doggies

The Touch of the Master’s Hand

By Myra Brooks Welch

’Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But held it up with a smile.
“What am I bid, good folks,” he cried,
“Who’ll start the bidding for me?
A dollar, a dollar. Then two! Only two?
Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?”

“Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;
Going now for three...” But no,
From the room, far back, a grey-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening the loosened strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet,
As a caroling angel sings.

The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said: “What am I bid for the old violin?”
And he held it up with the bow.
“A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two?
Two thousand! And who’ll make it three?
Three thousand, once; three thousand, twice,
And going and gone,” said he.

The people cheered, but some of them cried,
“We do not quite understand.
What changed its worth?” Swift came the reply:
“The touch of the Master’s hand.”
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd
Much like the old violin.

A “mess of pottage,” a glass of wine,
A game—and he travels on.
He is “going” once, and “going” twice,
He’s “going” and almost “gone.”
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the touch of the Master’s hand.

"L'Étranger"

I think about death.  It eases me.  The thought that if I had to die tomorrow, a few nominations aside, everything would be fine eases me.  I wouldn't have regrets.  I never didn't convey feeling. 

Maybe I feel easy about death because I don't see it coming.  I see myself growing old.  I see myself getting the chance to do what I want to do.  It's irksome to care this way.  The clarity of purpose makes it easy to be detached and instinct-driven.  To sit still in silence.  Even naniji says, "maun raho".

The noise doesn't bother me now.  I can't pretend (to myself or to others) any more.  Sometimes I see cages where I used to see people.  My naiveté fades.  And social graces are lost on me.  I'm no longer here to be nice.  I'm here to try to see things as they are.

Ms. David is to blame.  The year I graduated from high school, she, our English teacher, was asked by the Very-Catholic Board of my school to leave.  She had after all introduced us at that tender age to lesbianism, to divorce, to childless couples.  What lack of judgment and good sense!  From "A Lost Lady" to "The Awakening", we read about women who could imagine lives beyond their families.  I remember our last semester.  Our first theme in class had been "utopia & dystopia" and the second, "insanity & love".  Ms. Davis is to blame for the silence I feel.

You saw some things more clearly than I did. 

And now it is my turn to be "solely responsible for giving my life meaning and living that life passionately and sincerely, in spite of many existential obstacles and distractions including despair, angst, absurdity, alienation, and boredom."  I wouldn't have said it this way.  "Passion" and "sincerity" sound melodramatic.  Eeks.  Funnily enough, "despair", "angst", "absurdity", "alienation", and "boredom" seem normal.  Perhaps, I could paraphrase - I am alone responsible for me.  I must take risks and manage the fears.  This is reckless abandon, and I must be ready for the consequences.  Forgive me my trespasses. 

The Lord's Prayer comforts.  "Our Father Who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil . For Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever and ever."

Turns out, I make a terrible Marxist.