This morning I sat with my latte, and my shredded wheat, clover honey and almond milk and discussed plans with my black-coffee-sipping wonder-wife.
We do that, musify in the morning, about what’s ahead. We are good at the back-and-forthification — which is fun — but reality keeps getting tossed into the mix, and it doesn’t always cooperate — thus there is precarity, amidst the plenty.
We get up, the sun comes up, our plans go up, the stock market goes up, our moods go up after drinking dark, rich forms of caffeine, and then the turn. Life-stuff eventually leaks, and floats back to the floor like helium balloons the day after the party — precarity.
Thus and so, we are precarious — all of us — even the wise choosers and the impressively prescient. As the scripture says, we live move and have our being within the precariat.
Did you think it said something else?
Hatreds, hopes, happenstances; genetics, genies, jerks; accidents, illnesses, taxes — all these and more, the various and sundry vagaries and variances of any given era — these insure membership in the precariat.
Oh, life!
And yet, and yet, ah — the persistent goodness. I am struck always by the astonishing plenty and loveliness of life amidst the persistent shocking, pandemic poverties. The ghastly demons shirk at the edges of exuberant gardens full of white roses.
Last week we put up an beautiful, rod iron, arched trellis at the church. And below it, we planted a passion vine. Thus there is hope, for vine, passion, flowers, butterflies, tendrils, the reach upward, the stunning beauty, the inspired community.
I am shock-smitten but such improvements, everyday, the preciosities of nature, love, babies, brains, branches of community, of friends, finials, finitude, of God.
Thank you God that the precosities keep gobbling up the precarities.
Thrive! 