WARNING: YOU ARE NOW ENTERING A SITE BANNED BY THE U.S. GOVERNMENT.

Seriously, this is cool: this humble blog has been blocked by web filtering software at the Department of the Interior.

How awesome is that!!

Man, the place just ain’t been the same since Jimmy Watt left it, ya know?

Of course, one might hope for censorship from a somewhat bigger player than the Department of the Interior–the bureaucracy whose job in life is to watch trees grow, prevent mining and drilling only in areas where these natural resources exist, and to periodically burn down Los Alamos.

But, hey! You gotta start somewhere.

And from the looks of the other sites blocked–some big hitters, these–maybe my ship has finally arrived…

UPDATE: Here’s the latest scoop on what’s going on with the blocking of sites at the Department of the Interior, over at PoliticsCentral.

 
I’ve been feeling a little guilty lately about not posting very often. Of course, I could lay out the usual (and usually true) excuses that I’ve been busy, work’s a killer, family commitments, etc, etc. But no one wants to hear that, so I won’t…

So it did my heart good to stumble across this post (HT: QandO) which says posting too often is bad. Whoa!–I’m likin‘ this guy! But now I’m feeling guilty that I’m posting about someone who says not posting too often is good, and maybe that’s just another excuse, so that’s bad … or maybe it’s bad because I’m posting just to not feel too guilty about not posting, by posting a link to a post about not posting–and maybe that’s just what this guy is talking about, posting too much about nothing …

I am sooo unworthy… “Who will save this miserable wretch that I am?” to quote a guy who might have been a blogger if blogging was around 2000 years ago in places like Rome and Corinth and Ephesus.

Anyway, it did bring about a few thoughts on blogging. Now don’t get me wrong: I love sites like Instapundit which steer me to What’s Happening Now–very efficient, and I’m glad they do it frequently. Others like American Digest, mix cool, short, funny, offbeat stuff with deep essays and drop-dead good writing. Others, like the Anchoress, combine current event commentary with personal life and deep faith, dished up daily from the depths–gotta love that approach as well.

But for me, daily blogging’s never gonna happen–nor should it. If I’m going to write, I’m going to try and say something of substance–and for me, that takes time. Serous time. All-too-scarce time, sometimes. Yeah, sometimes there’s a quick post on something that’s funny or crazy or maddening–but the bottom line is that writing a blog is really for me. I don’t like wasting much time on the trivial: life has a purpose, and its time is not unlimited, so I hate spinning my wheels. Writing for me is about reflecting on what’s important in life, inspecting it from every angle, chewing it over, looking at it from perspectives I don’t even think of sometimes until I actually start.

If you’re a blogger–and I assume many of my readers (perhaps 3 out the 5 total who read this blog) are bloggers–here’s a question for you: would you blog if you knew no one was reading? For me, I think the answer is yes–it’s something folks have doing forever, really, called journaling, and it’s a valuable personal and spiritual discipline. But there is also something about blogging, knowing that others are reading–hopefully not just to impress with fancy words or turns of a phrase, but because of the accountabilty it brings. I believe people sense in the better bloggers something genuine, something real, drawn from the depths of a life of substance. Most of us have fairly good B.S. alarms, and can tell when someone is just tootin’ their horn or blowing hot air.

Anyway, I feel better now, having posted something… and it’s late, so off to bed. Night night.

 
Another birthday this month–not mine, you silly (that was last month, 56 long trips about the sun, and the treads are definitely showing the wear…), but this blog: two years old. For a project started on something of a lark–writing for a non-existent audience, with nearly non-existent time to pursue yet another Bob Obsession–it has proven to be quite a journey in many ways. The odyssey has been one from within and without, both reflective and relational. Putting thoughts to paper, as it were, seems to plumb some inner space, revealing dark recesses and flashes of light in often surprising ways, as the discipline of writing seems to free the spirit in some mysterious way. Writing for this blog, and elsewhere, has released thoughts, insights, and words which are, more often than not, as startling to me as they seem to be pleasing, and at times helpful, to others. And the surprise of new relationships and friendships, many virtual and virtually anonymous, yet friends nevertheless, rich with oneness of spirit and mind, is a real treasure–and frankly as surprising as the words I sometimes find myself writing.

I don’t write with any desire to be famous, or have the most hits, to get links on Instapundit or interviews in the media or a book deal. And I am pleased to inform you that my lowly objectives have been achieved beyond my wildest dreams: no fame, no fortune, no Instalanche, no book deals–and that’s perfectly alright, thank you very much. My goal–my hope, really–is to touch others in some small way, to perhaps give them a glimpse inside a remarkable profession–or even more so, a glimmer of God through the cracks in my own broken vessel. If I have accomplished this, even for a few, the effort will have proven more than worthwhile.

I write about bridges, and cooking turkeys, and the joys, frustrations, and insanity of a noble profession, and things I find humorous, or tragic, or touching, or life-changing, because changing life is what life is about: mine, my family, my patients, my friends, my readers. We of all creatures are aware of our own mortality; we get, to a greater or lesser degree, much choice in life’s summation: in many ways, we get to write our own novels. To come to the end of life with great wealth, or fame, or success, is perhaps understandable–even desireable in some small way–but invariably bequeaths a hollowness of spirit, a pathos of lost opportunity–for such things endure but briefly, if at all, after we ourselves return to the minerals of which we are made. To have touched those those with whom we have walked; to have drawn them in some way toward the light; to have left a legacy of goodness and mercy and grace behind: these are the things which will endure, things at once quite small yet vast and eternal.

I have watched, in this short time, many bloggers–bright, energetic, insightful, often excellent writers–post their swan song and fade to black, burned out on the relentless demands of daily delivery of content and commentary. I have at times wondered when, and by what manner, my own minor nova might flare, posting some sad goodbye to a few polite claps as my words fade like falling embers of a party sparkler. But hopefully–when that time comes–those words will linger with at least a few retinal ghosts, varicolored streaks of light against a dark background, that a few lives will thereby have been touched and changed.

I am grateful above all for those of you who visit here regularly, or rarely; who read, and visit, and think, and comment–or perhaps just wonder who this self-important fool might be. Thank you for listening, for spending those precious minutes of our too-brief lives–and especially for being friends.