pablo Picasso

Wow, I’ve been imagining things again. It always really pisses me off when my perceptions don’t resonate with the predominant power flow. And after the petty anger comes reflection, and then analysis, and then the moment where I choose either compliance or alignment with my own heart and soul. It’s a tough call. I’m not very good at it. Am I sincere throughout the process? Uh huh.

The snow is fairly profound. I may not be able to get out of the driveway but I am going to try, because cats. My third cup of coffee is brewing as we speak, the coffee maker gurgles, the cat maintains dignity, and the man that I am is still wondering about the man’s man I spent some time with a few days ago. Why do they always have to squeeze so hard in a handshake? My grip, from 10,000 miles of bicycling, could really hurt them, thus my application of restraint. It’s like dude I got yer message dude and we have similar if not identical primate tendencies dude, chill, k?

I’ll have some significant shoveling just to get out to the car to see if the car can get out of the driveway. I’ll do it iffin I can. The real trick will be to keep my mind on the task. It will be easy to put my attention there and to keep it there. The hard part will be to feel okay about that. The tailgater at my rear bumper says ‘ya gotta get gone’. Nope, can’t do that. Our perceptions may not be the same dude but we are . . . . . . I don’t reckon I rightly know what we all got in common.  If my prudence doth offend thee m’lord I must offer condolence.

What that bit of sarcasm has to do with my daily life off of the road I cannot say. I haven’t a clue. Maybe I was a troubadour in a past life. I may not be highly virtuous but I know how to do it and I am not afraid to use it. Oh, oh, oh, I must also offer an apology to the person who finds such fury as a result of my obsession with empirical actuality. Chill, sis, there is also love in the world, which makes copious room for the silly little details. As for the rest of you . . . . . . I love that you read my blog. Can you hear me smile. Nice. Thanks, yer a pal.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.



The Silence of Snow

Mr. Sky

Mr. Sky


“Bodily haste and exertion usually leave our thoughts very much at the mercy of our feelings and imagination.” ~ George Elliot

Yes, I’m tired. Facing several more days of additional snow doesn’t help much. From what I can surmise in the pre-dawn darkness we’ve had 4-5″ overnight. Slog into work, over seven long miles, at a prudent low speed, but the cats have to be fed and provided with momentarily fresh cages. I say momentarily because cats don’t always get it, they seem to like the mess at times. But back to the snow. At this hour there are usually cars on the road, and I can hear them from my usual morning contemplation perch on the deck outside my front door. Not today. The silence of snow floats on the morning air, even more so profound because of the darkness. There is rare beauty in the scene but I seem not to be amused. Haggard acceptance? Not yet, there is still time. It’s the old darkness before the dawn thing. Did I tell you the coffee is excellent? It is.

I saw the doc yesterday, the psychiatrist. It’s been a long time since I called her the ‘pretty doctor lady’ but she is precisely that. These sessions seem to be mostly about meds, how they are working, what if any changes, stuff like that. But I get more out of it. It may seem sad to say but I get affirmation out of it. It’s illness, it’s real. Nearly a lifetime of struggle was all considered to be, by me, a weakness of will, a jagged character fault, a pitiful overall performance, whatever. But that is depression talking. Depression has a bad attitude. I do not. I’ve been a truth and beauty kind of guy for as long as I can remember. When sweet diagnosis came I felt like a giant sigh on two feet. Never mind that my relationship of seven years fatally crumbled the very next day. There’s your cosmic 2’x4′ right there, upside the metaphorical head. Ouch. This is where the New Age philosopher steps in and reminds me that I created it myself. Yeh, right, I got that part, k? I said ouch. Ouch was my point, but if you even try to tell me that I brought the illness on myself I will go to the ends of the earth to make sure that you are subject to a marathon screening of digitally remastered Foghorn Leghorn cartoons and you will do so until it dawns on you that you and he have much in common. And remember, my friend, you will have created it yourself. I may be mentally ill but I ain’t no friggin cartoon. Get over yourself dude. We are all in this together. Your pop-psych aphorisms do not amuse me, and they never will.

Yikes. Sorry. Started gettin’ a tad froggy there. My bad. Must be the snow. Speaking of which, I’ll have some sweeping and shoveling to do before I go to work so I had best bid all your lovely readers adieu for now.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

The Arrival of Beauty

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“O! I shall soon despair, when I shall see
That Thou lovest mankind well, yet wilt not choose me,
And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.” ~ John Donne

Fresh snow, maybe three inches. They say it may snow on and off until next Wednesday, which means a whole week of winter weather. You’d think they could do something about that, wouldn’t you? But since ‘they’ have a major hurdle in achieving tangibility, they are in possession of the tendency to fail. This goes for the Weather Channel just as much as it goes for the right wing nitwits who are always right – that is if they are right about always being right. But they haven’t revoked my Medicaid (yet) so I can’t complain, right? Not! I’ll friggin complain iffin I danged well please. A nearly ubiquitous faux-attitude is illustrated by the phrase “I can’t complain, it doesn’t do any good”. Let’s hope that people use that statement in the grand sense of classic irony. Proactive living and complaining are not mutually exclusive, as far as I can tell, and that phrase I just displayed is in itself clearly a complaint. Am I missing something? Yeah, whatever. I hate it when that happens. End of story. It’s all good.

“Never have a battle of wits with an unarmed person.” ~ Mark Twain

I’ve got to go do laundry today, I’ve been putting it off too long. And I’ve got a psychiatrist appointment this afternoon. Both activities are meant to improve my life. There’s no disputing that. After over a year of messy stasis I am feeling the Wheel of Fortune grinding back into motion. Sweet. I’ve got a crazy habit of speculating what may come from this new motion. When I do that I fail to apply the teachings of the many cats I deal with five days a week. I actually miss those cats on my day off. You might think that cat teachings emphasizes patience, and you would be right in doing so, but my take from cat teachings is the importance of will power. Nobody ever said that ‘go with the flow’ excluded, out of necessity, applying one’s will. That’s just silly. Without my will power I may very well never make it to the laundromat.

I’m in a strange mood today. I’ll make the best of it. My strange mood really stared yesterday. In the early afternoon a young woman, early 20’s is my guess, came in to look at cats. She was tall and slim, with mid-length strawberry blond hair, blue eyes, and a presence of inborn sweetness and cuteness that fascinated me to the point of forgetting . . . ummm, I forgot what I was getting at. She came in a second time about two hours later, still without choosing a cat. Near the end of the shift, here comes a tall, blond haired blue-eyed beauty. It was a different woman. What are the chances of the strong resemblance? Once something actually happens statistics become a mere amusement. Gosh they were pretty! Did I mention that the Goddess was obviously playing with my head? No complaint here.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Coyote and Coffee


“Right is right, and wrong is wrong, and a body ain’t got no business doing wrong when he ain’t ignorant and knows better.”  ~ Mark Twain,  The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn 

This morning I read about the nature of emotion in regards to it’s capacity to be defined. The article perplexed me so I am going to carry the perplexity into my day, wearing it silently, simply because it feels so good. You never know, it might come in handy. The other article that really stuck with me was an interview with some fella named Reif Larsen, about “The Fine Art of Ambiguity“. Heady stuff that interview, but Mr. Larsen discusses an issue that is dear to me. Ambiguity means a lot to me. I mean, if you answer all of the burning questions right upfront you’re gonna end up bored, right. Give me the benefit of you taking that last sentence as a tongue-in-cheek manner. Thanks, yer a pal. I see ambiguity, in writing and in daily life, as an engine of creativity, although I cannot actually pin down just what I mean by that. The very nature of ambiguity promotes mystery. A lot of life’s venues rely on mystery to keep them going; two examples that immediately come to mind are romance and politics. If you already know what you are going to get it all comes down to acquisition. That’s no fun. If you ask me it is mystery that powers us forth. I know I am getting all obscure on y’all, but I can’t rightly avoid that, because obscurity is another of my favorite things, maybe because obscurity can also fuel mystery, even though it can leave folks to wander off due to lack of interest. To that I can only say buh bye.

“Sometimes the only thing more dangerous than a question is an answer.”  ~ 208th Ferengi Rule of Acquisition

I don’t often enough express my gratitude for all y’all’s patience with my odd yet playful expression here at EyeYotee blog. This is my playground as well as my workshop. My goals here are often aimed at finding new ways of adding layers of meaning that cannot, to knowledge, be expressed through perfunctory prose alone. Wish me luck. Even if I go all florid at times. I need that like I need coffee, because florid expression boots me forward when the ‘pause and reflect’ moments only serve to make me stodgy. Florid expression, as I use it, is akin to a painter’s broad gestural strokes.

Just a few minutes ago a coyote started barking just beyond the fence, over by the chicken coop. I knew it was a coyote and not a dog because of the rising whiny accents at the end of the bark. The animal also betrayed its species with a couple of high pitched wails, both fleeting. I put on my slippers and walked out toward the coop, but the coyote had already gone silent. I knew that the silence did not necessarily mean that the predator was gone. At that point I wondered what the heck I was thinking. If the beast did somehow gain passage over the fence I would have instantly become a rival in the way of its acquiring a chicken or two. But nothing came of the whole incident. What could I have done anyway – throw my bedroom slipper at it? Yes, the chickens got riled. They sounded scared. After the rooster crowed I knew that all was well.

It’s time to wrap this up. I have a long day ahead of me and a mystery or two to address.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Uncommon Peace

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The Princess Cats

“Everything changes once we identify with being the witness to the story, instead of the actor in it.” ~ Ram Dass

“Have you listened to the radio lately? Have you heard the canned, frozen and processed product being dished up to the world as American popular music today? ” ~ Billy Joel

What did I expect? Yet another bitter cold morning, lingering snow from a fairly intense storm, coyote voices in the dark, one over here, many over there, they’ll find their way back together. There’s been a hunt. Someone got separated from the pack. It’s all good.

For the first time this winter I find that I am ready for it to be gone. Monday morning, yesterday, driving in to town to go to work, I found the surreal feeling of snow packed roads and slow frustrated drivers to be a bit disconcerting. That hushed feeling of “I’m not there yet” couldn’t quite stick in my mind. I was focused, but only enough so as to be a repeatedly momentary Buddhist. I hate it when that happens. Give me continuity any day. Flickering enlightenment just pisses me off. It’s all or nothing. But I didn’t see it that way out on the road. Simply put, it was snowing and I was going. Sweet.

We’ve got a fully feral cat in the cattery right now. His name is Smitty. Who names these cats?! The poor guy spends his day in a cardboard box, but I saw him venture out just a bit yesterday, long enough to reach through the cage and into the next cage, where he gently and cautiously touched Sunny, the cat with the broken leg. There was no hostility involved it was like all “dude s’up?”. The moment was sweet. His deep fear of us humans was gone for a time and a simple sense of curiosity gave birth to a communal gesture. It was sweet, as I said, and for a moment I saw no feral in the feral cat. My own worries, tribulations, and philosophically self-annoying creeds fell by the wayside. And in the background the radio played, pop music, and I don’t remember for sure but the song I confabulate as playing at that moment is Taylor Swift, “Why ya gotta be so mean?”. I love that girl. She’s a step above the rest. That’s an aphorism that I am proud to use. We could use more of that in the world today. Imagine Michelangelo using a ‘chunked and formed’ approach to crank out marble angels. Really? Really? We cattery workers like to speculate as to whether an animal is feral or just scared. Well, let’s put it this way: when I am backed into a corner it doesn’t make a lick of difference to me. When openly confronted with what appears to be a sudden truncation of my personal freedom, with no way out until the showdown abates, I am not inclined to act graciously when offered a snack. Call it a treat, if you will, I don’t want your friggin snacks, k? Not now. And later? Don’t bother with snacks dude, it’s pizza or nothing. You may quote me on that. But perhaps cats see it differently. I’d like to think so. There’s a lot to be said for courtesy, and it should be used whenever possible.

An eerie fog has settled as the first light spreads into the gray sky. In some Celtic traditions the mist means a loosening of sorts, wherein the world of spirit and the material world are commingling intimately. I love that image and I sometimes sense that it may be true. Maybe a feeling of presence or the hint of whispers and soft giggles in the fog, maybe just a feeling of uncommon peace, and quiet. Yes.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.



Wincing In Slow Motion

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“How many legs does a dog have if you call the tail a leg? Four. Calling a tail a leg doesn’t make it a leg.” ~ Abraham Lincoln

“But when you shake the hand that shakes the world, look that power in the face and do not tremble” ~ Julian Brave NoiseCat

The air is close and intimate this morning, at 19º F and 79% humidity it nearly made me want to hightail it back inside, but I endured the deep cold without my winter coat. I do so love being exposed to the morning elements. It helps me begin my day with a feeling of connectedness with the world, a feeling that is quite simply my birthright as a sentient being in the vast and intricate web of life. Don’t even bring up the idea of human superiority, I’ve not yet started on my third cup of coffee. But wait, if Starbucks is the gateway to the rat race I am like so out of here. Don’t even go there. It is peace I crave. As a chronic depressive I sometimes sense, wrongfully, that inner peace is kept as a trophy on the mantlepiece in a very nice home down the road. I’m just that cynical when I’m in a bipolar down cycle.  At such times I can look at a can of Red Bull and I am like totally bummed. If only I could, I might work at a brisker pace, I might feel more communion with the friggin tailgater behind me on the drive in to work, but the Bullish concoction makes my kidneys shout. I admit to being in a down cycle right now. There’s been a lot of that lately, and the highs, when they come, are relatively fleeting. I can go through a whole day just hoping that no one will see the introspective grimaces I let slip out and wonder what ache it is that has me wincing in slow motion. It’s just a heartache, nothing but a heartache. But enough about that.

Our opening photo today, here at the EyeYotee blog, is of the same fellow you saw in Saturday’s post, except this photo was taken after the cat, Sunny, showed me his Jim Carey impersonation. Guy’s a hoot. Sunny came in to the animal shelter with a broken femur, thus the cast on his leg. He’s taking his convalescence very well. He’s a total sweetheart. Somebody has already expressed interest in taking him home. It will have to wait until he heals more and it will take the doctor’s approval as well. Sunny is worth waiting for. Until then he will get copious lap time from both crew and volunteers.

I’ve got a full-blown spiritual transformation happening. My intellect is enthralled with this transformation. I’m not sure that excitement is in order but excitement is what I have right now. Sure, I like to think about this stuff. I’ve studied consciousness for three decades now, ever since I had the NDE that simply and surely blasted away the lingering debris of my former life. In the days then months after the bicycle accident that triggered the NDE I was soothed only by reading, and most of that reading was aimed toward finding even one morsel of understanding that might give me insight toward the instantaneous shift that I had endured. That shift was the easy part. Integrating my new worldview into my life was the hard part. I may have reported before that my major literary benefactor was Carlos Castenada. He provided me with images of transformation that were just strange enough to be useful to me. I was one out there guy in those days. He taught me to perceive new dreams, new realities, and new vision. If life is but a dream I had me a new dream foist upon my lap and danged if it didn’t come complete with a magical mystery tour, a mystical voyage that showed me cosmic stuff then turned me back around and flung me right back into a life that was now chock full of WTFs. I walk that world to this day. The WTFs have diminished in number, thankfully. Today’s transformation has been under way for several weeks now. I recognized the process only a short time ago. But such talk as this is now being ended for the time being. My morning psych meds are kicking in and the third cup of coffee is ready to drink. I’ve got a shower to take and maybe four inches of snow to shovel, to create a clear path out to the chicken coop. Somehow I got the Oscar the turkey to enter the coup yesterday morning, so I was able to secure all of the birds within the shelter. Oscar roosts on top of the shelter, overseeing his flock, and the young rooster knows full well who rules the roost. I’ll not let them out to roam in this weather. I, however, must. I’ve got many friends in cat form to whom I must provide care. Lucky me. I love them furry folks!

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.



Midnight and the Snow Day

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photo by Emma Jenkinson


“It’s easier to put on slippers than to carpet the whole world” ~ Al Franken

Today’s poster animal is Midnight, a cat who is larger than this opening photo reveals. Friggin guy is huge, and heavy. Beyond that it is a snowy morning. I’ve already been out to sweep the walkways so that when more snow falls . . . . I’m sure you get the picture. Trudging through knee-deep snow is a tasteless endeavor unless you have to.

That’s about all I have this morning. The snow continues to fall, the wind to blow, and a morning nap will come.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Deep Communion

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“Life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh.” ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

There was a note from the landlady, taped to my front door yesterday, saying that “the young rooster is over the fence north side”. I wandered over to and through the gate along the north side but I saw no sign of the bird. When I crossed the yard and went to close the door to the chicken coop I saw that the rooster was inside with the chickens. Of course he was going to go back to his flock. It’s one of his purposes in life. We all need a purpose. Being depressive I sometimes cannot detect a real purpose in my life, but I always rationally know that I have one. Denial, yes. These many days my purpose is to give service to incarcerated cats. It’s a fulfilling job. And when cats get adopted and go to their forever home I get a thrill from the accomplishment of our crew. Sending cats home is what we do. The little intricacies of our job are really not insignificant but they seem so at times. This is also depression talking. My major, overarching view is more attuned to the benefits of being in proximity of numerous beautiful cats. Animals are not given enough credit. My awareness of the complexity of their conscious awareness is my saving grace. We are all in it together, but my cage is invisible. I wonder if they can see it. Maybe they can.

Coyotes in the distance started my day off right. I feel exhausted. Any tidbits of wisdom or erudite commentary will have to wait. I ain’t up to it today. Nor do I feel at all loquacious, although I am not above using an elegant word like “loquacious” to add a touch of purpose to an otherwise drab blog post. My Grandma Olive, Grandma Preston, whatever, instilled me with a love for words. She could also beat just about anyone at Scrabble. But playing Scrabble was a learning tool for me. I only wish I had played it with her more often. I’ve increased my vocabulary immensely since she died but it’s not the number of words I know, and know how to use, it’s more of a spiritual thing for me. I suspect that the world is comprised of words. Language plays shapeshifter in creating our world from what otherwise may be little more than chaos. Yet even chaos contains beauty. Even a cursory glimpse at Chaos theory can show you that. Patterns, fractals, whatever, I am always fascinated when my intellect helps me get out of my own brooding head. Don’t get me wrong, I can still be happy when the dark moody grip of depression is squeezing the bejeezes out of me. The depression has it’s own agenda, as far as I can tell, but happiness can be had, it just takes a lot of hard work to maintain it all day. It’s even not really a facade. It’s genuine. This gnarly mental illness has a certain beauty in its own right. It gives gifts, one of which is the easy understanding of the true value of happiness. When you work hard to achieve something you appreciate it all the more than something that comes easy. Bipolar 2 thus becomes a bearer of wisdom. Maybe it’s not right to attribute wisdom to myself, is it? I don’t care, I’ll do it anyway. Geez, I can even laugh out loud at the antics of the cats in my charge, but depression remains. I think this demonstrates that my hard work in learning to manage the illness has been quite effective. Listen, sometimes when one of the cats gets down and dirty in a bout of depression I might sing to them, regardless of whether or not they like James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James, and I can see them soften just a bit, and their wildly rounded pupils slip back into that classic almond shape that cats are famous for. It might be that folks consider feral cats to be just mean, but in their incarceration they are also depressed. Music can heal, no doubt, but I sense that it is the deep communion with the troubled beast that eases their pain. It most certainly ain’t the lyrics. Mr. Taylor’s lyrics, in that song, touch me deeply. So does the melody. So does the fact that he shares his pain or his longing with the world at large. I too like to do that on occasion.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.


Memorial For Debra Weyermann

This is a repost from my old blog “Pastures of Plenty”. I offer this because my brother has opened an Indigogo campaign to raise money for a memorial service for Debra Weyermann, his wife and my sister-in-law. This remarkable woman deserves a memorial service to match her amazing life and career. Thanks for reading this. Please share on Facebook. Thanks again, y’all. Peace out.

Debra “Dee” Weyermann

Somewhere in the high mountain desert southwest there sits a wannabe writer, faced with a sacred task, not yet stirred by early morning caffeine, at 5 AM MDT, and he bows his head repeatedly. Grief? Awe? Nostalgia? Nope, not nostalgia, but the rest of it is true.

It is a morning in early May of 2013. Air temperature in the upper teens, I step outside, onto the front porch where the vista of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, looking like a cardboard cutout in the twilight, shine a French blue-gray aura up into the lightening sky. I would usually stay out and listen for coyote songs in the dark but it is too friggin cold this morning. As it turns out, coyotes were sacred symbology for the woman who has me feeling blue on this beautiful morning. Coyote, symbolizing balance, creation. A trickster? Yes. But also a transformer. I’d heard the story, from her widower, who is also my biological brother.
Headed away from an early gig as a journalist nearly fresh out of the University of Missouri, she was driving into her new town, to her new gig. On the outskirts of Tucson, Arizona, she is accosted by a beast. It steps out of the deep shadows of the roadside, into her headlights, and turns to face the approaching car. Debra Weyermann is instantly transfixed by the plucky critter and brakes the car to a stop while she and Coyote gaze at one another. No words are exchanged, of course. Animals can’t talk, right?
I got the news from my crushed brother on the Ides of March. Debra, his wife, had died. His phone call interrupted an afternoon nap, a call both welcomed and blinding in its immediacy. Within 48 hours I was perched in my little car and headed back east to see my brother. After a three day drive I arrive into a scene that has become rapidly surreal; a sudden and unexpected death deeply etching the features in the landscape of a new world.
It would be easy to get all flowery in this morning’s prose, but I will tone it down and get to the point. It’s about the coyote. And the magic. And Debra.
If you’d like to get a richly written picture of her journalistic prowess have a look at this memorial op-ed written by Kathleen Sharp, published in  The Santa Barbara Independent. But Debra’s journalistic creds were counterpoint to what I experienced as I dove head first into the place she had just departed from. There were phone calls, letting friends and colleagues know of the tragic news. I was there for company, to lend an ear, for whatever a passive little brother could provide. And I heard the names, of journalists on a level that made me sit up and take notice. In this writer’s mind the names and their connected publications all congealed into the semblance of a picture of the stature of a . . . . . . Here is where I sigh, take a deep breath. A death in the family mandates grieving. Ashes to ashes –  you know the drill.
I’ll leave the erudite commentary to the professionals at this point and tell you, right here, right now, that it was the magic of the situation that engulfed me in my journey back east. You see, I too have had mystical encounters with coyotes that pop right out of a perfectly normal day. I had not known that about my sister-in-law, but I learned. The knowledge gave our kinship a whole new light. Here’s why.
In the legends of some Native American Peoples, notably the Caddo and the Maidu, Coyote is the one who made Death permanent; once loved ones are gone, they never come back. We all know that. We are cool, rational beings in a seemingly chaotic world, so we know that death is final. The end. But what we may fail to remember is that Coyote is also known as a cosmic-class trickster. So, my point is?
There is no point to magic. It happens. And me? My writing is about death and dying, about healing and mystery. My book, Theater of Clouds, tells the tale of my apparent crossing over the threshold of death, and of what it was like to return from such a thing. Having gone that route, I am always a little wary of the details in the passing of someone who amazes in retrospect. I come to know my sister-in-law only after her death. Is death permanent?
Is Life permanent? Yes. When somebody rises up and shines beyond the pale of a normal life, it is. That’s what I’m sayin’.
Peace out, y’all. Time for me to go to my day job.

Debra’s Final Writer’s Studio

Dearness Only

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“A person that started in to carry a cat home by the tail was gitting knowledge that was always going to be useful to him, and warn’t ever going to grow dim or doubtful.”   ~ Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer Abroad

“The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly; it is dearness only that gives everything its value. I love the man that can smile in trouble, that can gather strength from distress and grow.” ~ Thomas Paine

Did y’all go and  notice I went and missed posting yesterday? I did and I am sorry for not providing fresh commentary on whatever. My day was focused on an eye exam that was far overdue. As it turns out my prescription for glasses was little changed in the 4-5 year lapse. Nor do I have glaucoma. Sweet. I look forward to getting the new glasses. Scratches, says my provider, Jane Compton, create subliminal distortions that hamper focus. Maybe that goes for inner focus as well? How could it not.

Personally, I confabulate with the best of them, thus I’ve always been able to see well, and all that I see is upfront and accurate. Not! At times I’m a dimwit. No way around it. Being in the thick of a monumental spiritual transformation I think about stuff like this.

These days, in these times, it’d be much more of a trendy solution to change with a snap of the finger, or a twitch of the nose like Samantha in Bewitched. But I like the old fashioned way, both for it’s focus on the savory aspects of transformation and for it’s allowance of time to get it right rather than going blind into the darkness that shall be light. I like that phrase: the darkness that shall be light.

Light-chasers (a term created by the late great Debbie Ford) seem to always want to jump right in an have their Light right now, with no delay, given that they want it and they want it now. I hope they get it before it’s too late. Me? I can wait, just as I can admit that my almost-Wiccan worldview gives me the sway to value light and dark as both being essential to life.

Things along the way, things that are obscured and rendered ambiguous by the shadows, may well, and they often do, become treasures when the big picture comes to be seen. Patience is it’s own reward, as my old friend Mitch usta say.

Mitch was wounded by seven gunshots while working the graveyard shift at the convince store that I had quit just two months earlier. I  worked that shift on occasion. That crime happened 13 years ago. I saw Mitch about two months ago and he has healed well through accepting his transformation. He told me that he highly recommended getting shot. That’s how much it did for him, yet I will decline his advice, for obvious reasons.

After my eye exam I went to the supposedly despicable corporate supermarket to do some shopping. On a whim I purchased a few beans of excellent coffee as a treat for myself. Black Lightning! Dude it’s like all gnarly and stuff. Black Lightning rocks! I am sipping some right now as I write. Does it improve my prose? The data at this time suggests that results are pending. Wait and see. That’s what I say.

As a closing note, which like Mitch’s plight provides a gander at another success story of healing through valor, I am providing a photo of Petey the pit mix, a dog that has made me smile uncountable times. Petey was found with his paw hanging loose and accompanied by the stench of rot. Through the dauntless efforts of our staff vet, at the Stray Hearts Animal Shelter where I am employed, the dog was nursed back to health, a process that I consider to be nearly miraculous. Many, many, shelters would have put Petey down due to administrative policies and biases. Doc did the work and patience provided veridical proof of success. Petey was transferred to a sanctuary where he was subsequently adopted. Some folks said that Petey was abused through elements of the healing process and activities of the veterinarian. I suppose you could also make a case that humans are abused through chemotherapy in treating cancer. The claims that Petey was abused are plain silly. Petey rocks! It’s that simple. And the moral of this story is – if ya can’t see just wait. Wait, don’t confabulate, this I state. I’ll now sign off before I wield bad rhymes again.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.