Where angels dance

The internet is down in my neighborhood for the third time this month, and typing with my phone is excruciating, and so I humbly offer this from the archives from July 27, 2021.

“Write only what you love, and love what you write,” Ray Bradbury wrote.

What would be the point of writing words of hate, or words that don’t speak love, no, shout love? What would be the point of wasting any moment of life on the mean, the small, the spirit-breaking nastiness?

Given a finite time to have any impact on this universe, spend every minute in love, in spirit-lifting, on big ideas, on generosity, on making every moment count for something positive.

Do you see why I do not write of politics if I can avoid it? Oh, I stumble sometimes and snap back at nasty minds, and I point out foolishness when instead I should laugh and turn another cheek, but in my most free moments I soar in love and remember those who lifted me, not those who dragged me into mud to wrestle with demons.

Angels walk among us (most of them on four loving paws), and I love to write about those angels and victory over those demons.

When I write what I love, it’s easier to stay in the glow of that love and dismiss the baser senses, and it’s easier to rest at night knowing I reached for stars where angels dance.

How can I hold onto this thought and speak or write only in love? That may be the biggest challenge of a life — or indeed, of an age.

In which I conclude that our conclusions are never concluded

We measure our days in terms of light and dark, and I prefer spring and summer because I believe people seek the light and thrive in the light. I know a common belief is that human nature is innately dark, but I have not found that to be the case. Those who roam the dark are unhappy creatures who behave contrary to our instinct to survive.

And who am I anyway, that I think my thoughts are important enough to post and share every day? I am no more important than you, who is reading this. All I have to offer are the sum of nearly 73 years of living day by day, and my experience may be totally irrelevant to yours. I have come to certain conclusions about life and the world, but it occurs to me now that “conclusion” is not the greatest word to describe a person’s views about anything.

Saying “This is my conclusion” implies that the process of forming that view has concluded — it’s finished, and my mind will never change again. Wrong! Our “conclusions” are always evolving.

Oh, certain foundational views don’t change much, but I think it’s dangerous most of the time to say “my mind is made up and that’s that.” At least that’s my conclusion at the moment. In a world where more information is accessible at our fingertips all the time, it’s always possible to learn something that will shake up our conclusions all over again.

Random thoughts

I sit on the love seat at noon with Summer, and I know I have a morning full of thoughts, but now that it’s time to write them down, they all escape me.

• I’m not sure if I’m ready for Supergirl as a hung-over party girl. That was the only 10 seconds I didn’t love in the excellent Superman movie last summer.

• I’m thinking of leaving my Christmas decorations up this year, in keeping with Ebenezer Scrooge’s pledge to hold Christmas in his heart always.

• I’m pretty sure “Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol” was my first exposure to Dickens’ immortal tale. The songs by Jule Styne and Bob Merrill — who would collaborate on “Funny Girl” two years later — hold up for me, especially “Ringle Ringle” and “The Lord’s Bright Blessing.” Of course, later I discovered the brilliant Alastair Sim, but my second-favorite “Christmas Carol” continues to be Magoo’s.

• I listened to “Escape/Chase/Saying Goodbye” the other night, and I must say it may be the most joyous music ever written short of Handel or Beethoven. E.T. The Extraterrestrial is a symphony. I have said this many times: people should watch that film again to hear the music. Of all the movies I’ve ever seen, I think the marriage of story and soundtrack in E.T. is as darn near perfect.

• James Stewart’s greatest performance in a lifetime of great performances was as George Bailey. It’s hard to quibble with the selection of Fredric March and The Best Years of Our Lives as Best Actor and Best Picture that year, but Stewart and It’s A Wonderful Life have proven immortal.