There’s mist rolling in as the winter sun sets post-Christmas.

The whirl of the kitchen fan provides a hum that drowns out the cars that pass below. I look down the tableau of blue and gray that makes up the three block stretch of Glisan that I can see from the corner window of the condo.

I’ve been sitting at the kitchen table and writing what I know of God. The notebook is nearly empty.

I’ve been thinking about the cosmic creative spirit— and how humans are called to music, art, and movement.

I keep hearing horrors forecasted— but I can’t help think that it’s an inevitable balance of living. There is no permanent distance from pain or suffering while living. No adamantium shield to be hoisted in the face of nightmares.

The worst is to be robbed of prior assurances. The rewriting of past narratives that dictated your personal histories.

Who are we to be in a constantly shifting environment?

As the sailors had tattooed on their knuckles— what is it that we shall “hold fast”?