Holy Cross Day

 

Most days I have nothing to say. Some days I let it be, some days I say it anyway. 

What a great place to live, 7H on Sea, quarter-sphere to the south of me, downtown StAndrews to the north. Pax, quiet. Nobody comes knocking with a religious rag to give and spiel to sell. Occasionally FedEx or UPS tap, otherwise nobody comes knocking at all.

School of fish moving below, evidently not mullet, as none are jumping, leaping. Loud sound of a boat's motor in the far channel, returning from something at sea overnight. 

Breakfast: what? mug of black, Aleve pill, large mug of ice coffee. Skin tight on both feet, very tight on the right, so a furosemide regimen today, which will limit travel. Linda baked bread yesterday, but none for breakfast for me. Bit of smoked salmon and a plunk of mayonnaise. For dinner (noon, remember, this is the South), lobster tails I ordered from Maine weeks ago and we're working through the freezer before my dancing fingers escape and go wild again.

Boy, I'll tell you, that boat needs a muffler, how does the crew stand it? I think that's what's called a rhetorical question. Not sure, but the larger craft seems to be towing a smaller boat, what do you think?

At my feet below, a snowy egret glides just above the surface of the flat Bay, but I don't bother to snap it.

Hero to some Episcopalians, bane to the knee-jerk defensive literalist inerrantists among us, Bishop Spong died Sunday, age 90. Someone once barked at me, "Spong is NO scholar", but discernment and wisdom, commonsense and lovingkindness are greater than "knowledge", and I'm sad the world no longer sees him.

A nice morning here. Every Day is a Beautiful Day, and Life is Good.

RSF&ABC&PTL

T+