A Child Sacrificed

I rarely talk about celebrities here and even more rarely talk about pop music, so I really have little to say about Michael Jackson's brilliant career and sad life. Sully has a thoughtful post about all that, one that says all I'd wish to. But I think I'd like to say a little sort-of prayer tonight for everyone who looks at Michael Jackson's life with a quietly horrified pity and realizes, once and for all, how meaningless fame, money, and even accomplishment are if you don't have a toehold on some kind of peace in your heart. I'm counting my blessings tonight, as I do often—friends who see the good in me, often more clearly than I do myself, shelter and honest work, an affectionate cat who might have died but didn't, this soft summer night with fireflies winking over the lawns here in my small-town neighborhood. Memories of beautiful places I've seen, and the hope of seeing more. Music, art, literature. Buttercups. Stars. And the prospect of walking uptown when I hit "save" on this post and getting a rather large cup full of mango water ice. Call my little list trite, if you wish, but I wouldn't give any of these things up for money. If I've got more money coming in than I pay in expenses, I tend to start turning my attention to the things that make me happy. Those things rarely have a price tag hanging off of them, and if they do it's in the water-ice range.

OK—speaking of water ice, it's time to leave before the place closes. For the sake of the sleepers I hope there's peace on the other side, but just in case, try to find some here. Pet the cat, and go out for water ice. Notice the fireflies. Because you never know, do you? That's what I think and now I really have to go.