My old roof is removed, and the new roof installed. There is still work to be done, but my house is dried in and safe from the elements.

Today, I get a new roof. Hail damaged my old one. The new one will be metal, as was the old. But a different style. Standing seam.

I feel as though this has been another year of living sickly.

On Wednesday of last week my intestinal system went on the fritz and became a water works.

Yesterday I was looking at my life in terms of continental drift which seems pretty appropriate. Over the millennia of earths existence land masses have risen and fallen and crashed into one another. As they do they raise mountains and give birth to new seas as the oceans of the world slosh about.

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.