Blue calling

Yesterday I went to the beach in Lima.

The Pacific there doesn't perform. It continues. With or without me standing in front of it, with or without my offering anything to it. Without my will or conscious effort or even existence. It holds all and returns nothing. It moves with a kind of power that isn't interested in being witnessed.

The repetition is total. And yet I never caught it repeating. That's the thing about the ocean — it's doing the same thing endlessly and somehow it never is.

For a couple of hours the soundscape filled every available channel. Nothing else got in. Pure input. Gracious input. The kind you don't have to do anything with.

The ocean rang and I answered.

New creatures

You are a new creature in a very old game. The tragedy is not new. Neither is the survival of it.

It doesn't belong just to this moment. It belongs to the eons — to everyone who ever sat inside a dark night of the soul and decided to take a long, loving look at the real.

We are in excellent, excellent human struggle company.

That includes you. That includes all of us. For those tired of slow internet, loud traffic, and selfish decision-making.

They didn't hit fast forward. They just kept going. One step after another.

And so it is.

Wind

The second half of life might be better described as an archeological site with an ever present wind.

The wind, your friend in this case, seeks to uncover the natural geological formations underneath if you let it.

But you closed doors that didn't need closing and now it sits there.

It's visited by constantly hungry, annoying ghosts that haunt most adults most of the time.

The wind might scare them away if we let it, if we let our lives speak to us.

If we allowed the natural movement of the wind to expose the textures underneath.