I wanted to pray. I even closed the door,
but it didn’t help. Instead, I swapped out
Toodledo for TickTick. It hurt my eyes and
my brain this morning. So, here I sit, door
still closed, still no prayer. Maybe my
heart is closed. How many times have I
prayed the same things? How many times
must I pray the same things? I’ve heard it
preached that once is enough. God heard
it the first time. It is the answers that are
missing. It is the answers that haven’t
reached my ears. Or heart. My heart fails
me today as does my health. I’m weary
from constant struggle. Not days, years;
not years, decades. Enough! Where did
my blessings go? To another? No, I know
better; I believe better. They are coming.
I made Folgers this morning. Tasted okay
to me. But nothing really tastes good today.
I’m was supposed to make an appointment
with a neurologist. I was supposed to call
Medicare. Moving tasks from one day to
another can be habit forming. I can’t put
off the inevitable. Which do I hate more,
filing or making calls? They are both tied
for last. No, this is not depression, just
weariness tainted with who knows what!
Something has to improve. No, everything.
The weather included. I feel like I’m staring
down the angel of death. Even illness and
brain weariness, and pain cannot steal
away the promise of long life. It is not even
mid-morning yet; a cup Irish Breakfast may
help. (I’d prefer a single malt; not allowed
in this house. Someday again, it would be
nice to sit and sip a glass of Macallan. 18
year not in my budget; heck, 12 year isn’t
in my budget. The pocket-book dictates
that I’d have to go with Famous Grouse
and enjoy Macallan on special occasions.
For now tea will do. I used to love a Martini
with Absolut up, green olives once in a
while. Not lately. I’ve never been the double-
oh-seven type. Socially, more like the
double-oh-oh type. Invisible by design. I’ll
pause here to shave and dress to meet the
day such as it is. And a cup of tea it will be.
I was a drink-once-in-a-while-before-dinner
type. From where I sit, scotch or vodka are
more like pipe dreams. Like my health. It
seems to be moving from maybe to pipe
dream. I must cling to faith even if it is the
thinnest thread. Having said that, I must
side with Abraham no matter how rotten I
feel. I’m rambling. I need to cleanup right
now. (Rethinking. I’m not closed, just
frightened silly as EMDR disclosed another
branch of abuse. I want to know and I don’t
want to know! When will this end? I’ve
already missed my whole life! Got to be
joy here somewhere!) Electric won’t work;
I didn’t shave this weekend. Blade and
foam day. The smell of shaving cream!
I love it; it takes me back to 1965 every
time I use it. I didn’t know that I was abused
then. I had hopes, dreams, loves. Like
listening to Nancy Wilson. I’m back. Closer
to lunchtime. I needed something stronger;
so, I made my Friday coffee early and
strong. An eight cup pot. Two for me and
the rest for my thermos for lunch. So good.
Swedish coffee for the Seattle weather
we’ve had in Phoenix for days. Rain again.
Odd about Abraham. God promised him that
he would be the father of nations. I wonder
if he felt at 100 what I’m feeling at 70? He
also knew that his wife was beyond child
bearing years. But there was this thread
of faith that would not let go. He believed
God was able to do what he promised. Even
if this were the last poem I ever write, my
faith sides with Abraham; even though my
health does not. The calls may have to
wait another day. I don’t feel like it. Scotch
and good health may never come. But life
and the coffee are good. God never fails.
After lunch, I’ll work on my novel which
is another one of my impossibles for today.
My God is the god of my impossibles, the
God who keeps His promises.