Hello, and welcome to Stumbling Home. This is a continuation, of sorts, of a blog that I started last Spring over at WordPress, and then abandoned for reasons that we need not discuss. Why I've moved from there to here is also something we don't need to talk about. Suffice it to say that I'm here.
I should offer you a word of caution at this point. It is entirely possible - probable, even, some might say - that you one day come here expecting to find a new post, only to find static; dead air; boards on the windows; cobwebs, even. Don't be alarmed. Carry on with your day. Hug someone. Have another cup of coffee. You see, I'm what might charitably be called "lazy". And not the cute, cuddly kind of lazy, either. No, I'm professionally lazy. If I weren't forced by economics to get dressed and go to work, I wouldn't. If I could, I'd lounge around all day in my pajamas like some down-at-the-heels Hugh Hefner.
Speaking of pornography, can you think of a more soul-killing career choice than "Pornographer"? I can't. Okay, maybe I can. "Abortionist" can't look good on a resume, and I'd never hire someone who listed "Politician" as a current or past position. Be that as it may...
It is at this point that I should probably offer you another word of caution. I'm a bit of a manic depressive. I realize that that is somewhat akin to "sorta pregnant", but, as we say in Indiana, there ya go. I'm also a bit of a manic depressive who doesn't take meds, at least not for that particular affliction. I used to, but I quickly came to hate them more than I hated the manic depression. *PSA: If you're a manic depressive, and you're taking meds for it, please, please, for the love of God please, don't stop taking them!*
So, what do we know about me so far? I'm a writer; lazy; a bit of a manic depressive; and I'm from Indiana. I'm also Catholic, which you didn't know until just now. I often wonder which one of those is the glue that holds all the rest together. We, as they say, shall see.
Speaking of seeing, have you heard the one about the blind carpenter who picked up his hammer and saw?
My father, God rest his soul, was a bit of an amateur carpenter. When I was a child one of the must-haves of any house we lived in was a garage for Dad's workbench and tools. Any time we moved into a new place he would spend hours hanging pegboard, installing the pegs and hooks, unpacking the tools, and hanging them in their proper place. Watching him do it was like watching a man build an altar. Not that he worshiped his tools - he loved God too much for that. But there was something almost sacred in the way he handled them, and in the way he used them. He was no great artist, my father, but he was an honest and a reverent one.
Reverence. There's something our society knows precious little about. To help us get on track, allow me to give the definition: "reverence -noun 1. a feeling or attitude of deep respect tinged with awe; veneration. 2. the outward manifestation of this feeling: to pay reverence. 3. a gesture indicative of deep respect; an obeisance, bow, or curtsy." We could use a little more of that, yes?
We're all doing it, this stumbling, this shuffling of the feet, one in front of the other, one now dragging while the other pulls. And in one way or another, we're all heading home.
Until next time,
Randy
