Nope. Not the kind that involves keeping tabs on the lives of the rich and famous who crave attention and have been fed by a fawning public for so long that they can’t imagine going too long without a compliment and an awards ceremony.

The other kind- the kind that involves looking up and out and being amazed and feeling small and insignificant.

Did you know that 109 earths could fit across the face of the Sun, and roughly 1,300,000 earths could fit inside of it? Did you know that the Sun is just a medium sized star- a yellow dwarf- and that Betelgeuse is 700 times larger and 14,000 times brighter, according to Space.com?

I know- little known facts of lesser known value. But this is the kind of stuff that gets under my skin.

It’s amazing out there. Time to get a telescope.

Probably not this one.

Apparently, not everyone’s gut is on the same page.

Human beings are complicated creatures, which may be why people opt for dogs and cats rather than the more difficult work of parenthood, or human interaction in general.

I’ve never seen bell curves, graphs, or other statistics that verify the accuracy of a gut feeling, and I’ve always been curious as to how things would actually turn out in a clinical study- if such a thing could be studied. Is a gut feeling sort of like 20/20 hindsight, as in “I should have trusted my gut?”

My gut feelings steer me in a certain direction. Sometimes literally, like when we’re on the road and a quick decision has to be made regarding which road we need to take. Other times they act as a moral compass- a conscience of sorts.

It would seem that one’s gut feelings are conditioned on environmental factors, that we are not all inherently gifted with consistent instruction and guidance that lead to consensus on a given issue- say, letting people who were born in this country or brought at a young age, and who know no other place as home- and who have become valuable threads in the fabric of this nation- letting them stay in this country and granting them citizenship.

My gut tells me this is a no-brainer. They stay. It seems only right and proper and fair. Not to mention kind and compassionate.

But people in a position to make a final decision on this issue apparently feel differently. How is this possible?

Human beings are complicated creatures. There apparently is no universal operating system that moves us to speak in unison and do what’s right. “Right” is a moving target, which complicates things.

 

 

I’ve never been a big fan of the word. For one thing, it doesn’t exactly flow off the tongue. And for some reason, it conjures up images of a sheltered, maybe privileged life. The over-used lingo of clinicians and coddled yuppies.

But then I look at the plant I received after a visit to the eye doctor and realize that it needs watering. Again.

Synonyms include tend, foster, cultivate, encourage, develop, strengthen, boost.

Who couldn’t use a helping of these things from time to time?

Is every viewpoint, every opinion, created equal? And who gets to decide?

Is it only fair to consider the merit of every voice that sounds on any subject and appreciatively say, “I hear you?” Or even more, “I value your position?”

Is it all merely a matter of perspective, as if your utterances in support of white supremacy are somehow just as valid as those of someone who can think of a hundred reasons why you’re out of your damn mind?    

I grow ever more certain that I have heard all I need to hear from people who are convinced that the current occupant of the Oval Office can make America great again. 

What more is there to listen for? What more can we yet learn in hopes of being convinced that our Tweeter-in-Chief is anything other than a gigantic ego who seems intent on bringing out the worst in us?

It has become clear that making America great again means nothing more than a return to some era that we left behind for good reason. It is the most clever of slogans, though- ridiculously vague, with a hint of patriotic.

If it’s always a matter of perspective, of every voice carrying equal weight, then we are in big trouble. Because what I see is a gap of unbridgeable width and depth, and inherently unequal voices. Opinions and beliefs so dissimilar in vision and tone that there is little reason for hope of ever finding common ground.

Harvey. Such an innocuous sounding name.

There probably aren’t many pluviophiles in southern and southeastern Texas right now. Some places have received a year’s worth of rain in two days, and there is more to come. The word “biblical” has been uttered, though any connection to the bible may have more to do with people pondering God’s wrath than anything else in Genesis 7.

Prayers for all in Harvey’s path. Let’s leave the hyperbole and sensationalism to the folks at the Weather Channel.

May the rains end shortly, and recovery ensue. Enough is enough.

It is enjoyable to watch someone who knows what they’re doing.

Several local streets are in the process of getting a face lift- out with the old macadam, in with the new- and it’s been strangely gratifying to watch this process unfold. The crew knows what it’s doing, and they tend to business.

The rain has been fairly plentiful this summer, which means that lawn mowing has been a frequent task, and a pleasant one. There is something satisfying about being being able to improve the look of the place and get some exercise to boot.

I feel the same way about vacuuming the carpet, painting a wall, or doing the dishes- any task where there is a distinct before and after. It’s nice to gaze upon the completed work and feel a sense of accomplishment. I imagine that this is in part why electricians and plumbers and carpenters and road construction crews do what they do.

Tangible results, built-in feedback. I guess this is what I often crave.

In my two-plus decades as an ordained minister, I can honestly say that there have been very few days where I’ve felt like I knew what I was doing. By virtue of repetition, certain situations have become less stressful than they once were. But as far as having a handle on things in general- like I’ve mastered something- it has all remained quite nebulous.

And tangible results don’t often come with the territory.

This is the scientific name for the sensitive plant, a.k.a. humble plant, shame plant, or touch-me-not. It is, according to Wikipedia, native to Central- and South America, but is now considered a pan-tropical weed, grown for its curiosity value: the compound leaves fold inward and droop when touched or shaken, defending themselves from harm, and reopen a few minutes later. The foliage also closes during darkness and reopens in light.

The mimosa pudica also has a beautiful, delicate-looking flower. It was a pleasant surprise to look down one day and see these blooming.

Lately, the morning routine has become a refuge for me- quiet time at the beginning of a new day. Coffee and another post.

On occasion, it feels like the cart before the horse. I get up and get settled with no idea what the topic is going to be. Other times, there’s something that’s been bubbling up, clamoring for the light of day.

This is one of those cart-before-the-horse mornings.

Well, at least I updated the previous post with a picture from yesterday’s eclipse. That worked out pretty well- no eye damage and, as far as I can tell, no damage to my camera. And now there’s a record of the event.

Hopefully the conditions are decent for folks. With all the build-up, it’d be kind of a bummer not to be able to catch at least a glimpse of the solar eclipse today- total for some, partial for most. The next opportunity will be a partial eclipse in some areas of the country in 2023, or a total eclipse for some in 2024. Or if one has the means, just travel to the spot where the next one is scheduled. Various types of eclipse happen with some regularity around the world.

Apparently, the moon’s increasingly elliptical orbit means that in about 600 million years, there won’t be any more solar eclipses. So try not to miss the next one when it comes around.

May the skies be clear.

UPDATE:

For a number of years, beginning with my time in Boy Scouts, we would make our way to New Hampshire in the Fall to climb a 4000-footer.   I know- all the folks who live in the Rockies would be going “Ooh, a four thousand footer…”  I guess it’s relative, in a way, based on conditions and the altitude at which one starts a climb. And oxygen levels aren’t as much of a concern in NH.

Anyway, we would spend an entire day hiking somewhere in the White Mountains- Cannon Mountain, Mt. Osceola, Mt. Garfield, Mt. Moosilauke. Other times higher ones like Lincoln, Lafayette, even Mt. Washington on a couple of occasions.

At some point in the hike, we would be far enough away from the trail head yet still below the tree line, out of ear shot of road noise and not quite exposed to the wind that was usually present at the higher elevations.

We would come to spots where there would be hardly any sound. No babbling brook, not even the rustle of a leaf. It wasn’t eerie, but it would get your attention. It was beautiful- that we could be outdoors, on the side of a mountain, and not hear anything. We would pause just to take it in for a few moments.

A lasting sensory memory.