Last week, I felt driven to accomplish too much for my current level of energy to accommodate without fending off exhaustion more quickly, this week, than I can believe.
Even so, I’m happy to know that all visible clutter, which had piled up over these past three years of illness, is now boxed (thanks to Will) and ready for Sojourner Center in our garage—
I just high-five’d with myself! Haha!
This past Thursday (following my enjoyment of Ravi, last Wednesday). I’d thoroughly enjoyed my Shakespeare class via Zoom after which I’d rested before setting our Passover table for twelve with Will. And though that simple task saw me so short of breath as to be in need of lying down, I’d felt giddy with happiness to see our dining room table looking so festive in anticipation of co-hosting with Will as our celebration of Seder in our home had followed years of having been too ill to have felt anything other than need to do whatever it took to recover my good health.
With hopes that your day is going well, my morning will be spent relaxing in the afterglow of reminiscing over readying my home and my spirit’s smile to offer our loved ones a warm welcome upon opening our front door to usher honored guests into our home, at long last.
Though my thoughts about all holidays run deep, never before has my mind contemplated my devotion to freedom, day after day after day—Perhaps in light of the advancement of my age and my freedom from three years of life-threatening illness and the plight of the Ukrainian people, a trio of primary reasons for prolonging the present focus of my thought processor have just become exquisitely clear to me and so—
If you think I am dwelling too long on kvelling (rejoicing) over my happiness by highlighting my ability to co-host our holiday with Will, please keep in mind that the magnitude of this change for the better has been a long time coming.
My next PET scan is less than two weeks away, which gives me pause to consider the fact that t’was nine months after my first heart/lung surgery that the tumor reappeared. As presently, I am nine months past my most recent lung surgery, it is my choice to freely rejoice over my returning good health for as long as I can—unless the results of my scheduled medical tests prove otherwise …
As with all Wednesdays, the hour hand on my old fashioned watch suggests that our afternoon with Ravi is close at hand, so I’ll close for today after offering up an anecdote, the memory of which always makes me chuckle—many years ago, on a weekend when Passover and Easter held hands, my sons begged us for bunnies (just as I’d once begged my parents for chicks which grew to be roosters).
The fact that I’m allergic to dogs answers why our sons had a menagerie of pets while growing up. So we gave into our boys’ plea to raise baby bunnies in the comfort of a large mesh hutch, shaded from direct sunlight under an overhang that extended at least six feet past the brick wall of our home into the expanse of our grassy back yard, and at first, these soft fluffy bunnies, well protected from hungry, four-footed predators, were the cutest, and all was well.
Much to our surprise with the passage of time, Steven’s bunny sprouted sky-high ears, proving itself to be a wild hare!🤦🏻♀️ Believe me when I say that this rabbit did not remotely resemble Bambi’s cuddly, super friendly, forestland buddy, Thumper, in the least! This wild hare’s attitude was—Hey you guys! Get me outta here! And rightly so!
Nine year old Steven had to wear a leather jacket and ski gloves in hopes of holding his ‘pet’ in his lap without getting scratched, bitten or soundly thumped by a pair of muscular hind legs, suggestive of his wild hare’s instinctive demands to be set free, asap!
Unfortunately, the lifespan of our boys’ bunnies proved quite short, indeed, but that’s a sad tale for another day, so all I’ll say for now is that my instinctive sensitivity to any living creature in captivity has had sound reason to heighten my awareness concerning freedom from oppression, so that my spirit saddens whenever my thoughts dwell upon any and all species of the animal kingdom confined within cages for their entire lifetimes for the sake of our amusement.
Imagine the mean-minded, power hungry, cold hearted presence of Uncle Scar symbolizing mankind’s brutal denial of brotherhood as seen within The Lion King’s basic need to live free of oppressive murderous captivity.
Now imagine the outraged roars of Mufasa, Nala and Simba stalked, caught and confined within a man-made enclosure leading to nothing more than an iron-barred cage. Their lush jungle life reduced to a life sentence within a city zoo. Forever imprisoned. No chance for parole. Separated from Timon and Pumba—two of the best friends a little lost lion cub could ever hope to have. Not a sequel that any parent or child would care to see, so thank goodness for the real sequel, which Ravi and I have thoroughly enjoyed, countless times, each time ending with positively focused reassurances that the personal ‘pride’ naturally inherent within every creature’s struggle for freedom rings true, repeatedly, from one generation to the next. 🙋🏻♀️Annie
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