Boxes

I just read an article about what it's like to be this age, or that and I found it unfamiliar even though I have been that age.

I would like to think I am some extraordinarily unique creature who, alone, does not fit the mold, but that would not be true.

I don't think it is possible, or fair, to look at another's life as a blueprint for our own. Doing that might limit the possibilities. Feeling the need to do something similar might take up the time better spent inventing a more personal way. Even when the result is similar, we should have the knowledge that our path was our own and inventing it one of the great joys of living.

I have seldom found myself fulfilled by many of the things people rave about and that is across the board. Boxed up pursuits are only jumping off places. After peeking at them, it is more fun to find out where the angora came from in that sweater and how it was put together and by whom before it was wrapped up to fit inside a shirt box with a tag on it. Or, having gone inside a church and spending time learning there, to branch out, look at nature, listen to the Silence and ponder the miracle of actual being.

I like the novel, the fascinating, the deep and dark and brilliant. I want time to explore and think and experience with my own body and mind. I want to hear your thoughts and dreams and wondering, but I need the space to experience you in my own way.

So what is it like to be me, or you? Now or back then? In sickness and in health, for better for worse, till who knows when?

Let's get together and talk about it.