Yesterday's
weather was near perfect in London, warm and sunny, but a cool breeze
(northeast, planes coming into Stanstead from the southeast, not the north as
usual. Usually we see them descending
over our house.
Thinking
the other morning that the greatest thing we have is time. There are so many demands placed on our time
apart from things we have to do, such as eat, sleep and work. The range of choices is amazing. So the most valuable/precious gift we can
give is of our time. This thought made
me feel better about myself as I walked to mass on Wednesday, for I don't give
as much money to the poor as I could, and there are lots of things I suppose I
should do, but I thought that by going to mass I was making an offering of my
time, and felt better about my effort.
The first reading was the story of Elijah challenging the priests of
Baal to light, by spontaneous combustion, the sacrificial bull. He said to the 400 priests, "Cry out
louder, perhaps your god is asleep!"
Then when they gave up without success, Elijah doused everything three
times with water and God lit the whole thing.
The story called to mind the present day Baals, goods and possessions!
Reading
The Long Weekend by Robert Graves.
I
was thinking this morning in the shower: the reason I have always thought I
have to do something wonderful, special, celebrated, famous with my life is
that I have grown up with the idea that my life is a gift of God's to me and
thus I should honor that gift, make use of that gift in a way that befits the
King of the Universe. How else could I
honor Him? But the flaw is in thinking
God needs my sacrifice, creation, honor.
I reflect back to Milton: "They also serve who only stand and
wait." I am not giving up my
ambition, but coming to realize that as I live and breathe and work each day I
can honor God in the small things, not just the large ones. I must be more willing to accept the fact
that God's plan for me may not include my own desires and that God may be
pleased by my very small contributions to His honor every day (on those days I
measure up!).
So,
ordinary life may be my greatest gift to God, despite my aspirations to give
more, recognizing that my aspirations are not wholly devoid of the personal
satisfaction I would receive at being or becoming a world famous gift giver to
God.
Thursday
18 June. Dream: At city police station in LA with dad and
Maheu? We are there to report on a
murder. There is someone else, a
combination Gordy C. (a former law clerk)/Sylvia Plath type, i.e., emotional
and physically handicapped, but a good deputy DA who drove up from Las
Vegas. Dad is reporting on the
murder. We're there all through the
night. I have brought my shortwave
radio. Someone (Gordie) is listening, I
can't turn it off. Go out while Bob is
reporting. I'm in Westwood, see signs
left around phone booths with after shave samples and name on nearby card,
Christine M. I take some samples then
off to tax free store. I'm in front of
Heathrow (don't recognize it at first), amazing to watch people. Finally leave to police station, the day goes
from day (London) back to night (police station). Bob is deep in signing papers, spending the
night, has a room (like Motel 6). I go
upstairs (outside) and stairs have no steps at the bottom. How do I get down? It's like Las Vegas, also, with a casino
cage?
Ready
to leave have to lead Gordie home. Won't
believe it's so easy to drive, have to make elaborate plans for driving,
caravaning. Women come in the police
station, day workers. Suddenly it's
solved, we're going home. I put together
a notebook/photo album on what happened to Sylvia Plath. There's a problem, however. Somewhere along the way I have murdered
someone. Not cold blooded, maybe just
finished him off, concealed him (beat him) and left. I'm safe, but should I go to confession? The setting was now near Rancho and
Charleston in Las Vegas.
My book on Sylvia Plath: why she killed herself. I explain to all sympathetically.
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