HEAD(hed), (n.) 1. the top part of the human body or the front part of an animal where the eyes, nose, east and mouth are. "Your brain is in your head." DIBS(dibz), (n.) 2. a thick, sweet syrup made in countries of the East, especially the Middle East, from grape juice or dates. [Arabic "debs"]--World Book Dictionary, 1976.
Actually, it’s an ad-duck-tion. I missed the perfect opportunity to say, “and they’re in a row, too!” Silly goose.
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Trail Run
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Took a trail run at lunch today. 2.67 miles in 40 minutes and some change.
I ran the trail "backwards" today because, well, this hill's been climbed enough. It was time to run down it today. A kind of a victory run, as it were. I needed a little victory run today. Tired of getting my butt kicked. Thought I would kick back today.
Don't get me wrong, there was plenty of work getting to the top and by the time I decided to record this part of the descent, I had already come down quite a ways. And there were two more very large hills yet to climb before I got back to the start. Impossible to get anywhere around here without climbing a hill or seven.
Today I just needed to get out in nature where nothing's in a hurry and everything's on time.
Out on the trails, the only sound heard is the wind in the trees, the birds and squirrels gossiping, the occasional "plop" of someone's fishing line as they hide in the bushes on the banks of a private lake and the huff of an old fat guy running through the woods.
Nature takes it's time out there. Took a gazillion years for every rock to find it's place, for every tree to grow and die and fall and grow again. A terribly busy place for so much to happen so slowly. And everything's right where it should be.
A place where leaves to sprout and grow and flourish and wither and die and fall and eventually find the light of day once as they push out the end of a branch all over again just as they've done a hundred or more tree rings ago.
A place where the Oak and Elm and Sassafras watch the rain peel away layers of earth like an onion, like the skin off some complicated and overly emotional ogre, like scales washing off a dragon who turns out to be an old man with a boyish heart . . . forever refusing to grow up and ancient.
July 2004 I went to Kenya, Africa to speak in two Pastor’s Conferences on the subject of Man, Sin and Salvation. At the end of each day I left just over an hour for questions (half the time were questions touching the subject of my lectures, and the other half for “open questions”; that is, people could ask anything). For the next few weeks, I will be sharing the questions that were asked of me, and my answers—and believe me when I say these people really know how to think! Question from Kenya #1: “Men and women who saw God in the Bible: Why did they not all die?” [“ But He said, ‘You cannot see My face, for no man can see Me and live! ’” (Exodus 33:20) was the basis of the student’s question]. Answer: First, consider those who did see God—how did they respond when they saw Him? They were instantly aware of their sinfulness, and God’s holiness and righteousness (to name a few. And notice also that each responded in an attitude of worship, bowing down): Abraham built altars, wors
“My God, where is that ancient heat towards thee, Wherewith whole shoals of martyrs once did burn, Besides their other flames? Doth poetry Wear Venus' livery? only serve her turn? Why are not sonnets made of thee? and lays Upon thine altar burnt? Cannot thy love Heighten a spirit to sound out thy praise As well as any she? Cannot thy Dove Outstrip their Cupid easily in flight? Or, since thy ways are deep, and still the fame, Will not a verse run smooth that bears thy name! Why doth that fire, which by thy power and might Each breast does feel, no braver fuel choose Than that, which one day, worms may chance refuse. Sure Lord, there is enough in thee to dry Oceans of ink; for, as the Deluge did Cover the earth, so doth thy Majesty: Each cloud distills thy praise, and doth forbid Poets to turn it to another use. Roses and lilies speak thee; and to make A pair of cheeks of them, is thy abuse Why should I women's eyes for crystal take? Such poor invention burns in their low mind Wh
“In primitive times, when man awakes in a world that is newly created, poetry awakes with him. In the face of the marvellous things that dazzle and intoxicate him, his first speech is a hymn simply. He is still so close to God that all his meditations are ecstatic, all his dreams are visions. His bosom swells, he sings as he breathes. His lyre has but three strings—God, the soul, creation; but this threefold mystery envelopes everything, this threefold idea embraces everything. The earth is still almost deserted. . . . He leads that nomadic pastoral life with which all civilizations begin, and which is so well adapted to solitary contemplation, to fanciful reverie. He follows every suggestion, he goes hither and thither, at random. His thought, like his life, resembles a cloud that changes its shape and its direction according to the wind that drives it. Such is the first man, such is the first poet. He is young, he is cynical. Prayer is his sole religion, the ode is his only form of