Sun's up. The baby boy is four days old today.  What he knows is sleep, body-warm milk, comfort.

I will not--I cannot--write about the abomination of child-rape, the story that's now current about a case in Pakistan. To say that it freezes my blood--to say that I wish the most awful things on those who have done this--who do this--is to say the very least I can.

So much of our lives is luck--where we are born, to begin with; then who we are born to--how much love they were given, how much love they, themselves, need; whether they grew up because of or despite their parents; how hard they fight, very day, to find balance. We all begin as amateurs trying to find our way--and, so far as I can see, the key is needing to know more.

Here is Aldous Huxley, memorably:

Experience is not a matter of having actually swum the Hellespont, or danced with the dervishes, or slept in a doss-house. It is a matter of sensibility and intuition, of seeing, and hearing the significant thing, of paying attention at the right moments, of understanding and coordinating. Experience is not what happens to a man; it is what a man does with what happens to him.

So many stand pat with the hand they're dealt. Knowing that they were dealt the hand they're living is their biggest insight, the rock they live behind. They think that knowing that is enough. It's not. The only thing that knowledge does is keep them from drowning, since they think they know where they are.  But this is just another way of saying that all they're doing is treading water.

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The air's chilly, but the sun's throwing long, long shadows across the grass.  A fugitive gust of wind has just blown off a shower of pink-white petals
from the magnolia. The world is all we can imagine--and more.
 


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