Where was I, where was I...

I've often thought it a kind of sadness or loneliness, a feeling I get sometimes, confused, not knowing what to do with life.  Off for a jog, I end up walking;  time to think.  And it occurs to me what it is.  The missing sense of divine love, of God's love...  It seems lonely too, partially abandoned, and so it finds me, and I find it.  Maturity is an organic thing, a creature of seasons.  And why not now?  That's what's missing in this world, that steady uncomplaining happy to be itself love from God, whatever you want to call God.

I am a mystic, I gather.  That's how I come at things, being too slow a reader to get to everything one should, drawing from, trusting instinct and happenstance.  That's why I tend bar, believing in some strange unexpected but holy communion going on behind scenes, present, whispering through.  Get people together, loosen them up, and something potentially wonderful can happen, even as that is downplayed, lest anyone start to feel odd.

The Buddha, remember, was an ordinary person, just like you or I, and he was, on his own, able to figure out quite a lot.  He is, perhaps, one of the quintessential writers, in the classic sense.  His thoughts are meant for the written form, to be read and re-read, studied, pondered.  Of course, the oral tradition was so marvelous at the time, it was much the same thing as writing.

Mistakes one makes are from lack of understanding the divine, or maybe not mistakes at all.