The morning of the eighth round of trying to get December to behave.
It is a futile struggle, for December has no agency, and yet we all persist,
Missing the light, golden and promising reaching through the trees snow covered green needled branches
Above a bed begging to be skied.
But I struggle with …
The simple joys that pull me into the quiet, resisting the
Work that will secure my warmth and safety, as pleasurable as it may be
To see something come from pieces of otherwise uninteresting stuff and junk.
The sun is risen, it is quiet, the peace is palatable, for I am warm enough to admire the snow, the light, the day.
Though promise of colder mornings drives me to work, constructing, slow in the cold with this old body and eyes.
For now there is enough, and for that I am thankful, and fearful since I see no supply for the short or long term.
My fingers are all split and painful at typing. Even this is slow.
I am blessed then with the possibility of enjoying each moment, savoring it, taking this day slowly, and noticing the little things.
God has saved me from my enemies,
Not by keeping their evil from destroying all I had, but they have not been able to destroy me.
I live well, with little, and prepare for less yet.
And warmth through the winter.
This is joy.
Leaning to the Light
For though I need more junk or stuff, to finish the project outside the window,
There is time, a little time, so little time,
That it must be savored deeply
So as not to miss the ignored
Or taken for granted
Blessings that are
Given to me so
That I am
Able to
Share
Now.
Thank you,
For your contributions to my days and daze
Love you,
The son of a sinner
…
…
Actually two.