“You cannot shovel your way to the top of the mountain.” You can thank lyricist Ricardo Arjona for the sentiment. It means different things to different people. And nothing to those who don’t love the nuance of language. I walked in the blazing sunlight of this Vulcan August afternoon. When I descended into the creek bed, the canopy of trees lessened he heat by 20°. Though the water has diminished, the creek still runs and the water is clearer than ever. I wish my head to be as diaphanous and in the moment as the minnows congregating at my feet. I can live happily with very little, much less than most. Don’t get me wrong. I love the embrace of the air created by the air conditioner. And the almost instant cup of bitter coffee that my machine produces upon demand. I love the vibration of music in my ears, the pulse of cleverly constructed and beautiful ideas passing through my little brain. It’s true that I don’t experience boredom. But I do experience the overwhelming sensation at times that I’m facing the wrong direction and that the universe has been tapping me on the shoulder for decades. I stood in the creek and lost track of time again. Watching the minnows with envy. It is beyond strange to me how moments of Zen are often literally at our feet. Distraction, distraction, distraction.

Love, X
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