As often happens with my disease, I spent a few days in recovery and could not write. Recovery from what; I really don't know. Recovery to what;. I'm really not sure about that either. Am I fully recovered; probably not, but today I noticed the world had not stopped to let me catch up and time was moving forward . Several of my close friends have become sicker than normal....two are really bad. All this churning in the world around me is just reinforcing how uncertain everything is. I never would have imagined me here on the internet blogging even a year ago. Nor would I have imagined people calling me from all parts of the U.S.on a daily bases just to talk or check on me. Sometimes I just have to stop an question," where did that come from?"and no answer comes.
Shouldn't life be simple at my age? After all I'm 61 and should be pretty stable and OLD by now. Not with me...Everyday is a new adventure into worlds I never even knew existed before. Ideas flash through my head like a teletype machine and it never shuts off. I do so hope that in all this confusion I make some right decisions and inspire someone else to join me and play.Parkinson's is kind of a funny disease that way. It is never the same two days in a row or the same symptom to two people at the same time. Makes you wonder how they can treat us with any success. If there is success, we always know it's fleeting and far too soon it is gone...Wish me well on this journey and, God........grant me time and mind to finish my mission....POKIE
This was a poem my grandfather wrote in the sixties and a copy was passed on to me for safe keeping. Some how it seems to have something to say to me today and so once again I will bring
it to print:
OUR CROSS
In the quietness of our sanctuary
when I feel that all is lost
I lift up my eyes
And there I see a cross.
A cross formed by wicked men
To be a badge of shame
Where a man would suffer and die
Never to live again.
They placed it high upon a hill
Where all mankind could see
That God did not have the power
To set the wicked free.
God let them have there way
He did not show his power
His murdered son did live again
Comes Easter's morning hour.
The cross formed by wicked men
And placed on a mountain slope
Failed the plans of its architect
And became a badge of hope.
In the quietness of our sanctuary
When I look upon the cross
I knew he stained it with his blood
To save a world once lost.
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