I have given up the idea of an ideal.
I no longer envision a moment when I’ll slap my hands together in a satisfactory clearing of the imaginary dust of this “job well done,” and plop down in my easy chair, feet up drink in hand and sip
as the world sings together all the live long day.
Except every evening.
I once heard a sage on a stage say we draw our strength from a secret conviction: “In the end, life wins.”
I don’t know which end he meant– A day? A career? A lifetime? A world?
But his words settle in my glass, and mingle with the fearful swill of other more present whispers, shushing them into sleepy solace that the coming day is nigh.
thanks to Mary Pierce Brosmer and Walter Brueggmann for the inspiration
