Setting Sail for an Abundant Life. . . by Wil Robinson
Serenaded by Life
This morning an owl is trying to compete with the noise in the neighborhood. “Whoo Who Whoo Whoat. . . Whoo Whoo Whoo Whoooooo!” The commercial lawn services use extremely loud machines. Airplanes fly over, low, single-engine jobs. In the lulls other birds try to get in a few bars of their songs. Almost impossible, however. Cars drive by. A van delivers something with a “bang, slam” of its doors. In the distance Georgia 400 drones on and on and on. . .
“Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Woosh. Cajange.” “Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Woosh. Thump.” The neighbor is out shooting, or attempting to shoot, hoops.
Noise Abatement. Apparently there are laws and ordinances against just about everything except the important stuff, like cars, trucks, airplanes, lawn machines, people and children in general and children with basketballs…
Apparently the cicadas didn’t get enough time last night to make noise, so they’re joining in the cacophony. Where, O Where is the Conductor? All that is required is the kid on the other block to “play” his drums. “Bam. Bam. BamBam. Bam. Bam. BamBam. (repeat adnausium (sp?).)”
My coffee didn’t taste as nice as usual. And my pipe isn’t relieving my stress as it is required to do under threat of disuse. The coffee got cold too fast. Now my own daughter is adding to the chorus of mechanical things, and is vacuuming her room. Alias, the members of one’s own family are among the noise makers.
Now a lawn maintenance guy just parked in the cut-du-sac. “Clang. CaJunk,” trailer doors drop open. Wheeling out his mower, mounting it and roaring off while another guy fires up a lawn edger to attack the stray strands of grass along the curb. “Woosh. Woosh,” the mower guy has done his deed and is running the insidious thing up the trailer ramp. The curb guy isn’t making enough noise, so cranks it up another notch.
Poor Zack, with all the competition, he gave up on shooting hoops and disappeared somewhere, no doubt to make noise in another part of the neighborhood.
Using a tapered pipe cleaner, I swab out the condensation from the pipe stem, pack gently, and relight sucking in a tiny piece of tobacco leaf in the process. “Puuu. Fushy,” I add the the chorus as I expel the dastardly leaf chunk.
No wonder so many men retire and soon die; they can’t handle life at home during the daytime.
“Wait for the LORD; be strong and courageous. Wait for the LORD.” (Psalm 27:14)
Wait. It’s not what one thinks. It means endure with what is happening. One commentator said it plainly, that it doesn’t mean sit idly by and do nothing, but in our actions, our thoughts, our ways, be righteous in all we do. Patience. Patience. Patience.
Reminds me of a comic strip. Three vultures awaiting a rabbits demise. One says, “Patience, Henry.” “Harrumph,” says Henry, “Patience my A@#$. I’m gonna kill something.” The third member of the trio is silent, watching, waiting.
It’s trash day today. The trash truck will have a lot of competition if it thinks it can disturb me today.
Somewhere south of the Saragossa Sea is the Horse Latitudes and the doldrums. Not much wind there. One’s sails will luff. One shan’t make much progress. One shan’t hear the sounds of Modern Life, either. Ah, to be becalmed in the Horse Latitudes. To hear the silence. Can one really hear silence?
There are some sounds one becomes inured to. Like the wind. Up on the Apache-Sitgreaves, in Arizona’s White Mountains, the cowboys dread the one month each year that the wind doesn’t blow. They say it makes them a bit crazy–all the quiet on the open range in the high desert at the foot of the mountains.
But the chorus of mechanical man’s inventions? Can one truly become accustom to such a racket? My brother, who operated a B&B for some years new Yosemite, said he had one of those background noise radios in each room for guest that couldn’t sleep for all the quiet. Odd, isn’t it? That it could be too quiet to sleep!
With all the noise here, in a once-rural, now metro, area north of Atlanta, I wonder if we’ll hear the last Shofar calling the living and the dead to rise to meet Messiah Yeshua.
Must not the devil laugh at what we’ve done to ourselves?