Sitting here this morning chasing music, I am contemplating whether to finish mowing the grass. I think I should, and soon. Most likely I will do so. It is Sunday and as has become my habit, thoughts of a more spiritual celebration of the day occupy my mind this morning. At this moment it is these thoughts that are keeping me from mowing.
Many go to church on this day. I rarely go at all yet enjoy it so when I do. At sixty one, I am not into the formal practice and beliefs that accompany religion. However, over the past several months, and with each passing Sunday, I have found myself spending mornings in more reflective and I suppose, spiritual moods. There is no doubt that my mood is reflective, and I have come to believe that these reflections are of spiritual nature. I guess that makes sense. Regardless, I have also come to believe that these times are becoming more necessary. I know they are certainly welcomed.
Music and writing have become the norm on Sunday mornings. In my opinion, the music is always good. I know this because I enjoy it and it is of my choosing. My writings, I have noticed, have begun to confuse even me. I think this is for two reasons: I still don’t know what I am doing, and my typing cannot keep up with my chain of thought. Thus, overlapping tangents of a spiral nature develop within my writing, many of which even I cannot follow.
I don’t know how to cure this. Since, I can type at a sufficiently adequate pace, the fault must lie elsewhere. I guess I will blame the music since otherwise I would have to place the blame on old age or lack of ability, neither of which am I ready to concede at this point. Maybe I am just trying too hard? It really doesn’t matter because the time spent provides a semblance of peace within that I find difficulty finding elsewhere. Mediation via rock and roll certainly beats medication; my own variation on the well-established standard of preferring a bottle in front of me instead of a frontal lobotomy. Yet, in this case a bottle is not required.
A few years ago, a lady who is no longer with us and one who I dearly loved and respected since early childhood, scolded me a bit for mowing grass on Sunday. She had just left church and was headed to meet up with her friends for lunch at a local restaurant. I promised her that I would do better. I lied but not with harm in mind.
As this post reveals, I still contemplate the conversation of that day. I don’t know if the contemplation originates from a form of guilt that resides deep inside me; a guilt associated with my fanatical obsession with Sunday school as a youth or if it arises from the confusion of her failing to connect my actions with those of who would soon prepare and serve her a Sunday lunch. That contradiction in the practice of her beliefs confuse me to this day. Much like Travis, I think I will keep practicing my beliefs in my own way.
Feel the Burg 