Counting by 7s

The world where we live is so much in our head.

If there is anything I’ve figured out in the last months it’s that you can find labels to organize living things, but you can’t put people in any kind of group or order.

When you care about other people, it takes the spotlight off your own drama.

What we expect rarely occurs; what we don’t expect is what happens.

Only in cartoons and fairy tales and greeting cards do endings have glitter.

The idea is to release them while some guy in a suit (but also wearing sandals with white socks) sings about love being the answer to everything.

I watch in horror.

I know for a fact that the latex lumps will end up tangled in electrical wires.

They will find their way into rivers and streams, and even travel for miles out into oceans, where they will choke fish and endanger marine mammals.

But I cannot find my voice to do anything about these future calamities, because it is someone’s idea of inspirational to release the bobbing weapons.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a toddler refusing to let go of his helium prize.

His parents finally manage to pry the ribbon from his clenched fist.

As the four-year-old sobs in agony, I know that he is the only one here who understands.

But no living thing is perfect.

Every person has lots of ingredients to make them into what is always a one-of-a-kind creation.

We are all imperfect genetic stews.

One thing leads to another.
Often in unexpected ways.

Life, I now realize, is just one big trek across a minefield and you never know which step is going to blow you up.