I wish the Dalai Lama would write to me. Or, as I usually phrase it, God could send a lightning bolt or something.
I’m not sure it is good for me to read this book. I am susceptible to existential questions the way some people carry strep germs; any time I get run down, out come all the doubts to infect me.
Lacking a lightning bolt, I have had to try other things. Books. There are lots and many of them are comforting and inspiring. For a while I let my own superstitious nature run rampant, examining the entrails of my dreams and endowing everyday events with predictive power and considering the Jungian archetypes hidden in the tarot. I pray.
This morning I got up and took Cricket for a walk. She bounded through the sprinklers along the sidewalk. When we circled back for home, the sun blazed in my face. Then Brent and I went to breakfast to satisfy his days-old craving for waffles.
The woman who served us took care of everything we needed with grace and kindness. She did not gush or pretend to a relationship we didn’t have. She brought us our food with a smile, checked on us, and left us alone. I have no idea how she feels about her job, but if her performance is any indication, she has found her right work. That fed me more than the waffle.