Deep and Simple

“But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.”

Bonny and blithe translate to happy and carefree in modern day lingo.  Being born on a Sunday was considered the best of the best.  If I believed that the day of birth dictated temperament or the life one would live, I’d be upset not to be born on Sunday.  I don’t.   I’m just happy it’s Sunday.

Sunday used to be a day of rest.  Now, Sundays often find me too busy.  I need to return to the essence of what Sunday’s used to be.  Instead of preparing for the rapidly approaching Monday, Sunday is to be savored.  It is a day to relax and enjoy life.  Ideally, it is a day to honor God or whatever God means to each of us.

Yesterday, I opened a library book and pulled out one remarkable idea.  The book said that one of our problems in life is that we over think things.  It went on to quote Fred Rogers who said,

“I firmly believe that deep and simple, is more essential than shallow and complex.” 

After Mr. Rogers shared this amazing idea he asked the listener to “spread the word.”

Sunday:  A day to enjoy the deep and simple.  Don’t over think it.  Experience it.  Spread the word.

Saturday’s Child

Saturday’s Children is a 1940 American drama film directed by Vincent Sherman and starring John GarfieldAnne Shirley, and Claude Rains. It is a third-time remake of the original Maxwell Anderson play with a previous version released in 1935 under the title Maybe It’s Love.[1]  (’s_Children)

“Saturday’s child works hard for a living.”  Since I was born on a Saturday, I’ve always been drawn to the rhyme for this day.  It evokes some mixed feelings.  Most of us would like to be born into a life of ease until we realize that a life of ease may not be all that we think it could be.  Hard work, challenges and difficulties are the things that define and develop character.  In life and in old Hollywood movies, the easy life doesn’t make an interesting story.  We don’t become all we can be without some hard work.

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Celebrate the Wonder

Lately, I’ve been giving this blog a lot of thought.  I feel drawn toward a more integrated approach, something that connects the pieces of my life into a more coherent whole.  My life usually feels like a bunch of weird pieces that may or may not be connected to each other.  Since I am the thread I know that isn’t true but finding a way to express that has escaped me until today.

As I observe the early morning ritual of reading my e-mails, I find this in the body of a blog update.  Read more:

7. Hang onto wonder.

And to preserve the creativity and optimism of my right brain well after Santa’s visit, I am going to remind myself of the words of Francis P. Church, who published the editorial, “Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Clause” in 1987:

The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world….You tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernatural beauty and glory beyond.

While my poetry may lack literary merit and my ability to be a romantic is someone compromised by a rather stoic view of life,  I do possess a mustard seed-size or more of faith and love.  Faith and love are the glue that holds my life together.  This is not something I often admit.  So, I’m climbing out on a limb when I decide to use those two concepts as the guiding principles behind my writing here.

Then. in a flash of inexplicable inspiration, I remember this old nursery rhyme.  While its written version can be traced to 1838, the oral version may go back to the 1570s.  I love old things and I used to love old and middle English.  This simple old rhyme will help provide a framework to my writing in the days ahead until I think of a new direction. . .

Monday’s child is fair of face
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go,
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.[1]
 ^ a b c I. Opie and P. Opie, The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1951, 2nd edn., 1997), pp. 309-10.


The Taste of Freedom

“A human being is not one thing among others; things determine each other, but man is ultimately self-determining. What he becomes – within the limits of endowment and environment- he has made out of himself. In the concentration camps, for example, in this living laboratory and on this testing ground, we watched and witnessed some of our comrades behave like swine while others behaved like saints. Man has both potentialities within himself; which one is actualized depends on decisions but not on conditions.”
― Viktor E. FranklMan’s Search for Meaning

I awake longing for a greater understanding of freedom. I know I am free even when I don’t feel free.   Thoughts of breakfast and hot coffee push out the cerebral and philosophic this Sunday morning.  Comfort anchors me in the now.  It tethers me to the ordinary.  The kitchen floor needs sweeping.

My mind pushes freedom over a cliff.  I don’t  know what to do with freedom.  My identity is rooted in captivity.  There, I see it.  I am a prisoner of myself, of the past and the future all at once.  This will never do.  Now that I have caught this glimpse of truth, there is no going back.

The last few weeks flew by in a flurry of hurried moments full of every emotion.  I have had the feeling that I was standing upon a ledge contemplating a leap into a new way of being, something greater than before, something new and unknown and frightening.  The familiar, no matter how uncomfortable is at least known.  Fear and dread wrap themselves around an eager excitement.    Letting go does not come easily.

It is so easy to forget how freedom tastes.



I am the person behind the words printed here. I write because my heart will not allow me the option of NOT writing. It has taken me half a life time to discover this basic truth, but now that I have, writing is as natural as breathing. This is where my breath takes the form of words.


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The Miracle Morning: The Not-So-Obvious Secret Guaranteed to Transform Your Life (Before 8AM)
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