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This speech by President Obama was one of the best pieces of speaking I have heard. In it he captures the complexity of our social situation: on race, on law enforcement & on collective grief. If you haven’t watched it, I encourage you to do so:

 

OK, so an update on the image from the below post. I was playing 3rd base for a co-ed softball team, most of whom are english teachers. The name of the team? The Third Person Singlers. Yes, that’s right . . . so, in our second game of the season I took a hard-hit ground ball into my glove hand. Instead of catching it in the pocket, I managed to catch it on my fingers (and no, I was unable to get anyone out).

At first I thought I had simply dislocated a joint. When I removed the glove, it was apparent I had dislocated a joint, but I also broke a piece of bone off of the lowest bone. This break prevented the middle bone from seating correctly and until that bone could heal up, my finger wouldn’t work.

So . . . . after a trip to urgent care and an x-ray (the image below) I was told that I would need hand surgery. Oh my . . . .

A little over a week later a hand surgeon placed three pins into my finger (the current image) that would keep the broken bone in place and allow it to heal while at the same time keeping the bones aligned.

I’m one week away from having the pins removed and continuing physical therapy. I am relieved. I’ve been unable to play catch with my son, bike with my family and just feel normal, so I’m looking forward to getting there, in time. Always, in time.

fingerpins

I have to say with the rain we’ve had and the current election season that is unfolding, these lyrics kind of nail it for me:

Body lines fluid in static heat
Thoughts buzzing like flies around meat
Land here — land there —
Quick circles in the air
I’m riding smooth but just a little slow
Waiting for the moon to show

Leather-faced old men by the cafe wall
Kids in the surf splashing with a soccer ball
I gaze through curved lens
Trying to identify the sky’s end
Little spots on the horizon into gunboats grow
Waiting for the moon to show

Might be a party — might be a war
When those faceless sailors come ashore
Speculation is a waste of time
You want to go have a glass of wine?
Whatever’s coming, there’s no place else to go
Waiting for the moon to show

By Bruce Cockburn