Choices

I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least,
  Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.

  Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
  I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then,
  In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass,
  I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd
      by God's name,
  And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe'er I go,
  Others will punctually come for ever and ever.

Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman

I was in a nearby city yesterday, helping a group of nuns craft resumes that might be helpful to them when the bishops close their facility early next year.  One of them is a friend and I pretty much insisted that they at least think about not waiting until the last minute, which was their original plan.  It was very much like working with regular people (whatever the hell that means), but there were additional aspects that I had not considered or even thought might exist.  The chief one, and the one that kept me there until 6 p.m., and with only one resume completed, was that they want every aspect of their working life (more in the realm of philosophy or a mission statement) included in their resumes, which, by the way, they are invested in keeping to a single page.  It looks like it is going to take at least four more full days to get all of this done.  It might be shorter, but they insist on going out for a long lunch.  I agree that people have to eat and all that, but two hours is too much wasted time and, really, I cannot afford the restaurants where they are wanting to go.  Yesterday it cost me twelve dollars to have some nice sweet potato fries, a very sad sandwich and a glass of iced tea that did not have the courtesy of even pretending to actually have tea in it.  Lordy.

By the time we finished, I was exhausted and combined with all of the other issues in my life, I smoked on the way home.  Yeah, like in actual cigarettes.  Terrible practice for anyone, but especially for me.  Truth be told, it, the smoking, helped me to feel better.  I simply cannot fall back into this habit.  I officially quit over 35 years ago, but in times of stress I yearn for the comfort of that slender paper tube filled with finely shredded and perfectly cured tobacco.  In the past three years I have begun smoking again at least a half dozen times, from a few days to a week or two, with a big jump to the first lapse which lasted for three months.  So far, this time, it has been just two actual days of puffing, with seven cigarettes over five days.  Like that makes any difference.  When you smoke, you are a smoker.  And, a smoker is a smoker, whether you have one in your hand or not.  Inhale.

By some fluke I have four days off, in a whole row.  It would be a pleasure to stay home, stay in my jammies, shut off the telephone and read and watch DVDs.  At some point I will have to go out for groceries or to get cash to pay to have carryout food delivered, and that will not be a hardship because the newest thing here is to keep the heat on so that the air conditioning is not overtaxed.  It is 86 degrees Fahrenheit outside and the heat is on.  Sweating.

Late last week I had a moral dilemma and I addressed part of it last night and will address the rest on Friday.  I did not want to do it and I still do not want to finish it.  Whilst I have been comfortable taking a stand somewhere on the moral high ground for other people, always easier for us, it is only in the past couple of months that I have been able (or is it willing or gutsy or finally frustrated enough) to take any for myself.  I am hoping that this sort of thing becomes easier in time.  Good grief.

When I am out, I am keeping my head down to look for some of those letters.  And, I do not even believe in Whitman's God.