June 24, 2020
It’s officially summer here in Southern Ontario. We celebrated this benchmark almost immediately with a heat wave. Of course, we must have a heat wave because, hello, summer! If you sense a bit of sarcasm there, you’re very intuitive.
David took a load of laundry down to the basement on Saturday, the day after the summer solstice. Before he could get the wash going, however, he had to really push on the door that until that day had opened easily. He nodded. “Yep, it’s summer, all right. The basement door is sticking again.”
I’d like to say that I am happy for the arrival of summer, because my arthritis will hurt less. There were years when that was true. But anymore, cold and damp, cool and damp, or hot and damp—it’s all icky for me. I do what I can by covering my ankles all the time, and when necessary, tossing a blanket over my knees to protect them from the daggers known as a draft. That’s normal for me at this point in my life, no matter the season, and that’s just the way it is.
My daughter, who is a PSW and has clients in the community, assures me it’s all good. I’m not over the hill yet, she proclaims. Some of her older clients insist on having the heat on even in the summer. She comes out of their homes completely sweat-drenched. I told her not to worry, I didn’t think I would ever get to that point. The look she gave me was a definite “we’ll see.”
Our table gardens are doing well. I’ve ordered a soil testing kit, because the couple of veggies that aren’t doing well may be failing because of the acidity of the soil. Our son and his wife stopped in for a visit on Father’s Day. David was really pleased, because it allowed him to show off his gardens to his son, and to ask his advice. Our first born is an avid gardener and has delved more into the science of the craft than we ever did.
Relationships—familial relationships—often seem to be wrapped up in traditions and clichés. The men will grunt over grills and gardens, and the women will coo over cookies and kids. I know that clichés become clichés because they were slices of real life that happened over and over and over again. We could also, more simply, call it human nature, and it is in a way.
But perhaps that human nature is not so stereotypical as once it was.
What used to be true in this family was the grunting of my beloved and our oldest over “quarry stuff”; our first born followed in his father’s footsteps and works in the aggregate industry in this province. In fact, he started the thriving career he now has, by working along side his father. My daughter-in-law and I tend, at those times when the conversation turns to crushers to roll our eyes and grin at each other.
The Covid-19 update in this county isn’t as bad as in some places. The people in our county took this threat very seriously. We’ve had 121 confirmed cases in this the county all together, and four deaths. Of the remaining 117, all but 5 have recovered. I do not believe for one single minute that this means we’re out of the woods. This virus isn’t finished messing with us.
I will continue to go once every two weeks to the grocery store and yes, I will wear my mask. But beyond that, I am going to continue to stay home. Some of the restaurants in our area are opening up to patio seating, and that’s fine. David and our daughter will be going for breakfast in the very near future. Me? Bring me a takeout item once every few weeks, and I’ll call it good.
Next week, on Monday, I have an appointment at the optometrist. I’ll wear my mask, and socially distance myself—and I sincerely hope they have their appointments spaced out sufficiently to allow for that. It’s a small office but they have, in the past, liked to crowd people in.
I have an update on my rose bushes. I had three rose bushes, you may recall. The most recent two I got from the girls for a Mother’s Day, and I asked to have those two planted out the bedroom window beside the first, so that I could see them. But only the original one was visible to me, and only if I pressed my face against the glass. The other two were just plain out of sight.
Well, that original one, because it nearly died a couple of times, is thriving this year as it never has before – as a wild rose bush. And it’s vines have crawled all the way in front of the window on the small trellis I had David place there the year I planted some sweet peas.
They still don’t have much scent, but they sure are pretty. And I don’t have to squash my nose to see them!
Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, June 24, 2020
Wednesday, June 17, 2020
June 17, 2020
I’ve finally come to a very important realization about something that’s been troubling me. It shouldn’t be surprising that I would have an epiphany every now and then. I’m sixty-five, and though I’m in pretty good shape for the shape I’m in, I am very conscious that there are a lot more days behind me, than there are before me.
Generally speaking, I do tend to over think things. I’ve been thinking about racism, lately. I’ve been thinking about it a lot over the last several years, but especially during these last several weeks. I recall, as a teenager, watching the riots on television in 1968. I was very world aware for a rural Canadian girl my age. You see, my father had died when I was not even ten, and then later that same year, when I was nowhere near old enough to fully understand anything, President Kennedy was assassinated. I remember where I was when that happened, and I remember watching his funeral on the television with my mother. She told me that he was about the same age as my daddy had been when he had died.
And I think now, looking back, because of that, because she connected President Kennedy to my daddy at that time and in that way, that something clicked for me. By the time 1968 rolled around, I watched the news every day. And, I began to go through a phase where I believed the world was soon going to end. That year, 1968, was an horrific year. Dr. Martin Luther King, Junior was assassinated, as was Bobby Kennedy. And then there were the race riots. I had never been aware of race riots before. The concept shocked and confused me. And it angered me.
I didn’t understand. At that point in my life—I was fourteen—I had only ever met two black people. One had been a little boy my sister-in-law babysat for a day, when I was eleven. His name was Johnny and he was so sweet. The other had been a friend of one of my sister’s boyfriends. He wasn’t so sweet. I don’t recall how old I was then. So I asked my mother, because I knew that she had co-workers who were black and some who were brown. I asked her, when she looked at them, if she thought of them as being black or brown. And she told me, no, she thought of them as being nurses.
We know that kids usually take their cues from the adults around them. For me, from that moment on my mother’s explanation formed my base line. Skin color wasn’t a definition of any kind. People were people, period.
David and I have watched a lot of American news over the years. Likely, we’ve watched far more than is good for us. Especially if you’re someone like me, a neurotic author who internalizes too much, and feels everything, watching too much news probably isn’t healthy.
Every time we’ve seen reports of police anywhere killing an unarmed black person, I have been enraged. And over these last few weeks especially, I have internalized my sense of outrage, and yes, a sense of guilt, too. I’m white. I was born white and had lived most of my life with no black people in my community. The violence that I see being perpetrated upon black people is being done by white people.
I’ve believed that I wasn’t racist, but lately I wondered. Was I actually a part of the problem? I told a dear friend that I didn’t see color. She told me, of course I do. I didn’t realize until it was explained to me, that that had been a statement of white privilege. Saying “I don’t see color” aren’t the words I should have said. That upset me. So I came to understand that I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I’ve since refined that comment, though the sentiment is unchanged. I don’t care about what color you are. You’re human, just like me. Period.
I have been wondering especially these last several weeks, how can I be better? What do I need to do to be better? What do I need to learn, that I don’t know? And lately, that worry has been kind of growing worse. I don’t want to be a part of the problem!
And then, I had that epiphany. There is one thing I can make sure that I continue to do that if done right, is enough. I still have much to learn, so I will learn. I will never truly understand what my black friend, or my brother-in-law who is also black, have experienced in their lives. I will never claim as my own those feelings of being marginalized for the color of my skin. But I can open my mind and my heart to hear and to increase my awareness.
But the answer of what else I can do can be found in words spoken long ago by Jesus, who commanded us: love thy neighbor as thyself. Five words, but more, really than just five words.
Love isn’t just a feeling. It’s not just a noun. Love is also a verb. And as we were taught in school, verbs are action words.
Those of us who are white must do all we can to end this horrendous discrimination. Just as it is up to men to end the sexual harassment of and discrimination against women, to end its normalization and its existence, it’s up to us, those of us who are white, to end racial discrimination.
So, enough, already. This is 2020. White supremacy has been our malignant disease for long enough.
Let’s just get that disease eradicated.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
I’ve finally come to a very important realization about something that’s been troubling me. It shouldn’t be surprising that I would have an epiphany every now and then. I’m sixty-five, and though I’m in pretty good shape for the shape I’m in, I am very conscious that there are a lot more days behind me, than there are before me.
Generally speaking, I do tend to over think things. I’ve been thinking about racism, lately. I’ve been thinking about it a lot over the last several years, but especially during these last several weeks. I recall, as a teenager, watching the riots on television in 1968. I was very world aware for a rural Canadian girl my age. You see, my father had died when I was not even ten, and then later that same year, when I was nowhere near old enough to fully understand anything, President Kennedy was assassinated. I remember where I was when that happened, and I remember watching his funeral on the television with my mother. She told me that he was about the same age as my daddy had been when he had died.
And I think now, looking back, because of that, because she connected President Kennedy to my daddy at that time and in that way, that something clicked for me. By the time 1968 rolled around, I watched the news every day. And, I began to go through a phase where I believed the world was soon going to end. That year, 1968, was an horrific year. Dr. Martin Luther King, Junior was assassinated, as was Bobby Kennedy. And then there were the race riots. I had never been aware of race riots before. The concept shocked and confused me. And it angered me.
I didn’t understand. At that point in my life—I was fourteen—I had only ever met two black people. One had been a little boy my sister-in-law babysat for a day, when I was eleven. His name was Johnny and he was so sweet. The other had been a friend of one of my sister’s boyfriends. He wasn’t so sweet. I don’t recall how old I was then. So I asked my mother, because I knew that she had co-workers who were black and some who were brown. I asked her, when she looked at them, if she thought of them as being black or brown. And she told me, no, she thought of them as being nurses.
We know that kids usually take their cues from the adults around them. For me, from that moment on my mother’s explanation formed my base line. Skin color wasn’t a definition of any kind. People were people, period.
David and I have watched a lot of American news over the years. Likely, we’ve watched far more than is good for us. Especially if you’re someone like me, a neurotic author who internalizes too much, and feels everything, watching too much news probably isn’t healthy.
Every time we’ve seen reports of police anywhere killing an unarmed black person, I have been enraged. And over these last few weeks especially, I have internalized my sense of outrage, and yes, a sense of guilt, too. I’m white. I was born white and had lived most of my life with no black people in my community. The violence that I see being perpetrated upon black people is being done by white people.
I’ve believed that I wasn’t racist, but lately I wondered. Was I actually a part of the problem? I told a dear friend that I didn’t see color. She told me, of course I do. I didn’t realize until it was explained to me, that that had been a statement of white privilege. Saying “I don’t see color” aren’t the words I should have said. That upset me. So I came to understand that I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I’ve since refined that comment, though the sentiment is unchanged. I don’t care about what color you are. You’re human, just like me. Period.
I have been wondering especially these last several weeks, how can I be better? What do I need to do to be better? What do I need to learn, that I don’t know? And lately, that worry has been kind of growing worse. I don’t want to be a part of the problem!
And then, I had that epiphany. There is one thing I can make sure that I continue to do that if done right, is enough. I still have much to learn, so I will learn. I will never truly understand what my black friend, or my brother-in-law who is also black, have experienced in their lives. I will never claim as my own those feelings of being marginalized for the color of my skin. But I can open my mind and my heart to hear and to increase my awareness.
But the answer of what else I can do can be found in words spoken long ago by Jesus, who commanded us: love thy neighbor as thyself. Five words, but more, really than just five words.
Love isn’t just a feeling. It’s not just a noun. Love is also a verb. And as we were taught in school, verbs are action words.
Those of us who are white must do all we can to end this horrendous discrimination. Just as it is up to men to end the sexual harassment of and discrimination against women, to end its normalization and its existence, it’s up to us, those of us who are white, to end racial discrimination.
So, enough, already. This is 2020. White supremacy has been our malignant disease for long enough.
Let’s just get that disease eradicated.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, June 10, 2020
June 10, 2020
Now that spring has arrived—and just in time for it to turn to summer, I might add—things have settled down a bit here at the Ashbury household. Our two puppies turned 6 months old in May, and on Monday had a trip to the vet, together, where Bear was neutered, and Missy was spayed. Both are doing well, although Missy was a bit draggy the next day.
For the last couple of months, we’ve noticed our freezer looking very old. It is in fact old, for a freezer. We’ve had it more than 10 years. It’s rusting along the bottom some, and although it still works, we thought we should look into getting a new one. The one we currently have is a 5.5 cubic foot model, and yes, we would like one just a bit bigger now as we are a household of three, and often feed more mouths than that.
As well, we’ve been concerned about the food supply chains lately, and while they will probably recover, we’ve already heard that some farmers aren’t planting this year because of the virus. We’d thought from the beginning of this pandemic that the wise thing to do would be to build up a bit of a supply of canned and frozen goods week by week. When the kids were small, we always had at least a month’s worth of supplies on hand, just in case. As the kids grew and left, and our numbers dwindled it didn’t seem as urgent a matter, and that I think was a mistake on our part.
So on the weekend, David and our daughter went out to look at what freezers were available, and I’m really glad they did. Because right now, while our old one is still working, there are no freezers immediately available. So we’ve ordered one, and it should arrive in 10 to 12 weeks. We’re crossing our fingers ours will last that long, and the supply of food available to be purchased will still be good in 12 weeks.
Certainty is no where to be found these days. Apparently, it’s on back order as well.
Anticipating the arrival of our new freezer, which is a 12 cubic foot model, requires a rearranging of our kitchen. That’s the room our current freezer is in, and it’s truly the only place in this small house we can use. The basement, accessed by a narrow and steep set of steps is out of the question. Yes, that’s where our current washer and dryer are. Don’t ask me what we’re going to do when we have to by those again. I don’t want to think about it right now.
But I digress.
We have a sideboard in our kitchen as well, and it’s located along the long wall opposite of the sink, the wall that has the windows. When the new freezer arrives, that’s where it has to go. And the sideboard? Let’s just say that the freezer isn’t the only old dilapidated item in the kitchen that needs replacing. Yes, the sideboard does too. It’s a sideboard now but it was advertised as a beverage cart—made of wood with a stainless steel top—that never found its way to being a beverage cart. I call it the breakfast bar, because it holds the toaster, the hot cereals, and the bread. It used to hold the boxes of cereal too, but those were moved to the single-wide cupboard we bought and set between the sideboard and the fridge. The sideboard has three drawers, one of which has a cutlery tray with our cutlery, and another which holds utensils we use most regularly. It also has two cupboards with three shelves each, and a center area that I only realized very recently was designed to hold wine bottles. I did wonder, who divides a shelving space with a giant “X” of wood, but I guess I never wondered that out loud.
As you’ve likely surmised, no one in this house drinks wine.
We bought this cart/sideboard at Walmart more than fifteen years ago, for just over one hundred dollars. In the interim, the wheels all kind of wore out—not that it was moved around a lot, because it wasn’t. It just wasn’t built to last so long time. All three drawers have had to be fixed and at one point, and the wheels had to be removed. What was left of the cabinet was set on a two-by-four base that David hobbled together the day the first wheel collapsed.
We’ve figured that since we’re getting a new freezer, we’d get a new sideboard too. I’m looking, but I can tell they’re really quite popular these days. There are so many to choose from, and several that I liked that were sold out.
And they are all, to my mind way too expensive.
We have to do something because we honestly don’t think the current sideboard will survive the move across the room. Without the sideboard, the kitchen has no drawers. Not a one. Over the next little while, we’re going to be going through the cupboard area of the sideboard and tossing out or “re-locating” items that have been stored within it—items that can be placed elsewhere or, quite frankly, tossed out.
It will likely be at least a month before we decide on our selection—unless, of course, I stumble upon a deal too good to pass up. I’m frugal, which is a step up from the “parsimonious” which is the kindest word used to describe my beloved’s state of economic mind.
So I will keep my eyes pealed for the perfect bargain in sideboard and hope it won’t be too…um…austere looking?
Stop snickering out there. It could happen.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Now that spring has arrived—and just in time for it to turn to summer, I might add—things have settled down a bit here at the Ashbury household. Our two puppies turned 6 months old in May, and on Monday had a trip to the vet, together, where Bear was neutered, and Missy was spayed. Both are doing well, although Missy was a bit draggy the next day.
For the last couple of months, we’ve noticed our freezer looking very old. It is in fact old, for a freezer. We’ve had it more than 10 years. It’s rusting along the bottom some, and although it still works, we thought we should look into getting a new one. The one we currently have is a 5.5 cubic foot model, and yes, we would like one just a bit bigger now as we are a household of three, and often feed more mouths than that.
As well, we’ve been concerned about the food supply chains lately, and while they will probably recover, we’ve already heard that some farmers aren’t planting this year because of the virus. We’d thought from the beginning of this pandemic that the wise thing to do would be to build up a bit of a supply of canned and frozen goods week by week. When the kids were small, we always had at least a month’s worth of supplies on hand, just in case. As the kids grew and left, and our numbers dwindled it didn’t seem as urgent a matter, and that I think was a mistake on our part.
So on the weekend, David and our daughter went out to look at what freezers were available, and I’m really glad they did. Because right now, while our old one is still working, there are no freezers immediately available. So we’ve ordered one, and it should arrive in 10 to 12 weeks. We’re crossing our fingers ours will last that long, and the supply of food available to be purchased will still be good in 12 weeks.
Certainty is no where to be found these days. Apparently, it’s on back order as well.
Anticipating the arrival of our new freezer, which is a 12 cubic foot model, requires a rearranging of our kitchen. That’s the room our current freezer is in, and it’s truly the only place in this small house we can use. The basement, accessed by a narrow and steep set of steps is out of the question. Yes, that’s where our current washer and dryer are. Don’t ask me what we’re going to do when we have to by those again. I don’t want to think about it right now.
But I digress.
We have a sideboard in our kitchen as well, and it’s located along the long wall opposite of the sink, the wall that has the windows. When the new freezer arrives, that’s where it has to go. And the sideboard? Let’s just say that the freezer isn’t the only old dilapidated item in the kitchen that needs replacing. Yes, the sideboard does too. It’s a sideboard now but it was advertised as a beverage cart—made of wood with a stainless steel top—that never found its way to being a beverage cart. I call it the breakfast bar, because it holds the toaster, the hot cereals, and the bread. It used to hold the boxes of cereal too, but those were moved to the single-wide cupboard we bought and set between the sideboard and the fridge. The sideboard has three drawers, one of which has a cutlery tray with our cutlery, and another which holds utensils we use most regularly. It also has two cupboards with three shelves each, and a center area that I only realized very recently was designed to hold wine bottles. I did wonder, who divides a shelving space with a giant “X” of wood, but I guess I never wondered that out loud.
As you’ve likely surmised, no one in this house drinks wine.
We bought this cart/sideboard at Walmart more than fifteen years ago, for just over one hundred dollars. In the interim, the wheels all kind of wore out—not that it was moved around a lot, because it wasn’t. It just wasn’t built to last so long time. All three drawers have had to be fixed and at one point, and the wheels had to be removed. What was left of the cabinet was set on a two-by-four base that David hobbled together the day the first wheel collapsed.
We’ve figured that since we’re getting a new freezer, we’d get a new sideboard too. I’m looking, but I can tell they’re really quite popular these days. There are so many to choose from, and several that I liked that were sold out.
And they are all, to my mind way too expensive.
We have to do something because we honestly don’t think the current sideboard will survive the move across the room. Without the sideboard, the kitchen has no drawers. Not a one. Over the next little while, we’re going to be going through the cupboard area of the sideboard and tossing out or “re-locating” items that have been stored within it—items that can be placed elsewhere or, quite frankly, tossed out.
It will likely be at least a month before we decide on our selection—unless, of course, I stumble upon a deal too good to pass up. I’m frugal, which is a step up from the “parsimonious” which is the kindest word used to describe my beloved’s state of economic mind.
So I will keep my eyes pealed for the perfect bargain in sideboard and hope it won’t be too…um…austere looking?
Stop snickering out there. It could happen.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, June 3, 2020
June 3, 2020
I apologize right up front if this essay offends anyone. It is never my intention to offend. Sometimes, however, I just can’t keep the truth inside.
The older I get, the more I understand that I don’t know a hell of a lot about a lot of things in this life.
But there are some things—just a few—that I do know quite a bit about.
I figure it’s the same for everyone, or at least those of us who live our lives honestly, and yes, with a bit of humility. Of course, we’ve all met people who believe they know everything, when we can clearly see that the truth is, they know very, very little. They’re an annoyance, but in positions of authority they can be quite dangerous. How dangerous, you may ask? Don’t make me go there. I’m sure if you think really, really hard, a name will come to mind that will prove my point.
Back to what I do know. Of course, I know how to write. I’ve written 63 novels at this point, all published by my publisher, Siren-Bookstrand. I’m currently working on title 64. As well, I have written an essay practically every Wednesday since November of 2006. It could be said by now that yes, I have an opinion about everything.
I know how to be a friend, a wife, a mother, a grandmother, and a great-grandmother.
That one right there—who I am to others—eclipses the first for importance and personal satisfaction. Just saying.
I know how to love, and I know how to forgive, and I know how to draw the bottom line below which I will not sink.
I know what it is to lose a child and a grandchild as well as my best friend and at this point in my life, every member of my birth family. Grief isn’t my friend, but it has been and will continue to be my ofttimes companion.
I know that I, and every other human being, every creature, every living organism on this planet we call earth, and even this planet itself were created by the same Creator, and in words that were once popular, He don’t make no junk. Period.
I know that when Jesus admonished us to love our neighbors as ourselves, He absolutely said that knowing our neighbors did not look like us or necessarily behave like us. After all, His Father had made all people and people are different from each other.
I know that right now, we are in the midst of a global pandemic, that people are getting sick and dying, and that this is not the time I would have chosen to protest the horrendous injustices committed for far too long and still being committed against so many people—people of color. But there are times when we are challenged to do the right thing even when it’s difficult, or dangerous. This, apparently, is one of those times.
Or perhaps more to the point, this is the time to do the right thing because of all the rest that surrounds us, and assails us, and tests us at this point in our lives. In other words, this is the time to act because of the difficult and the dangerous.
Turbulent times are not a new concept for humanity to grapple with. Turbulent times without a strong leader to guide the people through—yeah, that’s perhaps a little different. But maybe that’s something that was necessary, too.
Because into the great void of missing leadership, other true leaders have emerged. They have stood tall and strong and have stepped into the breach, ready to lead, ready to do the right thing. What I’m seeing as I watch my television each night is chaos, and destruction and fire, but also phoenixes rising—stronger, brighter, and more just. I see people joining together, in one voice, defiant of those whose goal seems to be to seek the spotlight and the photo ops with no meaning or purpose except self-worship.
The image of Nero fiddling while Rome is burning is now complete.
It's my nature to try to express things in simple terms, so I can wrap my head around them better. Nero fiddling is one that works for me. So is an image of people coming together to try and build something vital and lasting, while being hampered by a buzzing, nattering “no-see-em” swamp bug, a bug that annoys and flits about, trying to distract the people from their righteous work.
We’ve all seen skits on our televisions, and it’s a great comedy routine, the hapless human trying to defeat the annoying insect. And what makes the shtick relevant, of course, is that every one of us identifies with the dilemma; and we each of us share in the victory when the insect is finally vanquished—no matter the cost.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
I apologize right up front if this essay offends anyone. It is never my intention to offend. Sometimes, however, I just can’t keep the truth inside.
The older I get, the more I understand that I don’t know a hell of a lot about a lot of things in this life.
But there are some things—just a few—that I do know quite a bit about.
I figure it’s the same for everyone, or at least those of us who live our lives honestly, and yes, with a bit of humility. Of course, we’ve all met people who believe they know everything, when we can clearly see that the truth is, they know very, very little. They’re an annoyance, but in positions of authority they can be quite dangerous. How dangerous, you may ask? Don’t make me go there. I’m sure if you think really, really hard, a name will come to mind that will prove my point.
Back to what I do know. Of course, I know how to write. I’ve written 63 novels at this point, all published by my publisher, Siren-Bookstrand. I’m currently working on title 64. As well, I have written an essay practically every Wednesday since November of 2006. It could be said by now that yes, I have an opinion about everything.
I know how to be a friend, a wife, a mother, a grandmother, and a great-grandmother.
That one right there—who I am to others—eclipses the first for importance and personal satisfaction. Just saying.
I know how to love, and I know how to forgive, and I know how to draw the bottom line below which I will not sink.
I know what it is to lose a child and a grandchild as well as my best friend and at this point in my life, every member of my birth family. Grief isn’t my friend, but it has been and will continue to be my ofttimes companion.
I know that I, and every other human being, every creature, every living organism on this planet we call earth, and even this planet itself were created by the same Creator, and in words that were once popular, He don’t make no junk. Period.
I know that when Jesus admonished us to love our neighbors as ourselves, He absolutely said that knowing our neighbors did not look like us or necessarily behave like us. After all, His Father had made all people and people are different from each other.
I know that right now, we are in the midst of a global pandemic, that people are getting sick and dying, and that this is not the time I would have chosen to protest the horrendous injustices committed for far too long and still being committed against so many people—people of color. But there are times when we are challenged to do the right thing even when it’s difficult, or dangerous. This, apparently, is one of those times.
Or perhaps more to the point, this is the time to do the right thing because of all the rest that surrounds us, and assails us, and tests us at this point in our lives. In other words, this is the time to act because of the difficult and the dangerous.
Turbulent times are not a new concept for humanity to grapple with. Turbulent times without a strong leader to guide the people through—yeah, that’s perhaps a little different. But maybe that’s something that was necessary, too.
Because into the great void of missing leadership, other true leaders have emerged. They have stood tall and strong and have stepped into the breach, ready to lead, ready to do the right thing. What I’m seeing as I watch my television each night is chaos, and destruction and fire, but also phoenixes rising—stronger, brighter, and more just. I see people joining together, in one voice, defiant of those whose goal seems to be to seek the spotlight and the photo ops with no meaning or purpose except self-worship.
The image of Nero fiddling while Rome is burning is now complete.
It's my nature to try to express things in simple terms, so I can wrap my head around them better. Nero fiddling is one that works for me. So is an image of people coming together to try and build something vital and lasting, while being hampered by a buzzing, nattering “no-see-em” swamp bug, a bug that annoys and flits about, trying to distract the people from their righteous work.
We’ve all seen skits on our televisions, and it’s a great comedy routine, the hapless human trying to defeat the annoying insect. And what makes the shtick relevant, of course, is that every one of us identifies with the dilemma; and we each of us share in the victory when the insect is finally vanquished—no matter the cost.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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