Sometimes Life Is Too Hard To Be

You Know, I Think That Allowing Somebody, One Mere Person To Believe That He Or She Is Like, The Vessel You Know, Like The Font And The Essence And The Source Of All Divine, Creative, Unknowable, Eternal Mystery Is Just A Smidge Too Much Responsibility To Put On One Fragile, Human Psyche. It's Like Asking Somebody To Swallow The Sun.

The Bhagavad Gita—that Ancient Indian Yogic Text—says That It Is Better To Live Your Own Destiny Imperfectly Than To Live An Imitation Of Somebody Else’s Life With Perfection. So Now I Have Started Living My Own Life. Imperfect And Clumsy As It May Look, It Is Resembling Me Now, Thoroughly.

This Is Intimacy: The Trading Of Stories In The Dark.

When Catherine Told Me About This (tragedy Nearby), I Could Only Say, Shocked, "dear God, That Family Needs Grace." She Replied Firmly, "that Family Needs Casseroles," And Then Proceeded To Organize The Entire Neighborhood Into Bringing That Family Dinner, In Shifts, Every Single Night, For An Entire Year. I Do Not Know If My Sister Fully Recognizes That This _is_ Grace.

Everything Really Is Going To Be Okay. (and If Not Okay, Then At Least Comic.)