I only know me by knowing you
I think the issue with writing a blog and being a witness to your own life, is that sometimes you come home, and the house is quiet. The only thing you hear is the chatter in your head and it may be the same conversation your self has had with your self over the last few days that even meditation has been unable to burn and disperse. And you sit here and you wonder at the end of the day, at the end of days such as these, if we are indeed as Hemingway once said, living lives of quiet desperation, or if it is still possible to get excited by a teacher who saved the baby sparrows that fell from the nest as she carries the cage to her house to care for them on the weekends (one died, the other lives), if the jolt of that possum who scaled the back fence and crawled through the elephant ears disturbing all the morning pleasantries you envisioned would await you when you had your coffee in the back yard could happen again, the same way, and whether it is possible to meet another person who could tell you stories about themselves that would make you sit on the edge of your chair, whose sorrow moved you, the type of encounter that made you think you were meeting a person as if for the first time, as if you are a person for the first time interested, and interesting, and you know that what awaits you tonight is sleep, perchance to dream, and then again, awakening and repetition or re-creation or revision or redundancy or realization or reality or real – just something real – at the end of the day, when you come home, and you have been witness to your life, and the house is quiet, you want to reach for what is real to know that you are.