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Feeling Zen - Introduction

5 April 2022

Today, I showed up at the lunch table of my domicile wearing this outfit that Dear Husband immediately dubbed:

Feeling Zen.

And I must say that I am feeling Zen, after a good yoga workout and the decision not to iron the spring curtains this afternoon. It’s chilly and breezy, and I refuse to even try to get into the spring mood until the weather approaches 70 degrees F.

Presently, the outdoor temperature is not quite 64 F (almost 18 Celsius). This week, I am longing for springtime in a way I’ve not felt, in quite a long time.

It’s part of feeling Zen.

Those yellow floral curtains have to be swapped out to replace the navy blue floral jacquard ones in the TV Room. The TV Room is a complete misnomer because the TV is now a wide-screen, and it gets clicked on only once or twice a week. The televisual fare is vintage movies and tv shows, on DVDs.

Hard copies are part of feeling Zen too.

I’d like to rename this space, but the original term will persist, so that effort would be useless.

Choosing the worthwhile work and jettisoning the worthless endeavour is part of feeling Zen.

That room is also my reading room, but this spacious nook has many purposes. Chance recuperated there, on the cushy sofa, this past week, after having caught a Doggie Virus. The vet did NOT want to see him.

Smart doc. He knows when to keep germs away, and when to give advice on basic illnesses of the animal variety.

Smart docs are getting hard to find.

Ahhh, the plight of the post-COVID physician. No one trusts Him, or Her.

Truth to tell, I never did trust doctors, with a few grand exceptions for the deserving individuals who were grand and exceptional. Maybe in a decade or so, that type of strong-willed, decisive and ethical character will emerge once more in a profession that got sold out by the bureaucrats.

Doctors formed the latest profession to get the government-shiv in the back, although, for decades, there had been loud and dedicated voices, MDs warning their colleagues of the cheapening of their Art. Of course, their peers wouldn’t listen. The specialist-palms getting greased agreed to simultaneously stick a cork in their bought-off quack mouths that might utter a peep of dissent or protest or contrary opinion.

My new novel, SHADOW, pays homage to those valiant, unyielding voices of The Healers, and excoriates the money-loving expert.

Those physicians weren’t feeling Zen, not then, but I believe they are now. Having known me, each one of them came a bit closer to the gold standard in a patient: honest, forthright, with a sense of humor, a love of life, an unstoppable zest for living. I didn’t mince words, but, whenever I did, it was to prudently use my words as weapons to alert a doctor that she was in need of rest and contemplation for the morn that surely would come to her.

Sometimes, the case called for the tender mercy of truth, uttered with utter calm and certainty. Other times, the healing touch of patience from this patient made a difference in the tormented mind of a surgeon, watching his beloved profession going down a very misguided, immoral, and destructive road.

Perhaps I was feeling Zen, back then, but that thought never occurred to me. I was merely being myself.

Feeling Zen doesn’t come my way every day. Today, however, I awoke with a sense that all is going very right in this world that has gone so very wrong for so very many people, especially in America.

The chaos of corruption, and the corruption of chaos, are more than meeting their match in the blessed patriots who are feeling their oats for the first time in decades. Their emotive force is beyond Zen.

It’s the force combiner that unites our hearts, in spite of every vicious attempt perpetrated by frauds and fiends to divide us, one from the other.

It’s the force multiplier that laughs more than it cries. Though the tears be real, they are shed, in private, to gain strength for the morrow. The patriots weep not for themselves, but for the victims of evil, and crime.

Those victims are quite apart from the appallingly willing accomplices in fomenting all manner of illness, in fomenting their own illness, a lust for power that eviscerates what little is left of their mortal souls. The craven collaborators who are despoiling America garishly slur heroes while privately glutting their vile desires for lurid, lewd horrors.

Hypocrisy sounds quaint in terms of their level of private depravity and public sermonizing. We need not fear their day, or night of reckoning. The truth, the full truth, comes out in the end; and the end is much more near than even those ghouls fear.

All of those furies are devouring the wicked power-brokers and empty vessels of humans who live for the putrid passions to which they cling, more than to any shred of virtue, or goodness, or mercy. Those people not only perform the work of the devil; they are the work of the devil.

To a totalitarian regime, “peace” is the absence of opposition. To a democracy, “peace” is the absence of threat, and the presence of justice.

Those two opposite forces are presently engaged in their never-ending war on this magnificent battlefield called America. This battle is not the first between the usurpers of freedom and the protectors of liberty; it won’t be the last. It is nonetheless one for the almighty history books. And those history books won’t be written by the losers, or revised by future losers.

It’s been my experience that whenever someone tells me to compromise, he’s on the winning side. And I’ve refused to compromise.

Feeling Zen assures me there can be no compromise and no surrender in the fight to save America. Feeling Zen tells me that the warming sunlight will soon be upon my face. I’ll look up to the sky, and feel the movement of the clouds, as if time itself has been waiting for me to meet it.

Take your moment to rise and to shine, to reach and to feel your day in the sun. Feeling Zen means that day can last forever, if you honor those hours, and the light that has graced your face. That light is part of life, and of the Light.


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