a year of morning thanks
That toothy lapdog
The problem with euphoria is that it ends. As it has.
Yesterday, the new Obama administration ejected two of its chosen, Tom Daschle, from South Dakota, and Nancy Killefer, nominated to be the government's first chief performance officer. Already tossed off was Gov. Bill Richardson of New Mexico, whose sleaze possibilities tipped the new ship of state perilously.
Daschle, who not long ago thought a frenzied tax payment might band-aid his sin, was an especially painful loss; many saw him to be among the few and the wise who understood the medical morass this country is in, and a possible pilot of our escaping all of that. He had few enemies in Washington and was considered a good, good man. Turns out he'd fudged the IRS out of a chunk so hefty the interest alone cost him 12 grand.
It's February, and just about time to go through all those receipts again, one after another--computer ink, paper, postage, books I needed for teaching--add up the whole bunch (never anywhere close to a thou), paper-clip them together, and file them neatly in hopes that should IRS thugs come around, my nickel-and-dime financial life will be in good order. To think that a guy like Daschle would sidestep a 128 thou makes me not only angry but resentful. Does everybody do it?
All that blessed penny-ante revenue calculation I've got to do again is a job the fat cats hire East-coast elite lawyers to accomplish, professionals at dodgeball. Get this: when Daschle got the message that his non-payment would put his appointment in jeopardy, he spit up the entire $140,000. What is that, loose change?
The first casualty of high-flying euphoria is simply high spirits, but the next is nothing less than faith itself. Cynicism, a toothy little mutt who never leaves your lap, starts his infernal yipping: shoot, they're all rotten crooks, the whole buggerin' lot of 'em.
I know that isn't true, but believing it's not requires something bigger than life--that requires faith.
This morning I'm thankful I've got it--a pure gift. Faith, that is.
That doesn't mean it doesn't get tested. After all, here I sit, growling.