I find I have nothing to say. No, that’s not right. I have too much to say. There are too many different thoughts for me to hand you any one thought-gem, golden as honey and as satisfying as sex. Snippets I can manage, but not coherence.
Last night, I took the scenic route home. The road wends through blasted-out limestone cliffs capped with stunted cedars. The horizon is Hill Country. As I drove through the valley of beauty and wealth, the windows of distant houses reflected the blood-orange sunset. It looked like they were on fire.
The topic this week at Urban Zen was teachers and teaching. Consensus was that some of our most memorable teachings are gained by being around someone being herself. To which someone responded,
It’s awesomely terrifying to know that as long as I’m alive, someone might accidentally learn something from me.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot, and wondering what I am teaching the people who know me. I hope it is worthy of you.
There is an old woman who walks her dog every morning. She wears color coordinating outfits (peach, blue, light green), and her dog has a thin whip of a tail that curls over his back. I hope that when I am that old, I will still be walking my dog and writing. I hope Mr. Aniko is with me. I hope that with another sixty years of practice, I’ll get really good at writing and better at being myself.
My mind has these thoughts, and then there is the constant drizzle of partial thoughts: arugula and truffle-infused pizza, sadness at lost friends, excitement about going to Kauai, plots for novels years away from birth.
Remember: I never promised coherence. This post is a Rorschach Test. Tell me what you see, and we’ll both know who we are.