Just when...

It's beautiful when it truly happens. The poetic irony. The better job that appears just when despair is thinking of leasing a room. That wonderful pet adopted when it just showed up after the loss of another. The unexpected opportunity, the surprise windfall, the fortuitous, the serendipitous. The fruit falls from the tree, ripe and ready. A gift.

And there you are again. After the disappointment, the discouragement, the adjustment--she enters. Smart, artistic, funny, sexy, loves what you love, prefers what you prefer, shares your interests, and finds she is interested in you, as you are in her.

Life proceeds apace, one day at a time, and we find hope lives, even knowing what could happen, but also knowing what could finally happen. That elusive "one," that small subset of the population, grows in your land.

And so, not knowing, yet knowing, we truly live.

The Mystic Writer

Where does it start?

Depression sneaks up, its stealth apparent only long after its origins.

And one day, though “This isn’t like me!” you’ll lament, nothing seems to have a point. Terminally blocked at work, certain to win more criticism than credit, as that’s just how people think. Relationships are only possible with baggage, primarily women more afraid their coupling WILL work than not, running whenever things look good. Work and chores pile up, far more to do than humanly possible, and it all just gets worse. And then one day, your doctor wonders if you need some pharmacological help.

“April is the cruelest month,” T.S. Eliot tells us at the start of “The Wasteland,” breeding lilacs and tulips out of the dead ground, mixing memory and desire. That "stony rubbish," bleak and desolate as it may be, took time to prepare. How did it happen? When did it start?

“Hurry up please, it’s time.”

Ave Maria.

Writer