The gift of choice

"Today is a day the Lord hath made, let us rejoice and be glad in it."

I love this quote from Psalm 118 and repeat it to myself on those mornings I feel low. It's a reminder that joy and gladness are my responsibility. Of course I don't really know if the Lord made this day. Maybe it's just some accidental coming together of a bunch of electrons and quarks; or maybe it's someone in another dimension paying billiards and every time the ball is hit it explodes into another Big Bang. Or possibly we're simply part of a larger part, a nesting doll in a series of smaller and larger ones. Perhaps we're sitting on a shelf in a little girl's room in a universe far, far away.

It doesn't matter who made the day, only that it's here and it's beautiful—no matter the weather—and we can choose or not to rejoice and be glad in it. We choose.

Mr. Putin has chosen to drag us all back to the 19th and 20th centuries, to the old imperial Russia and world wars, but we're not going to let him. Or rather the Ukrainians aren't going to let him. They've chosen the 22nd century; freedom and democracy, love over hate. A few days ago I chose to disconnect myself from the ongoing horror of this war. I now carefully choose what I read about it. This morning, for instance, I read about a former marine and his friends who chose to go to Ukraine to help train its citizen volunteers, and an analysis of the apparent "stalemate." Neither article brought tears or the urge to vomit.

Instead of horror news I have returned to my old friends Jack Aubrey and Steven Maturin in Patrick O'Brian's historical novels—really one long novel—about the Napoleonic war period. Yes, they contain stories of battles based on actual encounters, but they are distant in time and form. There are no missiles aimed at innocent civilians and children, and "honor"—misguided perhaps but extant—plays a role. Besides, I have read this series so many times I've lost count; they are old friends and the characters come alive each time I visit. More important, they are beautifully written; erudite, emotional, dramatic. Read for example this single sentence, the opening of Chapter 5 in Surprise:

"The sun beat down from its noon-day height upon Bombay, imposing a silence upon that teeming city, so that even in the deepest bazaars the steady beat of the surf could be heard—the panting of the Indian Ocean, dull ochre under a sky too hot to be blue, a sky waiting for the south-west monsoon; and at the same moment far, far to the westward, far over Africa and beyond, it heaved up to the horizon and sent a fiery dart to strike the limp royals and topgallants of the Surprise as she lay becalmed on the oily swell a little north of the line and some thirty degrees west of Greenwich."

Portent, heat, and a key to what immediately follows. It's brilliant.

You may wonder at my desire to reread 20 volumes about the early 19th century when so much drama, discord, and world challenging and changing events are happening here and now and every day. But I'm a fast reader and in a few weeks I'll be back to the all consuming news and the reality of our quickly morphing world. For now I'm choosing to find joy in books I love.

I hope your choices bring you joy and gladness too.