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Solitude in God’s grace and Marge…

If you’re not already aware, the early Saturday morning hours are the best hours of my week. Solitude in God’s grace that I am allowed one more day to do something that matters – if only to me – as regards my little rectangular path.

The morning pits vastly opposing ends: the sweetness of a vocal bird community that copes despite our efforts to reduce their tree canopy to twigs vs. the reality of litter and junk that despoils our shared environment.

My new friend Marge stands momentary watch of today's menagerie of litter.

My new friend Marge stands momentary watch over today’s menagerie of litter.

The birds operate above, I work below. I’d like to think that there is some tangible benefit to them for every piece of refuse removed from harm’s way. Exactly what that might be, I don’t know. Somehow we are tossed in this together, the birds and us. Our habitat is the less for what you and I find to our chagrin along our routes.

So Saturdays are what they are. An opportunity to atone for our carelessness and disregard for the world we share with other things. I hope the birds, and their wild kidded spirits, can forgive us. They can probably do so a bit easier than me.

About Dave Bradley (264 Articles)
I was a writer by trade so one would think letters would come easily for me. It is so now, but wasn't always that way. Indeed, the first letter was written the Monday after Ellen started her freshman year in college. For years I've wondered - with no good answers - why I swiveled my office chair toward my computer screen to fire up a word processing document for that first letter. I just don't know. I just did. Perhaps it was the angst of separation or wanting to say things that had gone unsaid at that moment when we parted ways in front of her college dormitory. What was a one-off became habitual. When her brother Reid enrolled in the same college, his name was added to the salutation line. They were kids then and are adults now. No matter. The letter writing habit remains so today. I live in Brevard, North Carolina. I'm well away from where they live and don't see them nearly as often as I'd like. That's why letters, at least to me, fill the void of distance. The pages give me something to say and the space to say it. There is no assurance they read the letters; indeed, I have never asked if they do so. With the pace of their busy lives who could blame them for letting a letter sit unopened? Over time, it has dawned on me that the letters are both communicative - and cathartic. By nature, letters are about the writer; the writer can only write about their situation. Perhaps that is as it should be. It's all about the here and now from one person's perspective.

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