I’d like to write, but I’m not ‘feeling it’ today on some other level. I want to communicate, but words hold little appeal. I have no new pictures; it’s been too cold to whip off my gloves and pull out my camera, or rainy to hard to do so without risky the device. There’s a specific feeling of stress to the idea of not writing, too; it feels a bit like holding my breath. (I write that, and realize I am holding my breath…I exhale mindfully, inhale deeply, and continue.)

The day begins gently enough over a hot Americano, quite strong, black. Work tools at the ready to handle the day from home. I hear the sounds of other people in the household beginning their days. The espresso machine grinding another shot for someone else’s coffee. A cough in another room. I slept reasonably well, waking several times but returning to sleep with ease, and undisturbed by nightmares although my vivid dreams were strange and illuminating. They slipped away before I could hang on to whatever they may have offered, once I woke. I’m in pain, but that seems wholly unremarkable, today.

What do I want of life, and the world? How will I get there? What is the best of what I offer as a human being? How do I offer it – and to whom? Of the things that seem to matter most to me, what matters most truly? Where is my will located, and how do I prevent my emotions from undermining it?

Today is a good day for questions. I don’t have a lot of answers, but answers haven’t proven to be nearly as worthwhile as exploring the questions anyway. Today? Brevity. Perhaps silence.