Sunday Journal, 596 words
Rainy Sunday Afternoons
By Dalton Roberts
IPS Features
I wish I knew who said, "Millions long for
immortality who do not know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday
afternoon." It is such a great saying and I'd like to tip my hat to the
author every time I read it. It certainly sounds like Twain.
It would also be fun to share with the author the
thought that the best way to prepare for immortality is to discover what to do
with yourself on rainy Sunday afternoons. By far the best thing might be to
glory in it.
Some things that become great spiritual experiences for
us are not earned through some kind of arduous practice. They are simple gifts
of life. Call it grace, an accident, or a spin-out of some marvelous
subconscious impression. Rainy days are like that to me.
As far back as I can remember, I have loved days and
nights of slow gentle rain. When I was a child, we had a neighbor whose home had
a tin roof. I would beg my parents to let me go spend the night with my pal who
lived there. Just so I could listen to the rain.
I like to see it puddle up and then see the drops
splatter. I love to see it gather on the limbs and leaves of trees and then
trickle to the ground. I love the way it smells. I love to walk in it and open
my mouth and taste it.
Growing up, all the boys swam naked in Chickamauga
Creek. I fondly remember times we ran the banks in the rain naked, wild
and free.
Rainy days have become a part of my immortality. All
experiences of great grandeur and pleasure are forever recorded on our inner
soul reels. So I know exactly what to do with myself on rainy Sunday afternoons.
Dozens of things. Maybe one day I'll run naked in the rain one more time. Would
you go my bail?
INSOMNIA IS
THINKING
The things we
grapple with the longest and hardest may be the main things we have to share. I
have been an
insomniac all my life so let me share some learnings
from the grapplings.
Inability to sleep can be an unwillingness to surrender
control. It can also be a neurotic dedication to productivity. We actually feel
at some part of our being that as long as we're thinking, we are being
productive.
More than anything, insomnia is thinking. You're trying
to relax but the mind is fussing old fusses, arm-wrestling with old problems,
fighting old fights, righting old wrongs, paying bills, cussing out an
over-bearing boss, correcting a golf swing...busy, busy, busy. The brain turns
into a little buzzing bee and the skull is the hive.
Buddhist koans can help. A koan is an unanswerable
riddle. Like, "When a Robin lands in the yard, which foot does it land
on?" Or "why can't caterpillars run faster than deer?" After all,
they've got more legs. Just think of one big silly question after another and
keep feeding them to the brain until it gives up. It will never give up on
answerable questions. It will shut up and snooze down if you ask it where you
left your cledipus.
But in case it ever does tell you for sure where you
left your cledipus, please tell me. Maybe I left mine there, too. My cledipus
disappeared out of it's glootch three weeks ago and I miss the little rascal.
Zzzzzzzz...see what I mean?
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