Wednesday, August 01, 2007

The World is Not My Home

I’m lying here on my couch in my garden. What a beautiful day. It’s getting warm, but I have discovered a little evaporative cooler fan that I inherited with my place. I put it on the patio, fill it with water, and boy, I can just lie here and think that I have died and gone to heaven.

The feeders are out, so the birds are coming and going. Most of the time, they’re chirping and feeding and everything’s just fine, but every now and then I have to stand and shoo them away, because there get to be too many of them. In fact, when there are a lot of them in a small area, they can be really nasty. I’ll look down at my patio floor and see bird shit everywhere, mainly from the mourning doves.

The mourning doves are large birds who have the most wonderful, plaintive coo. They sound as if they are in mourning, hence the name. They are charming and lovely, but they are filthy. Most of the other birds stay in the garden area and shit on the bird feeder and on the ground, but not the doves. They to wander onto the patio and sometimes light on my couch and shit on my blankets.

I look around, smile sardonically, and think, “Oh boy, and people wonder why some of us are so anxious to get the hell out of this world.” You know, folks, there are many things about the world that are so lovely, but in the end, it all turns to shit.

You fix a fabulous meal. Everyone sits down and enjoys it to the fullest. Then . . . it turns to shit. People have to go into little private cubicles to get rid of all that food that was so tasty going in, but going out, it’s another story, isn’t it?

Folks, be patient with those of us who get impatient with the world. It’s a nice place to visit, but really, we don’t want to live here forever. There’s something better coming. All of the beautiful images that we get in this world minus all the shit. Isn’t that a place where you’d rather go? I know I would. It’s like the blues/gospel song.

This world is not my home.
I’m just a passin’ through.
My treasures are laid up somewhere beyond the blue.
The angels beckon me from heaven’s peaceful shore,
and I cain’t be at home in this world any more.

This world is not my home.
I’m just a passin’ through.
My treasures they’re laid up somewhere beyond the blue.
The angels beckon me,
they say John come on to heaven’s peaceful shoreline.
Cain’t be at home in this world anymore.

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