All human beings, whether they believe in God or The Gods or nothing at all walk about saying “one more minute” and only the birds hear it.
There are so many things I can’t explain. “Inside” I take things on faith. “Outside” I prize what’s explainable. This is why I only hint at God. “I believe,” I say, if pressed and change the subject.
I don’t want you to know about my soggy, superstitious, altogether sentimental heart.
Nor do I want you to know I think we’re in this world to suffer into truth. Think of the stars filled with tears and wisdoms.
I’m a lovely failure. I read as much scientific inquiry as I can get. I especially love the double hydrogen bonds that hold DNA together. I love Gregor Mendel but wonder if he ever ate the damn peas.
Are you a lovely failure?
“What a gulf between the self which experiences and the self which describes experience.” (Edmund Wilson)
Edmund Wilson was not a lovely failure. He was mean. I swear my soggy heart wishes to never be mean and grieves for me when I am.
“Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried, than before–more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle.” (Charles Dickens, “Great Expectations”)
About face again.
“What was in our stars
That destined us for sorrow?”
Don’t worry Anna, that’s just wisdom coming back.