The Water Is Wide

Those Who Shape Your Heart

LUCK IS NOT CHANCE
---Emily Dickinson

Luck is not chance --
It's Toil --
Fortune's expensive smile
Is earned --
The Father of the Mine
Is that old-fashioned Coin
We spurned --

When I was a teenager, I recall complaining to my father about how "lucky" some classmate was over some piece of good fortune that seemed to come his way. My father instructed me that "you make your own luck." It took me many years to understand exactly what he meant by that pearl of wisdom.

I often wish that God hadn't seen fit to call my father home so early. When I feel that way, I appreciate intellectually and even logically that God operates on a level far beyond the powers of mortal comprehension. I also appreciate the foundation of my belief that though now I look through a glass darkly, some day I will see face-to-face. Nevertheless, I'm still fallen enough and selfish enough to yearn for the opportunity to tell him that he was right, and that, as one man speaking to another man, I get it. More than that, I long to tell him that I love him for teaching me.

I know that the spades are the swords of a soldier
I know that the clubs are weapons of war
I know that diamonds mean money for this art
But that's not the shape of my heart

Trumpeter Chris Botti, guitarist Dominic Miller, and vocalists Sting and Josh Groban perform Miller's composition, "Shape of My Heart." Keith Lockhart conducts the Boston Pops Orchestra.

Self-Delusional Self-Flagallation

Dr. Bob was gnawing at forgiveness not long ago. His ruminations on the need for action, for active reconciliation with those we have forgiven and those from whom we need forgiveness, is a theme I've long contemplated. I understand the principle, but falter in the action.

I made two recent attempts to forgive and to reconcile with those who I had hurt and who I believe had hurt me. I reached out to both persons and asked for their forgiveness. In the first case, the respondent told me that they had forgiven and forgotten within minutes following the offense. They had forgotten all about it until I resurrected the memory, and they didn't intend to waste "negative energy" discussing it further. The second responded that for the life of them, they couldn't recall who I was and that perhaps I'd gotten my e-mail addresses mixed up. I laughed out loud at that response and thought: "well played."

It's time to move on down the road, away from the self-indulgent attempts at reconciliation. If someone believes that anything I've said or done in the past might have hurt them, they are more than welcome to contact me and ask for an apology. I will gladly give it. On the other hand, I don't intend to pester people in displays of what apparently is rank self-importance. I must have been a fairly ineffective offender, most likely more of a scourge in my own mind than in the minds of anyone I thought I offended.

There's nothing worse than apologizing for an offense that's been long forgotten and was never been more than of a passing interest to the supposed "offendee."

Life continues to humble me, and that's a very, very good thing.

The Antithesis of Despair

Gold Leaves
--G. K. Chesterton

Lo! I am come to autumn,
When all the leaves are gold;
Grey hairs and golden leaves cry out
The year and I are old.

In youth I sought the prince of men,
Captain in cosmic wars,
Our Titan, even the weeds would show
Defiant, to the stars.

But now a great thing in the street
Seems any human nod,
Where shift in strange democracy
The million masks of God.

In youth I sought the golden flower
Hidden in wood or wold,
But I am come to autumn,
When all the leaves are gold

Lee Ann Womack. I Hope You Dance

I Feel Like Going Home

A Meeting With Despair
--Thomas Hardy

As evening shaped I found me on a moor
Which sight could scarce sustain:
The black lean land, of featureless contour,
Was like a tract in pain.

“This scene, like my own life,” I said, “is one
Where many glooms abide;
Toned by its fortune to a deadly dun—
Lightless on every side.

I glanced aloft and halted, pleasure-caught
To see the contrast there:
The ray-lit clouds gleamed glory; and I thought,
“There’s solace everywhere!”

Then bitter self-reproaches as I stood
I dealt me silently
As one perverse—misrepresenting Good
In graceless mutiny.

Against the horizon’s dim-descernèd wheel
A form rose, strange of mould:
That he was hideous, hopeless, I could feel
Rather than could behold.

“’Tis a dead spot, where even the light lies spent
To darkness!” croaked the Thing.
“Not if you look aloft!” said I, intent
On my new reasoning.

“Yea—but await awhile!” he cried. “Ho-ho!—
Look now aloft and see!”
I looked. There, too, sat night: Heaven’s radiant show
Had gone. Then chuckled he.

Feel Like Going Home, Bonnie Rait and Trisha Yearwood