Fortunate Son

Time is an illusion. The journey is real.

I know what my work is. Time does not do the work. I do the work of being. All of the work of being can't be accomplished in clock time. It is never done. I can quit, but I can't finish.

When I was a little kid I saw my Dad stopped in his steps with chest pains. He would crouch down or sit until the pain passed. Sunday I reached the familiar, family position. The scenery is small from that position. I could see my truck, where my phone was left. I might be closer to the door to the other side than I was to the door of my truck. Wedensday I found out just how close I was to the door. Too close. The cardiologist said "That's probably how your father died."

Gratitude for the doctor who took a stance with me. Peace is in me. I am.