Earlier this evening, I was on the phone with my dear friend, Barbara.
She's one of the kindest people I know. And I know a lot of kind people. ('Kind' is sort of a top requirement when it comes to the people I let into my immediate circle.)
We were on the phone because someone we both adored and admired greatly (also another deeply kind person) died this morning. Neither of us can believe it.
(Add that to the many other events of 2016 than neither of us can believe.)
Just before we said our good-byes, Barbara said, "The older I get, the less I understand."
Barbara will be 70 in March.
At 33, this means I ought to face the fact that even with another 30 or 40 years under my belt, the world probably won't make any more sense to me than it does now. (And it makes very little sense to me now.)
I might as well get used to the nonsense (non-sense). To things that bewilder (be-wilder).
Instead of looking to understand, perhaps beauty is a better objective.
Nonsensical beauty. Wild winsomeness.
Like finding purple in New York, in December.
Or a small secret message in the form of a tiny rainbow patch in the sky.
(Can you find it?)
Or the way a single leaf hangs onto the skylight above the kitchen table (of all the places on the roof for it to put itself), picture-framed.
I'm keeping my eyes out for beauty this week. Please send along the bits you find—the more untamed and unreasonable, the better.
Nonsensical, wild, and beautiful, I spotted some urban fossils in Manhattan yesterday. These tracks were actually quite large—pigeon, maybe—and they left me wondering if the fellow was doomed to have grainy bits of dried cement stuck to his feet forevermore. Hope not.