Bringing in the mail. Sounds almost like a hymn, doesn't it?
Of course the real hymn, written by Knowles Shaw, referred to the staff of life, grain (and protestant converts), which were described as "sheaves". Sheaves are bound after reaping and of course must be brought in. Closest I come to bringing in the sheaves is fetching the mail. Other creatures, like bees, really do bring digestible sustenance back to the colony. Observe:
Norma says this is how I look when I am working underneath our cars. I don't quite know how to respond to that. Only that I am doing some good, that I am still useful, causes me to identify with the corporate beeing pictured --bringing in the sheaves-- but bee is brainless, or nearly so. Is that the future?
I despair to think this brain, which has served so well, might desert me in later years, if not already. So, as always, I shall resort to sentiment. Love, shall we factor that into our design? We have a love of knowledge and a grief when it is lost.
But love, when you try all your life to make loved ones happy, and have someone say, "you've done well", there is a deep and abiding happiness --you've brought in the sheaves. The mail is quite something else.
I get frequent letters from Dr. Ami Bera, congressional representative for the 7th district in this state, my state. I charge into the house spastic with news. I am met with the customary reproach:"Has no one ever taught you to enter a room calmly?" -- to which I reply, "Oh, you would not BELIEVE the gaps in my education!"
I am by love and kindness calmed, and agree the world has got better. The madness that descended a year ago has cooled slowly, somewhat, and a president whose only skill is coldly firing good people has warmed. Given another year or two, he might improve to being almost tepid. If I can do it, anybody can.