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Cosmic Wanderer  August 6th, 2019   The persistent Sense

I just wrote, and posted, another Patriot’s Diary entry, entitled “Without the sword, what is the pen?” It was written with bitterness. An angry heart. Blazingly so.
But I know myself, at least a bit. I have wrestled with this hurricane for many a decade now. In a volcanic temper, you don’t know what he’d write. He’s faced down guns and knives, British QC’s, Judges and Freemasons, maintained a stubborn orbit under fire, and at his worst, is a dangerous motherf*cker. To others, and himself.
Luckily, he knows when to pull back, regroup, marshal his livid thoughts, and try and think it all through. Logically, or not, is for the kind (or not) reader to decide.

Is there a great Cosmic Kindness, that surrounds us little, struggling critters? Or are we on our own?

Amusingly, or ironically, I reflect on the fact that for many years, I mocked the concept. It seemed to me an absurdity. I saw Man as a lost creature, a frantically flopping fish. Out of luck, out of water, smacking fins feverishly off a hard, dry, lonely rock. Whizzing through infinite space. Trying to convince himself HE mattered, when he obviously didn’t.
So my lifestyle was hedonistic. Wild. I wished to taste it all. And I did. Accidentally pulling low, and enjoying one of the shortest canopy rides ever, I was more amused than shocked. Helluva ride, was my thinking. Lying comfortably on my back on the collapsed ParaCommander, dragging lazily on a cigarette. When I raced a Kawasaki 900 Z1B down a Dublin side street, at a rather ridiculous velocity, I lost control. Narrowly missing a red Post Office pillar box, a telegraph pole, and several trees, I eventually encountered a brick wall. The motorcycle dramatically buried itself there, and I flew o-v-e-r the wall. Rolling over in the dusty field, I brushed myself off nonchalantly. For many days, I joked about stabilizing out in free-fall, on my short, but stimulating ‘flight’.

The decades rolled by. One slowly matures. Kind of. As a dual rated commercial pilot, fixed wing and helicopters, with people’s lives entrusted to me, I was a different critter. I never scratched a helicopter, although I can’t say the same for one poor fixed wing, which I totally and spectacularly destroyed. Luckily I was alone.

And then… a softer melody. The sense that there was much, much more, that I, hedonistic fool, had been missing. I never had what others suspiciously (to me) claim: Jesus never appeared to me, or spoke audibly to me. One dubious Pastor I met, a former drug dealer and practitioner of Black Magic, told me Jesus appeared to him while he was taking a bath. It’s possible, but my cynicism says otherwise.

But for me, a different voice. The sense of Magnificence in what I clearly observed for myself in the Universe around me. The persistent sense of a hovering, Intelligent Designer.  The sense of a Great Cosmic Compassion, and often, and very strangely, the sense of being, deeply, and inexplicably…

loved.

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Last edited by Francis Meyrick on November 15, 2019, 3:48 pm