what's this we're doing here?

Dear living,

I need your help. Something in me is trying to understand what we’re up to here. We’ve been together for at least 60 years now and something in me is often grappling with what this thing we have together is.

I don’t remember how or when we met, but it seems you have been with me from my beginning. I cannot recall a me that doesn’t include you. Each morning that I fall awake, you are here. Each evening as I fall asleep you are with me.

There have been times when this thing we are in together felt so hard that something in me has demanded that we put a stop to it all. A teacher whom I trust encouraged me early in my adulthood to engage with you while imagining death is sitting on my left shoulder. I sense that what we have is tenuous.

And I know I’m not your only one. I see you in others too. Other people have shared with me their delights, confusion, and fears arising from their relationship with you. I see people frantically racing around, desperately trying to project confidence and find a safe place to stand. I see you dancing in the blue jay and the elm. I see you wriggling in the sunfish being swallowed by the green heron.

And every day, seemingly in every moment, something in me needs whatever this is to make sense to it – to fit within a clear and acceptable narrative – to fulfill a presumed promise to produce a tidy set of meaningful outcomes. And lord knows there’s been no shortage of people compelled to tell me what those outcomes should and shouldn’t be.

Yet so far, the only perspective I’ve been able to find that reliably feels true, is that I want to enjoy you. Can it be that simple? Can we play together in this unfolding mystery for no reason? Can we spend our days cultivating and savoring connection, wonder, and joy? Are you up for that?

Yours,

Ken