King Lear

Today is Saturday, and yes, I am worried.

I have isolated all week, and to my utter amazement, today I am quite content,

I believe I should be feeling anxious, but oddly enough, that is not the case.

Perhaps I have accepted the reality of the complications of life in 2022.

Or perhaps this sudden contentment is another symptom of the universal malaise now affecting our country

I do sense the lethargy may be contagious since even the hourly unsolicited billets doux from Joe, Donald, Nancy and Kamala have slowed to a dribble.

I doubted they would even notice that their barrage of daily emails greeting me every morning had found a home in the digital trash bin.

However, since that was probably the only time they were close in agreement about anything, perhaps I was naive.

However, I must confess I have definitely had assistance in reaching this lovely level of zen.

While listening this morning to Phil Coulter’s magical sound, I recalled another Irishman, my gentle uncle, Bill King,

It was he who taught me the culinary pleasure found in combining three simple ingredients (fresh bread, sweet butter and warm applesauce).

Acutely aware of an abundance of unscheduled time, I decided to resurrect my Cuisinart bread machine and also, utilize the hidden bag of apples in the back of the Fridge.

An hour later as the fragrance of homemade bread filled the apartment, the apples accompanied by a dash of cinnamon slowly simmered. The sweet Irish butter awaited on a Portmellion plate and sounds of serenity filled the air,

Then I remembered the treasured words of the Bard of Avon:

“Thy life's a miracle.”

King Lear, Act 4,