Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Some Thoughts on Wyrd the Weaver
Everyone was surprised when Bob died.
Not only was he the youngest of the siblings, but—as he himself would have acknowledged—his reputation as the family health nut was well-earned.
Bob didn't smoke or drink. His diet put everyone to shame. He ran several marathons a year.
When he died at 50, no one could believe it.
The autopsy explained it all.
Unknown to anyone, including himself, Bob had been born with a congenital heart defect. Under normal circumstances, he would have been dead by the age of 30.
By his actions, he'd bought himself an extra 20 years of life.
Like a fabric, every life is made up of both warp and woof, both fixed and moving.
In the end, we are, each one of us, co-weavers with Wyrd.
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