Monday, December 29, 2025
1835 The treaty of New Echota was signed between the US government and representatives of a minority Cherokee political faction to cede all lands of the Cherokee east of the Mississippi River to the United States
1890 US 7th Cavalry massacred 200+ captive Sioux at Wounded Knee, South Dakota
1908 A patent was granted for a 4-wheel automobile brake, Clintonville, Wisconsin
1970 Occupational Safety and Health Act was signed by President Richard M. Nixon
2024 Former U.S. President Jimmy Carter died at the age of 100 in Plains, Georgia
In bed at 9:10, up at 5:50, pretty ferkrimpter, back and hands. 25°, wind chill +1°, high 29°, low 13°. Same WIND ADVISORY as yesterday, plus WINTER WEATHER ADVISORY: Some additional snow accumulations up to 1 inch, plus winds. Sleet forecast for the next hour.
Meds, etc. Morning meds at a.m.
Ecclesiastes, ch. 3.
1 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
2 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
3 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
4 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
5 A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
6 A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
7 A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
8 A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
18 I said in mine heart concerning the estate of the sons of men, that God might manifest them, and that they might see that they themselves are beasts.
19 For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath; so that a man hath no preeminence above a beast: for all is vanity.
20 All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.
A ChatGPT version:
There’s a rhythm stitched into the fabric of living,
an unseen clock quietly keeping time.
Everything arrives when it is meant to arrive,
and leaves when it is meant to leave.
There is a time to begin, bright and trembling,
and a time to end, gentle or fierce.
A time for planting hopes deep in the ground,
and a time to pull them up, roots exposed to sky.
A time when the heart breaks open,
and a time when it heals and closes again.
There is a time when we tear things down—
walls, illusions, even ourselves—
and a time when we build from the rubble,
slowly, deliberately, lovingly.
There is a time when we must weep,
water spilling from places we didn’t know could ache,
and a time when laughter shakes our ribs
and reminds us we are still here.
There is a time to mourn the losses,
to carry grief like a stone in the pocket,
and a time to dance wild and unashamed,
hands lifted to whatever heaven we can find.
There is a time to scatter what we’ve gathered
and a time to gather what we once scattered.
A time to reach out
and a time to step back.
There is a time when words burst out of us,
necessary, burning, truthful,
and a time to stay silent
because silence is the truest thing we have.
There is a time to love deeply,
even when it costs us something,
and a time to resist, to refuse, to stand firm.
A time for conflict we cannot politely avoid,
and a time for peace we must fiercely protect.
We spend our lives working, wanting, shaping,
trying to make sense of the turning seasons of the soul.
And still, mystery remains—
a puzzle bigger than our hands can hold.
Yet whatever goodness we are given—
the work, the laughter, the breath, the bread—
is gift enough for the day.
We live inside a rhythm older than memory,
a song that began before we were born
and will go on singing when we are gone.
So we walk with a kind of reverence,
knowing we do not control the tides of time,
but we can be honest, grateful, and awake
to every season we are given.
###############################
I like both. I prefer King James of course, but I like that the AI version suggests to me Spinoza's vision of God, Deus sive Natura.
Church Going by Philip Larkin
Once I am sure there's nothing going on I step inside, letting the door thud shut. Another church: matting, seats, and stone, And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff Up at the holy end; the small neat organ; And a tense, musty, unignorable silence, Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off My cycle-clips in awkward reverence, Move forward, run my hand around the font. From where I stand, the roof looks almost new- Cleaned or restored? Someone would know: I don't. Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce "Here endeth" much more loudly than I'd meant. The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence, Reflect the place was not worth stopping for. Yet stop I did: in fact I often do, And always end much at a loss like this, Wondering what to look for; wondering, too, When churches fall completely out of use What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep A few cathedrals chronically on show, Their parchment, plate, and pyx in locked cases, And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep. Shall we avoid them as unlucky places? Or, after dark, will dubious women come To make their children touch a particular stone; Pick simples for a cancer; or on some Advised night see walking a dead one? Power of some sort or other will go on In games, in riddles, seemingly at random; But superstition, like belief, must die, And what remains when disbelief has gone? Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky, A shape less recognizable each week, A purpose more obscure. I wonder who Will be the last, the very last, to seek This place for what it was; one of the crew That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were? Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique, Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh? Or will he be my representative, Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt So long and equably what since is found Only in separation - marriage, and birth, And death, and thoughts of these - for whom was built This special shell? For, though I've no idea What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth, It pleases me to stand in silence here; A serious house on serious earth it is, In whose blent air all our compulsions meet, Are recognised, and robed as destinies. And that much never can be obsolete, Since someone will forever be surprising A hunger in himself to be more serious, And gravitating with it to this ground, Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in, If only that so many dead lie round.
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