The art of living isn’t that simple. But honesty makes it bearable and everything stripped of its film is bare and sincere. The tree limb cracking in the storm is as honest as the drop of rain coating a sad girl’s lip. We have been misled to think that meaning can be debated. We build meaning by being sincere, by listening to what every simple thing has to offer—letting all the meanings merge. Each sincerity is a language. When what I empty and what you empty find each other, a fullness is born. When the pain that I share finds the pain that you share, love is born. When we can face what is ours to face, and feel what is ours to feel, the heart of our heart throws itself before the waterfall where blessing after blessing is ladled on our sores till we wake and stand full term in the bliss of being ordinary.
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