lenten journal: on nights like tonight

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    On nights like tonight
    when I come home tired
    and try to write, only
    to have my little dog

    begin bouncing her ball
    on my feet, begging me
    to choose her over words,
    I think about monks

    and those who cloister
    themselves to meditate,
    yes, and to write, to get
    closer to God, seeing

    isolation as the way to
    make meaning of life.
    I write in traffic, feeling
    like the street performer

    who juggled three things
    chosen by the crowd –
    a bowling ball, an apple,
    and a working chain saw –

    and kept them all in the air.

    That’s contemplation —
    and it’s a public act. (Now
    I sound like I’m polarizing.)

    Those cloistered clerics may
    have had about as much
    choice in the pace of life
    as I, a juggler, myself,

    who wishes for a couple
    more hours of sleep,
    and wonders how one
    who unfamiliar with the

    unabashed ambush of
    canine affection finds
    anything to say at all
    on nights like tonight.

    Peace,
    Milton

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    3 COMMENTS

    1. This feels so achingly familiar, except in my case, the canine affection is replaced by the constant conversation of a nine-year old boy….

      There is hope in this piece. Which is a good thing, and much needed for me today.

      Well done.

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