But there are others, little feathery ones, ongoing, whispering to us all the time. They can be extremely inconvenient in their timing and message. We try not to hear them.
Sometimes we seem to succeed, and they go away, But they return, and in some more insistent form. It can feel as if there is a vast conspiracy afoot in the realm, designed to insinuate (and failing that, to knock) something into one's head.
Proof? You say you want proof?
Here's what I read this morning:
On Twitter: The universe is made up of stories, not of atoms. Muriel Rukeyser wrote this, a friend tweeted it.
On Facebook: If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story. Someone else, quoting Orson Welles.
And in a real book, Love Wins, by Rob Bell : Hell is our refusal to trust God's retelling of our story.
To all that, I must add that this morning I can't get Irving Berlin's song Let Yourself Go out of my head.
Come, get together/Let the dance floor feel your leather/Step as lightly as a feather…