One only knows that to share is to lighten the load that humanity must bear.

I always feel a bit lighter after this modest form of publishing, leaving an inner thought here where I can find it later.

Without a huge amount of enthusiasm I will head off to wine tasting.  But it's not about the wine.  It's about the basic compassion, part the kind Dostoevsky writes about in Karamaov, Alyosha's dream, the feast at Cana, an Orthodox Godly wish for humanity to find joy, and also part the compassion even a middle-aged barman can muster.  Does it matter the specifics of the wine?

Oh, sure, blah, blah, blah, this grape, that grape, this sensation, that one, a balance, an earthiness, a bit of history...  But it's about more than that.  It's about the context.  It's about a year in the life of grape vines on a particular place on earth...