Tuesday, March 11, 2014


Post Number: 157
Review of Yesterday's Progress
     Daily PPV Used/Left: ?/? of 69 (Goal: 30/39) {Didn't track. Didn't eat well, either}
     Pedometer Reading: - {Didn't wear my pedometer}
     Meetings Attended: None Scheduled
     Exercise Completed: None Scheduled
     M-W's Word of the Day: Jingoism

Yesterday was a day of meditation. I spent much of the day lost in intentional thought. About all I managed to do is establish my current definitions of my problems. I created a list of selfish categories, such as anger and lust, and the list of misspent opportunities, like sleep and service, that have come to put me in a place that I do not want to be in but cannot seem, in an ultimate expression of selfishness, pull myself out of. And while I have those definitions established, I do not know if they are the correct description or merely my expression of the situation.

For the second time in as many weeks, I gave myself permission to take it easy today. And I feel better for the mental meditation but the eating was even worse at first. To pull myself out of the depths of self-imposed misery, I feel that the most important thing that I can do is set and maintain a descent schedule, starting with sleep.

Last night, it was too late to get to bed early. But I forced myself to rise to a schedule that I know is more conducive to my way of living appropriately.

Yours in the faith that will allow the work of restoring sanity to succeed,


P.S.: What the poet/author has the tyrannical MacBeth say in a soliloquy to encourage the audience's sympathy ahead of the demise of his power and life.
She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)
While the internet has made the opportunity for each of us to record our own tales of idiocy, as we sound off our fury, that signifies nothing to most others, each of us is allowed to achieve our own place on a stage Shakespeare couldn't have imagined. A stage that is bigger, grander, and wider. A place more personal, more educational, and more uplifting. All this and more is possible, if we use it toward that end. So that when the hereafter arrives, we will know for ourselves that our brief candle had either the chance to light the way of others in a spotlight of selfless service or to highlight ourselves in the flashlight of selfish pretentiousness. In the later, we shall fret. In the former, we shall be grateful.

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