When I lack resolve to read or write, my first step is to berate myself for my indolence, because I am privileged with the time to complete portions of both sufficient to—to what? Respect my own use of my time? Complete something tangible? Attain some modicum of trajectory when my tangible achievements track more of a circle? Probably.
It isn’t easy being free. It takes a lot of discipline to enjoy freedom. Freedom is fairly useless—like flour—if we don’t make something of it.
Our lifespans are not circular: they are on a trajectory toward decay and death. Our pastor’s memorable sermon closing Romans 4 yesterday included the sobering reminder that our bodies are decaying; we will surely undergo the unpleasantness of entropy and death before the Resurrection. My decaying memory is a blessing at times, especially those times when I might otherwise recall to mind a future of decay and death.
While thinking about this, another local sector of my decaying mind generated an idea for a recipe for an upcoming potluck. I tested it for lunch and liked it. It might be an acquired taste for some, but I can always bring it home. To be something I can eat, it will be *-*free—free of most known food components, i.e., gluten, dairy, and legume; it must also be low-carb, etc. But I’m not revealing the general or specific details of this brainstorm till after the potluck. Some brainstorms should probably be tested outside one’s own kitchen first.