I am having one of those weeks where I can’t come up with anything great to write about. I’ve started this blog about a dozen times so far. From the dog that kept me awake, to the people in the bike lane with their selfie stick, none of it seems good enough.

It’s not like my head hasn’t been filled with its usual voices of doubt, fear, arousal, and happy – I’m just having a tough time getting them down on paper.

A friend said the other day “I’m not so sure you’d be ok if all of a sudden the shit you deal with just went away. It’s what makes you interesting, and your life interesting.” Easy for him to say.

He’s on to something though. I don’t tread lightly on life. I tend to stomp around, raise dust, and get crap all over my boots. It’s a dis-ease that translates into deeper exploration, conversation, and experience.

I can’t seem to leave well enough alone. My questions all start with ‘why?’

My brother took me to an intro to Buddhism night. Afterwards he said he did it because he was curious if I could sit still for 45 minutes. Body maybe, mind, not so much.

Years ago I told a friend that I was doomed to live a dissatisfied life. He said that was the saddest thing he’d ever heard. That surprised me as I thought it was an expression of me wanting to suck the marrow out of life. But he’s right.

I can spend so much time reaching beyond that I lose sight of what’s right in front of me. I can get caught up in the noise and be unable hear. I can pass over the good in search of the perfect.