Looking back through my journal from 1998 I see quite a different person. And yet the same. My goodness, my gracious, my God! Why was I cursed with this unrelenting drive to ask the Big Questions? I’m not a philosopher. I feel like I'm a snail blindly sliming my way across a landscape of infinite crabgrass—going nowhere, one blade at a time.
Or rather, I should say, I used to feel that way. Now it's a little different. I still feel like a snail tossed … on some suburban joker's lawn, but I understand there's nowhere to go. Nowhere to go. Nothing to change or be changed.
And yet I still go.
Yes, I will write. I will write till the day I die. Yes, I will speak, be there ear to hear me or not. But I can see a vision of something greater. The other side is very close. The eternal. The divine. The transcendent. And though there is a wall that keeps me here in the mundane world, that wall also has doors—doors through which I am learning to pass. |
LISTEN | 
