November 14, 2019
It was a dark stormy night. Well, maybe not so stormy. In fact I’m not sure it was dark, or for that matter nighttime.
Hmm, okay, let me start over.
It was a winter’s afternoon, the setting sun was low on the horizon.
Ah yes, that’s better - though in mind’s eye it was still a dark stormy night. I can call it how I remember it I guess, this entire endeavor has been a story in the works for nearly fifty years now, and it’s my story.
Well wait, that’s also not entirely true. It IS my story, but it’s more than that, I cannot tell my story without telling the stories of the lives of others who have interacted and influenced my story. I guess what I am saying, I cannot tell my story alone, as my story has been written not just by myself, but by those people who’s lives I’ve known. I’ve told my story in segments over the years, often with an emphasis on a single moment, or event really in my life, but really, the story of my life is better to remember the journey part, not just the destination. We love arriving places, though this I think is also not entirely true, we love the idea of arriving, but the reality is we love the going as much as we love arriving, in fact for most of us, for me at least, it has always been the journey. The point of destination is ultimately an act of ending, once reached, the getting there cannot be re-enacted.
This is the story of one man, whose life has been created by the people along the way, family, friends, lovers, enemies, strangers, historical figures, fantasy figures, hope, despair, loneliness and community. I’ve been always on the journey - the arrival for me is something I’ve yet to really discover. Sure, there have been lots of little road markers along the way, indicating to me moments of arrival, moment of “oh, so this is where I am going” which are inevitably followed by, “and now, next?”
Such hubris to think that my story, my journey out of billions is interesting enough that someone else will want to travel along with me, if only in written word. But funny enough, when I start to tell about my story, my journey, most folks tend to say, “hey, that’s an interesting story, you should tell it.” So here I am, ready to tell my story, mostly.
This story will be the brave act of remembering and a practice in really working hard to be honest, remembering context, an attempt to give narrative to my story and fill in the gaps (which as you can imagine, in fifty years, there are lots and lots of gaps. Look, I cannot promise “exactitudes” in my journey, but I can promise it will be as accurate a representation of my story as possible. Fortunately a lot of my journey is documented in pictures, notes, journals, other folks retelling (thankfully a lot of people I still know today were part of my journey) and I shall of course pull upon the historical epigenetic power of my Irish roots, the gift of gab (also maybe a dash of malarkey - I am mostly Irish after all).
So let’s go back......
It was a dark, stormy night........ yes I’m sticking to this version.........it was a dark stormy night and following long hours of driving hundreds of miles on icy, winter blown roads, my parents and I were ready to arrive. We had traveled these last few days from Steamboat Springs then via Denver to that remote, rural part of Missouri, for here we had traveled, arriving at a monastery, a place set in the rolling hills of Missouri, a cathedral of worship surrounded by corn and soy dedicated to the quiet work of monks and the education of young men who wished to be dedicated to the worship of the Christian god.
You know how some memories seem super implanted on the brain? Like the first time you touched a hot stove, kissed a girl (or a boy, or another person), like when you got pulled over by that cop for going 45 in a school zone and you just knew that you were going to get a ticket even if you showed the cop your chest........ yeah, that kind of memory. This was one of those for me, pulling up on that dark stormy night, at the monastery in the middle of no where, I remember.
It was getting dark, and the grounds of the monastery were littered with the last leaves of summer, their golden color fading into memory, leaving only the brown of winter decay in their veins. We, my parents and I, had been driving for nearly 12 hours from the Queen City of the west, to the heartland. As we struggled to read our maps (this was 1988 after all) we searched an unfamiliar country for a sign post, an indicator that we were on the right path. Finally, after a few miss stops and turns along the way, we fell upon the monastery.
It’s not as hard to find as you might think, after all, in the backroads of rural Missouri life is mostly about corn, soy, cows and farming. In this part of the Midwest, it was the only such structure and institution of its kind. But, finding this place, in the dead of winter, set against the pressing cold of an anticipated January, was not so simple. So as we did find the monastery, the memory was set. As we pulled onto the roads that led to the property, the first thing that appears, rising like a monument was the main church, a huge building built in the baroque style, two huge towers framing the entrance to a cathedral, looking very medieval in it’s design, and unusual moment lying on a hill in cornfield literally in the middle of nowhere Missouri, seeming to have been built just for me.
The soft crunch of stones beneath tires still to this day reminds me of the arrival. In cold air, perhaps because it was dusk, sounds seemed to weigh heavier than normal. There was a quiet ferocity about the place, the grounds, accented by the chill pressure that winter was breathing upon us. This and the darkness settling upon us, and the fear that we were not where we were supposed to be. The challenge of a place like this, a monastery set in rural Missouri, is that signage, great lighting, and knowing what to expect in a place that is already 100% unexpected, well, the quiet bore down upon us in our car. We seemed almost afraid to speak for fear that we would disrupt the freeze that was coming, and the stones we drove over seemed to be screaming beneath the wheels, “hey, this cannot be right.” But then, the journey and arrival were promised by the many people who told me, told my family, we had to be there. I had to be there.
And so we went, the dark stormy night now no longer a literal thing, but truly a literal comment on the feelings that settled over me as we drove past the soaring cathedral monument dedicated by generations of monks to the worship of the son of god. We circled the grounds for a bit, my father nervously asking me over and over where we were supposed to go. And I, eager, excited, nervous, feeling the full effect of the dark stormy night, had my face pressed up against the nearly frozen glass of the car peering out into the darkness of grounds of my future home for four years whispering to my father, “I don’t know.”
Finally, as if created by a dime store novel, the night opened as we found a better lighted small parking lot just past the cathedral, surrounded by several smaller buildings, sensibility built in a practice manner. It was here we pulled in, turned the car off, looking at one another, shrugging to one another hoping that where and what we should do would be revealed. And again, as if written, we spied a smallish man, wearing long black robes, a hood pulled up over his head protecting his ears from the swirling cold. He had to be a monk, or at least some rando who was into cosplay in rural Missouri. I fairly leapt from the car upon seeing this first person that night, and as I fled the relative warmth and safely of my parents car called out after him as he quickly sped by, “Father, father, wait I think we’re lost.”
This small man, who was almost elf like in his stature, short, slim, narrow faced, dressed in the black robes of a monk, a hood covering his head and ears, turned towards the sound of my voice, a grating noise in the context of the silence of the monastery.
“Brother.” Was all he said as he slowed his near running walk pace so that I might catch up to him.
“Brother?” I stammered as I drew close to him.
“Brother Aaron.” No further expounding narrative would follow.
Oh, right, not all men of god were priests I reminded myself, for as a young man I’ve been around other monks before, Trappists who were living in the mountains near Aspen, Colorado. “Ah, oh sorry Brother, my name is Thomas Burkett and I am a student at seminary college.
Brother Aaron glanced at me curtly, “Fine.” His face was like a statue, no hint of emotion showing there.
“Um, well yes, my Mom and Dad and I are kinda lost, we were supposed to be here earlier in the day but because of the roads we were delayed a bit, I’m afraid we don’t know where to go.”
Brother Aaron, looked up at building he had been headed towards in his flowing, speeding walk. His hooded eyes glinted in the fading light, I think he might have smiled beneath his frown, then motioned with a nod that I should follow him. Glancing back at the car where my parents were still extracting themselves, I caught my father’s gaze, he waved and they quickly followed Brother Aaron and I as he lead us to a small wooden door set in the side of the practical building. By now the darkness was no longer a narrative element that I am using to tell a story, but was genuine and it was hard to see. But when we arrived at the door set in the building, the open door poured a golden light out upon his face and mine, and I could see him now. A middle aged man, thin of build with steel grey eyes set in a pock marked face, youngish but not young. The brother held the door and simply indicated with his eyes we should enter the room.
And then, for the first time I stepped over the threshold of a door that would lead me down a path that to this day defines me. To this day haunts me. To this day was the greatest moment of life and worst moment. My parents, right behind me, seemed to disappear in my mind and the smiling, round face of another monk dashed up to us. He smiled at me, looked at my parents, and simply said, “You must be Thomas. Welcome to Conception, I’m Father Kenneth.” As we stepped in suddenly I noticed we were in a dining hall, quiet literally as a church filled with monks, sitting at several large tables, eating a meal in silence while another monk sat at the head of the room reading something to them all.
This moment, stepping fully from the cold darkness of winter’s night into the dining room of monks was the step of a journey I had been on for a long time prior, only I was I was not aware that the journey had already begun, in my mind this was the start of my journey.
This retelling of my life shall be an attempt to reconcile the true start of my journey in life with those moments that stand out in my life like a hand on a hot stove.
This is my account of my dark stormy night. This is the story of a boy born into a world of gods and priests, myths and legends, and how upon that journey I found “god”, lost “god”, found myself, lost myself, and now am just going back to assemble pieces of who I was, who I am and who I shall be.
September 06, 2017
|Mom - February 1970 (not an actual photo)|
Sitting on the 3rd stair from the bottom she tugged gently at the sleeve of the yellow dress she wore. She glanced for the millionth time at the clock….. 10:13 p.m. Her water had broken just an hour or so before, nothing major, but it was time.
The contractions had started shortly after her water broke. Looking at the clock, and judging from the intensity of the contractions, she knew it was only a few hour until the baby came. The contractions at this point were about 15 minutes apart, but still, this not being her first baby, she knew was a sign the baby was coming fast. She sighed and stood up.
Her little hard backed, plastic pink suitcase sat by the first step, aligned in perpendicular fashion with the step, the small plastic handle resting lazily on the top of case. The silver edging on the seam of the suitcase shone brightly in the dull hallway light, reflecting back to her the stress of being nine month pregnant.
10:30 p.m. - already? She glanced again at the hallway clock, it’s large wooden, radiating arms flaring out from the center of the brass center, numbers dark and black, proclaiming the hour proudly. Minutes were a bit harder to read, and seconds whizzed by, imperceptible really on the brass back ground.
Then suddenly lights flared in the drive way, flashing across the living room, next to the stairs. making the blinds reflect shadows on the wall, for a moment looking like a prison cell. Eagerly, she pulled herself to her feet, flex picking up the suitcase, hanging from her right hand, left hand clutching her right wrist, suitcase hanging before her knees like a plastic shield.
On the other side of the door the rustling of keys jangled like wind chimes in a storm. She thought she heard cursing. Her lips pursed in a tight line she stared at the door in the dark hallway, anxiously waiting.
The door swung open, following its arching shadow was the smell of viceroy cigarettes moved, at least to the nose, as fast as the shadows. Grumbling about keys, his voice echoed across the small entry way. Fumbling his hand hit the light, and for the first time it seemed he saw her, standing in her little avocado dress, red hard back suitcase in hand, he mumbled, “Ellen?”
“Bob,” matter of fact, “I’m in labor, we have to go to the hospital.”
For a moment, one of those rare moments when time seems to stop, the clock’s hand seems to move, backwards: he clutched the keys in his hand. The cigarette in his mouth suddenly was too hot, too smoky, too bitter. He choked back a cough and said, “What?”
Not her first pregnancy, her lips belaying a patience not really present she muttered, “I’m in labor.”
Through this news the gin fog that soaked his frontal cortex faded and the reality of his wife’s condition finally hit. “Ellen!” he exclaimed “We have to go to the hospital.” He looked down at his clothes, a suit he had worn all day, “I have to change.” He shot up the stairs, brushing past his wife in her avocado dress, the stair handrail groaning under his weight leaning against it as he propelled himself up.
She looked at the clock, grimaced as the start of another contraction rose into her body. She sat down on the steps again, knuckles white against the handrail, which groaned again. She closed her eyes, a tear seeping out and resting on her cheek. This pain, rising up from her groin and across her belly wasn’t unfamiliar, but it was felt again like the first time. As the contraction tightened her muscles she remembered to breathe through it, gasping as her belly tightened around the uterus, the as of yet to be born baby slowly, imperceptibly moving into place. In the pain, during the contraction, time seemed to stop, breathing was its own reward The contraction faded and she looked at the clock again, 9 minutes since the last one, and this one lasted nearly 30 seconds. They had some time, but she knew not much. The pain lingered across her belly, she wiped the tear away and glanced up over her shoulder at the top of the stairs where she could her him rushing to get changed. She crinkled her nose at the smell of the cigarette that he burning in his lips, the dull haze of smoke clung to the air like the tension of labor.
He appeared at the top of the stairs, gasping for air, the cigarette still burning on his lips. He looked down at her head, she was still sitting on the stairs her hand clinging to the rail. “Ellen, I’m ready let’s go!” He started down the stairs, his Florsheim shoes bright under the hall lights.
She looked back up at him, pulling herself upright with the hand rail. He paused as she stood. A light smile tugged at her lips. He waited, cocked his head and noticed the smile, “What is it?” he asked.
The tugging became a full smile, “Bob, before we go to the hospital I think you should put on some pants.”
His face flushed and he looked down. “Shit” and ran back into the bedroom. He jerked his slacks up over his shoes, flicked his cigarette with the aim of a marksman into the adjoining bathroom toilet, and fumbled with the belt, hopping into the pants as he headed back to the top of the stairs. She was still standing at the top, the little suitcase in hand, waiting. “Ellen let’s go” he barked as he lumbered down the stairs.
It was cold outside, February in Denver generally was, cold and dry. The air was quiet, only 19 degrees, but the car was still warm from his earlier outing. She climbed into the seat next to him, the suitcase resting at her feet. She knew another contraction was due soon, it had been nearly six minutes from the last one. He pulled a cigarette out from his pack, pushed the car lighter on, turned the key and the car rumbled to life immediately. He looked at her, “ready?” She nodded at him, her hands folded together in her lap, little black gloves protecting her fingers against the winter’s cold.
They backed out on the street and he gunned the engine. The lighter popped out of the dashboard, and without even a thought he lighted his cigarette, the acrid smoke immediately filling the car. She coughed a little and he glanced at her, “sorry” and rolled the drivers window down a crack, the winter’s air a fridge breathe of relief. The streets were quiet, it was a Wednesday night at nearly 11 p.m.
She gasped as the beginnings of the contraction hit her. He looked at her, panic flashing across his face, the cigarette on his lips standing to attention from the pursing of his lips around it. The car began to accelerate, it was a 1964 OldsmobileF-85 DeLuxe, a big car with lots of power, and like new. They were in Littleton, but the doctor they were powering towards was a couple of miles away in Denver. She groaned as the pain tightened, and he pressed harder on the accelerator. A stop sign blew past, unnoticed and forgotten, except that behind them appeared the familiar red flash of a cop car its siren screaming into the winter’s night.
The cop’s siren seemed to make the onset of the contraction worse, and she clinched her teeth as the pain clutched her belly, the shifting muscles pushing the unborn closer to escape. Bob muttered under his breath, “Shit.” He slowed the car, flipping the turn signal on from habit, and the car rolled to a stop, engine still running, cigarette burning, its ember light lost in the flashing lights of the car behind them. His grip tightened on the wheel, the creaking of his tendons audible in the cold night. Even in her contraction she glanced at him and offered a grimacing smile, “It’s okay Bob.”
The cop pulled his car behind the Oldsmobile and looking through his wind shield he noted in his log the license plate number and make of the car. He opened his door, the fridge February air enveloped his skin quickly and he gasped. He could see the heads of the couple in the car before him, not moving really. He noticed the car was still running. He debated using his car loud speakers to tell them to turn it off, then shrugged, probably a couple of kids out drinking. No big deal.
He ambled to the car in front of him and got to the driver’s window, with the butt of his flashlight he tapped the glass, which was already partway down, “Sir, roll down your window and turn off the engine.” He turned the light to shine it into the car for a better view. It was a young couple, a woman in the passenger’s seat and a guy, looking very nervous behind the wheel. He could smell cigarettes from the car and maybe gin.
Bob rolled the window down, his hand shaking, and glancing at his wife who was in a full contraction, he started to stutter at the cop, “This is an, a, uh, well, damn, a, um, this is AN EMERGENCY.” His voice became fever pitched and the emotions of the night carried in his tone.
The cop clicked his tongue, leaned into the now down window, and managed a forced smile, “Sir, what emergency?” He was focused on the driver, who it seemed was either drunk or something else.
Bob stammered, waving his right hand towards Ellen, “My wife, she’s pregnant!!”
The cop looked more closely at the woman in the passenger seat. He noticed she had her head back, her lips were tight, and her hands were clutched her full belly. She was indeed pregnant. He looked back at the driver, “Sir I can appreciate that but…….”
“Damn it man!” Bob yelled, “She’s in labor right now!!!”
The cop looked back at her and noticed she was gasping, in distress. He stepped back and stood upright, looking back at his car. He could call an ambulance and they would take care of this. He looked back at the driver, “Sir, you say she’s in labor?” Bob nodded. “Miss, miss, can you hear me?” The woman nodded, just barely as she breathed through what appeared to be a severe contraction.
Bob had it, he reached through the window and grasped the cop’s arm, “Look bud, we can debate this all night, but I”m not sure we’ll make it in time for you to call an ambulance, we’re going to hospital and you can arrest me there, but we’re going unless you want to deliver a baby!”
The cop sighed, he looked at them both. He had only been on shift an hour or so, so this was already more excitement than he had seen all month. “All right sir, I can’t have you running stop signs and speeding, and no, I don’t want to deliver any babies, so tell you what, you follow my cruiser and I’ll get you to the hospital. Deal?”
Bob nodded, his cigarette’s ash falling on his coat. “yes, let’s go, Porter Memorial”
The cop nodded, pleased at himself and jogged back to his car. He picked up his CB radio, and dialed into dispatch. “Dispatch, this is unit 99, over.”
“Go ahead 99, over.”
“Yeah, um, I’ve got a 10-59, a pregnant couple urgently need escort to hospital, location Porter, Denver County.”
“Roger 99, to confirm you’re 10-59 to hospital, Porter, Denver County. Please be advised 99 it’s out of jurisdiction, over.”
“Roger, I’ll escort and get out of there- over.”
“10-4 99, over.”
The cop smiled, flipped his siren back on, pulled out in front of the couple’s car, waiting for them to assume position behind him, and he floored it, lights and stop signs be damned. He nodded, hell this was kind of fun.
They had been close, and the drama of an escort was minor, but Bob pulled into the hospital’s emergency parking, the cop was on his heels, “Sir, let me help.”
Bob glanced at him nodded, “just grab a wheelchair I think.” The cop nodded and darted into the hospital, emerged moments later pushing a small wheel chair to the car. He noticed the couple were out of the car, and the woman seemed to be okay, she was clutching with on hand a small pink suitcase, and the other holding on the man. He wheeled over to them. “Folks here you go, good luck.”
Bob smiled at the cop and helped his wife sit down. He glanced at the cop, “Thanks for everything, be safe.”
The cop nodded and watched them disappear into the building, their breath seemed to linger behind them in the cold. He slid into his cop car and shook his head. Babies and drunks. What a night. He pulled out and headed back into Littleton.
Later, several hours, they rested in the room, the baby had been delivered. She stroked his little face, dark features, everything was completely normal. He was nestled against her breast, asleep. She sighed when she looked at his little face and nodded with a smile, “Hi Thomas.”
And thus I was born.
December 22, 2015
December 04, 2015
I think as a child, a catholic child specifically, is when my fascination with life really took a hold. I should clarify, my fascination with what happens to life after death. I have to remember all these years (like almost 40 years) have passed between when I was a little boy and today. In that time my curiosity about life and death have evolved, thinking back now as an adult trying to remember my thoughts, my experience of life and death as child, well they are very different. All the same though, my curiosity on the topic remains.
All this aside, I have always wondered that question, which I suspect many of us do, does life truly end at death, or does this strange phenomenon of awareness of self continue beyond the experience of death? I don't know the answer, but in growing up in the Catholic Church I was given many answers to this question, most of which said resoundingly, yes life goes on. Not only does life go beyond death, but it's better than life here! It is perfect living, especially if you are not a "sinner" (whoa such a qualifier) and even more especially if Jesus Christ is your lord and savior. Now as it was I was indoctrinated into that faith, I never was given the option to choose it so while as a child, and even as a young man I would have said if asked, "Yes, Jesus is my lord and savior." This answer though was meaningless because I had no idea what the alternative was, and in fact did not know that there was an alternative.
Funny stuff this immortality given as a gift only after one dies. Heaven is described as perfection. It was there that we were taught that in heave there existed: no suffering; no fear; no loneliness; total union with the divine; perfect knowledge. And as a young boy I wanted this. I wanted all those things, they sounded so amazing. Yet a caveat existed, you couldn't go to heaven if you committed a mortal sin, and self harm to the point of death (suicide) disqualified you. The act was anathema. And so we had to wait for the gift of heaven until we got old and died, got cancer and died, hit by a car or shot by a bullet and died. No way that was coming to us in the state of knowing that we were (or are) currently in.
But there were those times, evenings often, when I wasn't playing anymore. I would sit alone in my room, surrounded always by my hundreds and hundreds of stuffed animals and wonder then what was heaven really like. My wonder actually was more along the lines of, what is death? So often I would think of this, and wonder that I began to imagine that it might be okay if I died. I began to tell myself that death, in all it's scary "unknowingness" was so tempting, so much a desire, that I was less afraid of it than I was of living. Play into death was as tempting for me as play in life.
But I didn't want to risk it. Not at first anyway.
Now please know, I was in no way neglected or unloved by my family. My mother was a very caring person (still is). She fretted over us, kept us fed, loved us, sang to us. I did have joy in my life, and I wasn't exactly depressed. I did brood (I still do), I did like reading about dark things like dragons, evil wizards, devils and demons, but I also loved bright happy things too. I played for hours with my legos, hot wheels, swords and things. But many times, I would imagine myself dead. Gone, wandering into the next life whatever that life may be.
One memory, so clear for me, is of an evening when I was alone in my room, maybe around 1979. I had a small Swiss army knife, the old kind that had only a few tools and blades. It had one larger blade, and this one was pretty dull. I pulled myself under the blankets in my bed and took out that little knife. I remember holding it in my hand. The sensation of the red plastic case at first cold, then warming to the touch of my skin. I remember flipping open the largest blade, gleaming under the flash light and snapping it shut, time and time again. Then I remember taking this blade and pressing it against my stomach, point into my flesh. I remember pressing it, hard enough to push the skin in deep without cutting, and thinking to myself "press harder, you're so close."
I didn't come so close to death again for a long time after that. Whatever held me back in that moment kept the thoughts of dying at bay for many years. The thought occasionally came into my mind, flittering from time to time, sweeping in like a little humming bird, buzzing around my brain tempting me with, "death just like sleeping, don't you like to dream?"
But there somewhere in my mind are whispers of a darker desire, hints back to my childhood begging me to explore life and it's natural end. Now that I've studied death myths, legends, theories of heaven and afterlife I do not believe there is any type of continuance of existence beyond what we know. I believe that at death I simply cease to exist. Our lives, our consciousness are like light switches, once flicked off, we simply cease to shine. So the fascination with death for me has lost the appeal of escaping into a better existence. But funny, this thought of dying, death has become such a close friend of mine, it's hard to let it go.
There was a time in 1993, January, when I stood on the edge of a rooftop on a building in Rome, some ten stories tall and looked down at the paving stones below and nearly leapt. Now this was a time when I was depressed. I had been living in Rome then, studying to be a priest, struggling with my sexuality, struggling with being an atheist, struggling with a realization that the Catholic Church, which had become my home, my lover, hated me. So standing there on the roof of the Pontifical North American College, looking down in the darkness at the road below, I stood; toes dipped over the edge of the building, the wind buffeting my back, encouraging me, daring me to fly - for a moment - to kiss our earth - to stop being me.
There have been other dark moments in my life and those random thoughts have popped up for me thinking how much easier it could be for me if I just allowed myself to slip into the great sleep. In all these years, with therapy, the right friends, and maintaining a more firm grasp on reality, I've not stepped off the edge, but what my ever present struggle with thoughts of death and suicide have brought me, are an absolute lack of fear. I've known pain, physically with surgeries, a bout with cancer, broken bones. I've known pain in loss of loved ones, death of friends, end of relationships, heart break. I've known pain in feeling insignificant, unimportant, unable to affect change in the world. So yes, those dark thoughts have crept up in my mind, and the faint whispers of my old friend death hisses in my ear, ".....you're so close." And because my old friend death is an ever present part of my personal darkness, I've come to not fear him at all.
I'm happy to discuss this topic and post with you or anyone - leave a comment or send me a message. I've lost friends to suicide. I've lost friends and loved ones to early death, and to death after a long life. And that loss is real. That loss is painful. That loss is hard to bear. I know my life will one day end, hopefully not for a long time, I'm learning there's lots more living to do and I'm only getting started. So in the meantime I'm going to keep growing, keep learning, allowing myself to fail, but always allowing myself to get back up after a failure and try again. I know that death is always close, lurking around the corner but my movie has only just started and I don't want to miss the ending.
I wrote in my "Thoughts Along the Way" journal about this a few months ago. Here are those musings, "I am, for this rather insignificant moment in space and time, aware. Based on the incredible rarity of life, especially life aware of itself, this is the importance of being. Our existence itself seems to point to the meaning of life itself."
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
1 (800) 273-8255www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org
December 03, 2015
December 02, 2015
November 29, 2015
November 27, 2015
It occurs to me that I have much for which to be grateful.
I saw a young man sitting the other day at Grand Central on the subway platform with a cat on his lap. The man was asleep and the cat quite calmly and peacefully was cleaning herself, ignoring the screeching trains and people.
And we were ignoring them.