I’ve been thinking a lot, and what I’ve thought is that… it’s a lot to think about.
Being an alive person in the world is a lot to think about.
For example I think, therefore I am. But then what I think about that threatens to undermine the supposed simplicity of the original equation. So what do I think?
There’s nothing simple about being. And being able to think about being only makes it harder to be.
But then I was reading a book–a good book–and lost in the words of a world that had nothing yet everything to do with me, something profoundly calming occurred to me. And this is what it was:
No matter the rich complexities of life; the deep chasms of emotion and relation and duty, burden, love or fear that afflict us, these things have all been felt and thought and done before. Each time a different tune on the same string, but the same string no less, walked upon by a computer programmer, an archduke and a fishmonger, a tribal laughingstock and an early biped mother give born to the first child of a new human continent.
Those of us–all of us–who have and will have ever walked upright on bare feet through grass and looked down upon our living brethren (for the tops of our heads reach closer toward the sky!), all of us, every last one–every grandmother looking into the eyes of her progeny, every warrior into the eyes of him he was born to kill–we are all saddled with the same inexorable debt. We are all, and have all been, shaped yet shaken to the core by the same infinite and unshatterable conundrum:
We know, and yet we know so little.
We understand, and yet we spend our days confused.
We fall upon fits of meaning, and then they crumble and fall away like grains, beads of water, or precious gems slipping through desperate cracks in the fingers of our otherwise majestically nimble and powerful hands.
And so we wreak, and are wrought. We step solidly–and always loosely–into the same soil that has impressed and then obscured every single human footstep that came before us. In this walk we are not, and never will be, alone.
For the same questions have preceded us, and will also follow us, so many countless times that their collective song resounds with loud and forceful permanence, while simultaneously dissipating into the particles of a great wind that both destroys and shapes us: a constant current of question and meaning, of mystery and understanding, which will forever carry us away, but still does, and always will, carry us on.