I am a grateful person. It doesn’t show often here, in this blog, because I’m spending so much time railing against the destroyers and despoilers of this world; but I am. Very much so.
I still pray a lot, every day, many times a day, even though I no longer believe in an authority God. I’m still working very hard on figuring out this “New Theology” of mine; when anything real and relevant comes up, I’ll clue you in.
As I age, I can see, with greater and greater clarity, just how fucked up my priorities used to be. I was put on this earth to write. Everything else was a distraction and ultimately harmful to me.
I love my life, and I love my spouse, and I love the home we’ve struggled to create for ourselves. It has been extraordinarily difficult at times, and we haven’t emerged unscathed. We are deeply private individuals, and very committed to our work, and are very, very stubborn. The fights we’ve had have at times been damning. But we’re still together, and—I think, at least—stronger for it.
My life is totally alien to how I thought it would turn out as a kid.
Today has come, and as I write this, it is waning. My evening routine awaits—a little cleaning, feeding the kitty, having a nice shave, meditating. Later, dinner with TV. Bed around 11.
As Jackson Browne sings: “I’ll wake up and do it again. Amen.”
I will likely never have more than a tiny, tiny audience for my work. I’m good with that. This life is mine. I’m grateful for it, and for all I’ve got.
That is enough.