And if we were to collect these small moments in a notebook and save them over a period of months we would see certain trends emerge from our collection - certain voices would emerge that have been trying to speak through us. We would realize that we have been having another life altogether, one we didn't even know was going on inside us. And maybe this other life is more important than the one we thnk of as being real - this clunky day-to-day world of furniture and noise and metal. So just maybe it is these small silent moments which are the true story-making events of our lives.

     Sometimes I think the people to feel the saddest for are people who are unable to connect with the profound - people such as my boring brother-in-law, a hearty type so concerned with normality and fitting in that he eliminates any possibility of uniqueness for himself and his own personality. I wonder if some day, when he is older, he will wake up and the deeper part of him will realize that he has never allowed himself to truly exist, and he will cry with regret and shame and grief.
     And then sometimes I think the people to feel saddest for are people who once knew what profoundness was, but who lost or became numb to the sensation of wonder - people who closed the doors that lead us into the secret world - or who had the doors closed for them by time and neglect and decisions made in times of weakness.

     Why is it so hard to quickly sum up all of those things that we have learned while being alive here on Earth? Why can't I just tell you, "In ten minutes you are going to be hit by a bus, and so in those ten minutes you must quickly itemize what you have learned from being alive."
     Chances are that you would have a blank list. And even if you gave the matter a great concentration, you would probably still have a blank list. And yet we know in our hearts that we learn the greatest and most pround things by breathing, by seeing, by feeling, by falling in and out and in and out of love.

Labels: literature, spirit