thoughts on a cool morning in albany

i think, part of growing up, or having grown a little more is how one reconciles with fear - fear of failure, fear of how people think about you, fear of how you're going to encounter Big Things You Have Never Seen Or Done. i think this year is a whole series of conquering fears in small steps and i think that has been good for me. just doing without worrying so much beforehand does alot of good for one's character.

i love new york. it is huge and i have yet to really explore it.

i love visiting my sister and i love meeting new people and meeting up with old friends - i am very much rejuvinated by things like that - plus enough rest. that should do me quite a lot of good - maybe it's a sort of healing for the first part of the year. i think i was broken quite alot and after that i went into a rigour that was good for me. now is the time of soothing and evening the gaps.

the world's as scary as it is but nothing worth worrying over. there's so much to love and so much to do - keep focused, but don't think too much, all at once.

"the secret of seeing is, then, the pearl of great price. if i thought he could teach me to find it and keep it forever i would stagger barefoot against a hundred desserts after any lunatic at all. but although the pearl may be found, it many not be sought. the literature of illumination reveals this above all: although it comes to those who wait for it, it is always, even to the most practiced and adept, a gift and a total surprise.

i return from one walk knowing where the killdeer nests in the field by the creek and the hour and the laurel blooms. i return from the same walk a day later scarcely knowing my own name. litanies hum in my ears; my tongue flaps in my mouth ailinon, alleluia! i cannot cause light; the most i can do is try to put myself in the path of its beam. it is possible, in deep space, to sail on solar wind. light, be it particle or wave, has force: you rig a giant sail and go.

the secret of seeing is to sail on solar wind. hone and spread your spirit till you yourself are a sail, whetted, translucent, broadside to hte nearest puff."

- pg. 35, 'pilgrim at tinker creek', annie dillard

i must be grateful for everything i have.