Pingback

I wrote earlier that I and my world sit paused in expectation. Almost unconsciously I added the allusion to the promise in the mother's face; surely better described in today's language as waiting for the pingback.

Today a couple of pingbacks bring energy and inspiration. My letter will be published next week in The Times. That makes the thought and effort in composition seem worthwhile. I agonized for sometime over its bluntness in the face of prevailing  beliefs in our community.  Dear readers can judge when it is published next week.

The second pingback comes almost miraculously by way of a visitor to my Truth telling journal entry.in this weblog. It links to a weblog of an American priest living in Italy.. His beautiful language creates genuine connection and affirmation that truth ultimately brings love that clears the hate created through lies intended to confuse and confound.

Growing up on the plains of Oklahoma, when alone, I nearly always could expect informative visual pingbacks. Recent years living in mountainous and densely forested North Georgia I have come to treasure the traditions of the talking drums. Now this is the age of the written word flung out into the air as Ray Bradbury's The The Fog Horn.

Whether it is for affirmation of perception and belief as in the elegant language of the priest or the primitive longing for others, pingbacks are important. I intend to remember that we are all waiting.  We can each also serve as pingback.

Gelidonya Lighthouse:

"OUT there in the cold water, far from land, we waited every night for the coming of the fog, and it came, and we oiled the brass machinery and lit the fog light up in the stone tower. Feeling like two birds in the grey sky, McDunn and I sent the light touching out, red, then white, then red again, to eye the lonely ships. And if they did not see our light, then there was always our Voice, the great deep cry of our Fog Horn shuddering through the rags of mist to startle the gulls away like decks of scattered cards and make the waves turn high and foam" -- Ray Bradbury, The Fog Horn