“Statistically, the probability of any one of us being here is so small that you’d think the mere fact of existing would keep us all in a contented dazzlement of surprise.”<\/p>\n
–Lewis Thomas<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
I sit on the chair with the cat, Smokey, a soft gray comma curved against my leg. I notice cool air skimming my bare toes. I feel sleepy, hypnotized by the steady march of the wall clock’s second hand. What should I write? What does the world want to hear?<\/p>\n
I could be, should be, doing chores: vacuuming, laundry, culling unnecessary plastic objects from the closets. <\/p>\n
To an observer, I’m doing nothing. Yet I feel so full, like the Mississippi river, fluctuating underneath with powerful currents of possibility. <\/p>\n
In the past few months I’ve been following the still, small voice within. It’s as though I am knitting a complex lace shawl with many colors. I knit the pattern for a few repeats, and then I pause until the next part of the pattern becomes clear and knit that. When I look back, I see the design more clearly. The question is which color thread to pick up next, and how to weave it into my life. <\/p>\n
“Statistically, the probability of any one of us being here is so small that you’d think the mere fact of existing would keep us all in a contented dazzlement of surprise.”<\/p>\n
–Lewis Thomas<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
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