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It’s late, and dark; the only light from the glowing blue of my home page. Sue’s exhausted—taking care of me is hard work. Tomorrow is the ORIF of my left trimalleolar fracture. I hear Snow Patrol in my ear buds. I heard a song by them on satellite radio a month ago—I saw their name on the screen. Not remembering the group, I assumed it was a new one—but, I guess not. Anyway, on I listen to a “station” of Snow Patrol and One Republic (another name on the screen I liked).

Beautiful Yacht

Sue took me out for a drive today, “up north.” We stopped at La Puerta’s in Sister Bay, where she parked in front of a beautiful yacht, and ran in to get me a diet coke and order of sweet potato fries. She stopped intermittently, up and down the peninsula, running errands, looking here and there, and I would lay in the back, L leg elevated on three pillows, reading “Keys of the Kingdom,” by AJ Cronin, which Dr. Hogan was kind enough to drop off the other day on a house call. I had already finished a novel by Tess Gerritson (I probably spelled that wrong, but it’s dark, and I’m lazy).

Today I was productive. I wrote my monthly newsletter. I’ll be posting to my site in another day or so. Now my goal is to parse my time between reading and still more productive writing. I fully understand that what I am experiencing is easy, for me. Of course there is the pain, and the financial hardship of missing so much work; but, it is temporary. It was so close to not being so. I realize that for many people this is not temporary, rather, it is for a lifetime. That’s what I mean about this being easy; because I have been so blessed.

As I was driving down the road, back propped against a pillow on the passenger-side door, so that I could see the water-side as we drove north; I was struck by the clouds in the blue above reflected in the blue below, and found myself feeling sheepish for what I wrote the other day about Richard Dawkins may as well being a chipmunk. In retrospect, I realize that must have sounded condescending and supercilious, with the reader perhaps having the impression that only one holding a belief in God can recognize beauty within the material world, which is not what I meant at all. Of course Mr. Dawkins can wonder at the beauty of a sunset; stand, transfixed, by a humpback whale breaching offshore; or gaze upwards at the bright white lunar highlands of a full moon. His appreciation needs be no more, nor no less than mine, or anyone else’s.

I suppose what I meant was that, given the transient fluctuation of our existence in the universe of time, what does it really matter what we observe if there is not more to it than atoms watching other atoms. That’s what I mean by “meaningful,” an existence beyond the fluctuation. And besides that, who am I to say what a chipmunk feels when confronted with the first freshly fallen acorn of fall.