"It doesn't matter." Too often we say these words out loud or silently to ourselves.
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The fragility of life broke through the turmoil of our everyday lives when Boston Marathon bombs unleashed their cowardly indiscriminate destruction.
The kiss of spring wafts by a rosy cheek. A glance at the mounds of snow makes a soul wonder how one is thinking about warmth and a new season although March 20 – the official start of that blessed season – has come and gone.
A frantic time of life. Work in Toronto's hyper-competitive media world. Then grab a bus to Barrie (93 km north) at night.
It's a grismal way to start the day. But it must be done. Each and every morning I go through the newspaper obituaries searching for any priests or nuns who might have died. Should one be on their way to heaven, a story might be done based on their religious life.
A clean slate. Usually a new year brings a great pricking of the conscience, an obligation to make – and keep – rules.
The first thought is always the same and always anxious. Is the candle room door open?
The bite of winter nips. Leaves are in plastic bags or piled on compost heaps. Bulbs tucked in the earth wait for spring. Winter jackets are dug out from the back of the closet. And mental notes are made to gather warm clothing for the homeless.
The bounty of Thanksgiving can be so easily missed. Plunked where it is, somewhere between the end of summer and onset of winter, Thanksgiving is for many of us just a long weekend with maybe a too-full meal.
No matter how many years pass, Sept. 11 pushes our thoughts back to that savage infamy that changed our world – physically and spiritually.