The beauty of impermanence.
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Morning thoughts with a Mourning Dove through a spring window.
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A young black boy sits on the curb, sucking on a lollipop in front of Philadelphia City Hall. At his feet lays a hand written sign that reads, “Get your knee off my neck,” in bold black letters. He’s sitting next to his mother, watching, as thousands pour in from the street, calling for police accountability in the killing of George Floyd.
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On this grey, quarantined Saturday morning, I gave myself a gift. I hope during your quarantine, you can find time each day to give yourself a gift too, even if it’s only the gaze from a morning window, or some quiet introspection.
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The Waiting Place is Dr. Seuss’s place of fiction that’s not so fictitious. It’s the place where we wait. For the phone to ring. For the right job. For the right time, or to navigate the right path in life. It’s where we try to figure it all out, or wait for things to start making sense. The Waiting Place, is where I find myself at the strange age of 27, and maybe you do, too.
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Quit your day job. Sell your house and buy an RV. Do what you love, or at least try to figure it out. That’s what this couple is doing. They’re searching for an“unknown sweet home ” in their pre-owned RV, somewhere down a winding road, probably nestled near the woods, immersed in nature.
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