Reading the New Yorker, I am often reminded of how much I don't know and yet just as often am amazed by that to which I can relate. This morning's article is a good example. Having read few (probably none) of the books mentioned and knowing little of the people involved, I found much to connect to and contemplate.
Me. Working, wanting and wishing. An epigraph I could be proud to live with: A simple person, happy in being kind.
Marriage. A private, even as public affair, and a description, a pretty perfect one, of what marriage should be.
Religion. Not what I was taught but what I've come to see and believe ... and only a 150 years later than these writers ;)
Life. Which brings me back to the beginning: being kind and needing less. Because even in life's glory - and, yes, strife - death comes to all of us. It is only the ending; the journey there matters so much more.
