Day: April 29, 2012

Our lives are not arguments. Our perspectives need not be the same. Our beliefs are personal, and you do not need to share mine, and I do not need to share yours. Our grieving is individual, and I do not need to do it the way you do it, and you do not need to do it the way I do it.

And here is what I have learned about a life of self-determination:

I do not argue or explain my beliefs and feelings. I do not tell other people what they might think, what they ought to think, how they might find God or Jesus, or might not.  What is sacred for me is this: we all have the right to our own decisions, our own beliefs, our own values. Everyone in this world has had a harder life than me. Everyone in this world is as smart as I am. Everyone in this world is right in their choices and decisions for them, and I bless them and wish them well with the choices they make. Arguments kill ideas and sap the soul’s strength.  Putting up a 35 mm Sunday album on Facebook.

I couldn’t find my angel this this week, so I texted her, as I know she sleeps with an Iphone in her ear,

and in a second, my Iphone pinged with an automatic reply: “I am out of the office, gone to CNN to be a

a commentator and fight about whether God is with the left or the right.”

I texted back right away, “no, no, Washington is a hell-hole, you will not be happy there,

any more than you were when you quit last year to manage a hedge fund.

I miss you. What would God say?”

This time she e-mailed me. “Between us, God is not easy to reach, although he might be getting an Ipad3.

And you know men – he is not always easy to talk to.”

I decided to drop it. “Angel, “I said. Get out of there and come to my funhouse.”

It took a second or two – she is a compulsive e-mailer – before my phone pinged again and she answered, intrigued,

“your funhouse?”

Yes, I said. My funhouse.

Where donkeys bray.

And dogs love the living and the dead,

and chase imaginary squirrels.

And chickens dance.

And daffodils sing  Hallelujah,

to the stars.

And barn cats sing to mice,

and pray in the moonlight.

And foxes play in the morning mist,

and nuzzle rabbits to keep warm.

And artists weep, and spin magic.

And mystics cry themselves to sleep,

and wait for their angels to come.

Well, she said, that is better than Washington.

Why not come to the funhouse?

I am lonely here. People do not sing Hallelujah or talk to flowers.

If you have room, I’ll come to your funhouse.

So my angel is coming to my funhouse. You can come too.

There are, of course, lots of ways to interpret this photo, depending on how one is so inclined. Some will say, oh, how sweet, Lenore is visiting Izzy. She misses him! I have lived with Labs a long time, so I have a bit of a different interpretation, going something like this: oh, Izzy is gone. More food, more attention, and I can grab his spot in the garden too. The Hound Of Love does not miss opportunities for growth.