736 . . . rescue . . . the P . . . instead of 441
I have absolutely no idea what this note that I must have written to myself within the last day or two means. I have no memory of writing it though it is unmistakably my scrawl. I have no idea what call or comment inspired it.
I don’t know about you, but I have a myriad notes to self scattered about my desk – reminders, return calls to be made, thing I hear and mean to remember, thoughts and ideas for a later time. Usually the act of writing itself serves to enable me to remember and act. But every now and again, there’s a loose canon – a note that gets lost amidst the detritus that evidences my work life – and I find them later, often with a groan, sometimes with a chuckle, and sometimes, like today, with a great sense of mystery – whatever does it mean?
I imagine a mystery with rescue . . . the P . . . as the only clue. Then I wonder over the possible theological meanings (hey, it’s not much of a stretch – that is my job, afer all). Then I either put it to the side or toss it to the trash, hoping the remembrance it was meant to inspire wasn’t too awfully important and move to the next note to self.
Note to self: don't forget to return this week's phone calls. Explain that my voice isn’t great just now and it’s been an exhausting month (a good one, but a tiring one) overflowing with human interaction and this introvert (yes, really) needs to recharge a bit. And don't forget to say thank you for the birthday wishes and songs – I really do appreciate them. Really.
Note to others: for those chores I may have overlooked, remind me again please. Yours may be one of those notes floating in the suspension of time that is my desk just now.
Final note to self – don’t forget to post this.
I have absolutely no idea what this note that I must have written to myself within the last day or two means. I have no memory of writing it though it is unmistakably my scrawl. I have no idea what call or comment inspired it.
I don’t know about you, but I have a myriad notes to self scattered about my desk – reminders, return calls to be made, thing I hear and mean to remember, thoughts and ideas for a later time. Usually the act of writing itself serves to enable me to remember and act. But every now and again, there’s a loose canon – a note that gets lost amidst the detritus that evidences my work life – and I find them later, often with a groan, sometimes with a chuckle, and sometimes, like today, with a great sense of mystery – whatever does it mean?
I imagine a mystery with rescue . . . the P . . . as the only clue. Then I wonder over the possible theological meanings (hey, it’s not much of a stretch – that is my job, afer all). Then I either put it to the side or toss it to the trash, hoping the remembrance it was meant to inspire wasn’t too awfully important and move to the next note to self.
Note to self: don't forget to return this week's phone calls. Explain that my voice isn’t great just now and it’s been an exhausting month (a good one, but a tiring one) overflowing with human interaction and this introvert (yes, really) needs to recharge a bit. And don't forget to say thank you for the birthday wishes and songs – I really do appreciate them. Really.
Note to others: for those chores I may have overlooked, remind me again please. Yours may be one of those notes floating in the suspension of time that is my desk just now.
Final note to self – don’t forget to post this.
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