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Words
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If you are here, then it is likely that you, as I, donate and give up far too many moments, bits, pieces, and heartbeats of our whisper of existence, God-graced upon us to a mindless, unfeeling, uncaring, and unfaithful god-in-a-box-on-our-desk.
Times I think, I forgot to walk around my lake today; and the sun was so glorious; the moments somehow evaporated; and the trumpeter swans were just outside my window, in the little cove, twenty-feet away, necking. I only meant to worship the god-in-the-box-on-my-desk for a little span; I heard that melancholoy bleating from the male goose whose mate disappeared; he is grieving. If he does not mate again soon, he'll die.
I did see glimpses of the lake and the ducks and geese and walkers, as I stroked the small keys with my fingertips. I used to stroke my baby's small form with these fingertips. I could never kiss her warm, pink skin enough; nor giggle my dimpled son into baby-gales of baby-laughter. My babies always intoxicated me. They toddled on tiny feet and wobbly, counterfeit balance; and I willingly enslaved myself to their flirtations.
My grandmother used to say, "Your kids'll dance on your toes when they're babies; and on your grave when they're grown." Maybe. But if I could do it all over again, I would merely squander ALL of my time, attentions, and love with them. We would run away more often; we would read by the creek for more hours; and we would eat all the grapes and apples, then fall into bed, unwashed and deliciously exhausted. I would be childish with them, and we would play, and play, and play.
The god-in-the-box-on-my-desk never gives me anything back for all the hours, and attentions I have lavished on it.
You can rob the god-in-the-box-on-your-desk today. It will never give you enough back for all the hours, and attentions you lavish on it. Share your robberies here, to enrich, and entice us all to abandon this unfaithful, god-in-the-box-on-our-desk more often.
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