This morning I’ve been here in my office lined with bookshelves that provide background reading on Bronze-Age Greece, theology, felines, and the Judaism of ancient Palestine. In the past few years, I’ve studied these books, trying to absorb their information, as I’ve worked on several manuscripts.
Most of what I write about my life needs little research. The memories and the feelings I experienced are part of who I am now. Each Thursday, I usually sit here, remember a happening, place myself back in the time and place in which it happened, and simply write.
Today, I was prepared to write about the bishop of the Cincinnati, Ohio, diocese back in 1968; George, an ex-priest and friend with whom I worked in Dayton; and the tedium, frustration, and confusion of writing letters to Rome. But, as rain splattered the windowpanes I found myself thinking, “Not today. It’s too dreary to be writing that!” And so I considered other stories. Then the phone rang.
The call came from the nurse/tech who works with the ophthalmologist I see about glaucoma. I take two different drops each day to keep its pressure in check. The second drop is new for me, and because of burning in my eyes, I became concerned that I might be allergic to it. About 8:30 a.m. this morning, I called the doctor’s office. The tech just told me that I’m to stop taking that drop. Instead, I’m to come in this morning and get a sample of another drop to try. Having shared this with you, I’d best grab the car keys and drive to Liberty, Missouri, where the office is located.
So no writing this week because of commitments for today and tomorrow. Next week I hope to review an exceptional book—Purr Therapy—by Dr. Kathy McCoy. Well, either I’ll review it or Ellie, one of the cats with whom I live, will. She’s being somewhat insistent that she knows more about purr therapy than I do.