. . . a wise man's heart discerns both time and judgment,
Because for every matter there is a time and judgment,
Though the misery of man increases greatly.
For he does not know what will happen;
So who can tell him when it will occur?
No one has power over the spirit to retain the spirit,
And no one has power in the day of death.
Wake up calls.
I have already written of my recent hour-long brain fart fiasco with forgetting my user name and password. That happened the day before yesterday.
Remembering one thing, however, does not lead to remembering another. Remembering one thing does not restart nor restore the brain--it simply sits in your head waiting to forget the next thing.
Yesterday, having left the Winco store along with Albert with our bags of goodies for a barbecue, it happened that I could not make the car move out of its parking spot. Perplexed, I checked the brake, I adjusted the gear shift--drive, neutral, reverse--right. Everything seemed to be in order.
"Uh, Dude, you need to start the engine first," Albert observed.
I begin to see, slow as I am, that there is no respite now, there is no delay, there is no recovery as from a common illness. Broken bones will mend, and be stronger moreover in the broken places, but the brain just lies there in the head, curiously unaware, as defenseless as a sea anemone.
"Fried myelin, anyone?"
"Umm, what else is on the menu?"
"Sorry, that's all we have."
Honestly. Has a strip of bacon ever unfried itself? Has an egg ever returned to its shell?
And so this is it. My lot from here on out. This, and more of the same.
Redeem the time becomes therefore the phrase of the hour, and of every hour remaining. It is the only reasonable approach to the reality that is upon us.
Will my spirit eventually hide itself as well in the same sorts of dim corners and crannies to which my memory has already fled?
O banish the thought, for it is too harsh for the morning to bear.