I’ve always noticed have’s and have nots. Maybe it goes back to me watching the movie Dr. Zhivago and the scene where Lara stands outside the restaurant window, starving, while inside the royalty wine and dine…

There was a house in Marathon that made me wonder. It was directly across the field from the house where we stayed. It was abandoned.

I’m still learning. Things. Skills. Information. I have curiosity and the willingness to listen. My journey to Marathon this week is a microcosm of my journey through life.

Sunday. Yesterday. August 4 was the fourth anniversary of my wife’s death. It passed without much notice. Only a close friend and a cousin offered condolences. And I think that’s as it should be.

Got up this morning, made the bed, and thought, this is an odd thing, making my bed when no one is looking.

I’m still thinking about space. Although yesterday it was about emptiness. About clearing away things to give yourself room to breathe, to focus on what’s important.

I got to thinking about space yesterday. Emptiness. The space between things. The void that gives you time to think, to pause, to reflect, to look.

There’s big medicine and there’s little medicine. Mostly, I’ve been writing about big medicine. Life threatening things, aneurysms, hearts. But that little medicine is still there. Last Wednesday my back spasmed when I bent over at the waist to pick up a bowl rather that stoop down.

After last summer, I swore if another string of 100 degree days fell upon me, I would head north until it cooled. Mother nature must have wanted me in Texas, however, because so far, this summer has been delightful.

Metaphorically I’ve been staring at my navel for nearly ten years. Now, for the first time, I am acutely aware of what lies behind said navel.

The rains came. I cleaned. I dusted. Vacuumed. Mopped. Stored. The countertops are nearly empty. The floors bare. As I suspected, my mood lifted. Improved.

Today feels like a low running river, there’s movement if you look close, but there are plenty of pools of stagnant water.

I like the digital world, particularly as it relates to medicine. I can make appointments, ask questions, get reminders, basically stay in touch. Where it falls a little short, oddly enough, is when it gives me access to my reports for blood work, scans, MRI’s, and sonograms.

Another birthday is in the books. It was sweet. Got calls from the kids early and friends as well. Plus, good old Facebook chipped in. More than 100 people sent me greetings.

Nuts. It looks as though Beryl is going to drop it’s rain on east Texas. Bad news for the Highland Lakes. Of course, now I have to worry about my kids in the greater Houston area. But that’s what dad’s do, worry about their kids.

Just bought a copy of Barbara Tuckman’s book, the Guns of August. I dropped off some clothes at St. Vincent DePaul in Fredericksburg. Bought the book for a dollar while I was in the store.

I have to confess. My daughter and her husband leaving Texas with their family is causing me a bit of distress.

I was drugged and probed yesterday. They found nothing which is good. It was an endoscopy the one year follow up to my last one.

It’s raining. And I was going to say outside, but where else would it be raining except outside. So, why mention it.

Several weeks back I had my annual visit with my cardiologist. He’s a nice young fellow who always takes time to explain things. As he was listening to my heart, there was a moment when he lingered. That’s the only way to describe it. It felt different than all the other times people have listened to my heart and lungs. But he didn’t say anything, so I didn’t say anything.