Again, the mind has changed, much different than it was the day before.    Yesterday, the "Monday morning" gloom of returning wearily, not feeling so hot, back to work.  And then once the set-up is done, a bit of the staff omelette, the tie is tied, the door opens, and then it turns into a very busy night, the boss's son with a six top to start the evening, and then we start filling up.

Back room full, the wine bar full, not a moment free.

It is happier to be back working. It puts me in a better mood, after three sick days after Valentine's Day.

The spiritual of serving recovers after the exploitation of Ash Wednesday and the normal serving of people whatever they might want, replaced by the fancy fixed price menu, the whole thing or nothing, everything booked.

And just when I'm finally finished, the regular is about to put his coat on and depart after his espresso--he came in when I was on the ropes of the evening, dealing with the last parties, hoping the busboy will come up and put away the dirty glasses--organize the plates--I haven't gotten much help tonight--a guy from the neighborhood opens the door, looks up, climbs the stairs, and he'll want a glass of wine.  He's an interesting guy to talk to.  He's from Philly, Rob, works with the local university, a blend of the dour and practicality, somber and friendly, quiet but talkative, and he's been out in Dupont for good Belgian sour beer, and, making his way home, wants a glass of wine now at 10.   I pour him a couple of sips, to remind which he likes, the Beaujolais or the Bordeaux.

Hey, are you trying to close up? he asks.  Yeah, I am.  I could just say, you know what, yeah, it's been a hard night and I just want to get out of here.  But something about it, spiritually it would be the wrong thing to do, to not let him talk, relax in a setting, hear him out.  I've not had a thing to drink, but, since he's having some, I chose to join him with a glass.  Seemed the Christian thing to do.  We talked over the things of music and concerts, life and jobs, a brother who's had a stroke, about moving back to Southern New Jersey, football.

NPR replays a Fresh Air interview of Mr. Rogers.  A man who helped young people.  A man who took classes at a Presbyterian seminary in New York while working for children's television.


Waiting around for the time to prepare for work, monitoring the news and the weather, writing is amateur, mostly pointless.  Not the time for great inspirations after being beaten up by the vagaries of the week.   Laundry, dishes, bleaching the kitchen counter of iron water stains.  Mom calls, with the strange experience of hearing loud voices at night.

Work becomes more and more the point.  It has to be refined, taking the good of work, the part you are comfortable with, and then personally with one's own life, developing that for the betterment.



But the true reflection, the true talent, is about our ability to be spiritual.  That is our gift.  We are capable of it, highly so.

That's why I chose a path that was not here-to-fore explicitly organized or religious.  I wanted a true spirituality, a real seeking, a real abandonment to the spiritual laws of God and His humanity, meeting the events of life with hope of finding their context and meaning.