It is gray here again today, misty, cold. I am enjoying going back through my journal, reviewing my posts. In November 2007, I was reading Andy Rooney's book, Out of My Mind. I still find the following excerpt an incentive to look at why we are doing what we are doing. The thought that LJ was not a given mobilized me to look at past postings and consider what I want to preserve, while I also was very aware of impermanence and how, in some ways, none of this matters, even as it does. This morning I rose at 3 to meditate, felt called, and I found myself feeling stretched like taffy on stars. I wonder how many times we are folded, how deeply we can allow ourselves to touch and be touched.
I boiled over when reporters started using the word "troops" as a synonym for "soldiers." "Our troops," they'd say. One reporter said, "Seven American troops were captured." A troop is not a soldier. A troop is a group of soldiers and several groups of soldiers were not captured.
I'm at a loss to know what to think or write about
The czar looked into the story further and found that Catherine the Great, in a previous century, had planted a rosebush where the patch of grass was and ordered a sentry stationed there to make sure no one stepped on the bush. The rosebush had died fifty years before but no one in charge ever thought to say it didn't need to be guarded any longer.
I don't know what I think, but I know I hope we don't stand guard in