My friend Michael Rossman argued that we must have rituals, and that if we’re gonna give up on those offered to us, we should make up our own. Referencing Lorca, the poet of Spain, Michael insisted that there must be a wedding, even within a war. And so there was. Yes there was. And in spite of the list of disaster and pending catastrophes I might make here — and I assume you could make a list of your own — we must find joy. Me especially. The pit is tempting. [op cit, my list]
James Peter, son of my granddaughter Yvonne and her husband Chance, brother to TJ. This is a good thing, in the general and in the specific. Specifically it is helping me to be happy. Not proud that it takes such a massive project — and by Eve without any effort of mine. No excuse. Drought, war, raving idiots, five buck gasoline, and a virus too. All true and yet shouldn’t be anywhere enough to mask the glory of this earth and of so many creatures in it.
We are losing people too, these days some of the ones I love most are moving on. Rossman’s gone. So is his wonderful Karen. Turns out, miracles of health notwithstanding, you get your 80 years give or take. The sooner one focuses on joy, the better, and the more places, even mundane, you can find it, ditto. Quoting Warren Zevon, enjoy every sandwich.
Welcome to the circus JP, and good luck. You are coming just in time to make us happy, and to replace some wonderful humans we’ve lost. Saints willing, you’ll get the help you will need and that there will be plenty of happy days. I’m in.