Cropped view of an illustration of a young boy and a stuffed bunny.

Pre Book Launch All Nighter

I napped a lot yesterday. It was an extra-hot San Fernando Valley day. I’d stayed up all night the night before, doing things I must do to be ready for the launch of “The Alexandrite” on August 15th. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight, so after Linda and I finished reading to each other and she was beginning to fall asleep, I got my stuff together to go out into the kitchen and begin my Sunday. I’d already brewed the coffee. My oatmeal only had to be heated up.

As I was about to leave the bedroom, I felt heavy-hearted. I didn’t want to begin a day this way. It felt wrong. So I got back into bed where Linda drowsily put an arm over me. I turned off the light, snuggled back into her and just lay there. I felt like an electric car being recharged.

An illustration of a young boy and a stuff rabbit.

About an hour later, I got up, full of energy. I felt terrific, revitalized. It’s maybe an overblown word, but I felt brave. I was ready for whatever the day would bring. I wasn’t going to have to fight any dragons or anything—except in the way we all fight a few dragons in our day-to-day life—but anyway I was ready for mine. Linda is my courage, my Velveteen Rabbit.

When I picked up the book that I’m currently using with my meditation, the first line I read was a quotation from Josiah Royce (a nineteenth century American philosopher, says Google) His words were sort of an exhortation: “Courage, then, for God works in you. In order of time you embody in outer acts what is for Him the truth of His eternity.”

I didn’t know what the hell that meant. I still don’t. But in doing the kind of reading that works for me with meditation, I’ve found that not understanding something isn’t necessarily a terrible thing. Usually it turns out to be something my unconscious can chew on at whatever pace it chooses, then quite often, it will cough up something fresh into my conscious—usually at a moment when I’m not expecting anything along those lines.
 When it does that—ejects this new, now clarified thought into my wakeful brain—it will at the same time clear up something else that on one occasion or another has troubled me. It may be something big or little. It doesn’t seem to matter.

Later, I go on the internet and the first thing I see is something about the top five signs I will get a certain scary disease. I don’t click to it. I think the first sign I’ll get that disease is if I decide to read this article.

Still later, I take a break and walk to the park a block-and-a-half away from our house. I walk around it twice (about a mile), then come back home. I remember when I could still run. I’d run as fast as I could, thinking God, I love this. I’m really going to miss this when I can’t do it anymore. Now I have that thought again, except it’s about walking. God, I love walking, living for that matter.

Now I’m going to go to bed. Linda will be about to get up. I remember Renee Taylor and her husband Joe Bologna, actor/writers, wrote and performed a play called, “If You Ever Leave Me, I’m Going With You.” That’s the way I feel.