March 31
Everything that comes, I accept — death as willingly as birth. A blade of grass is no less to me than the journey of the stars.
Leaves of Grass (freely rendered)
Listening mode
Everything that comes, I accept — death as willingly as birth. A blade of grass is no less to me than the journey of the stars.
In the morning you read about an earthquake with many dead. At midday you spend half an hour annoyed at a zip that has snagged. In the evening you notice how unequally the two things were given room in your day, and it makes you a little uncomfortable.
You know a ranking that is undoubtedly right. The earthquake matters more. Your attention, however, doesn't follow this order. It stays caught on whatever comes under your fingers, whatever can be touched and perhaps still put right.
You could dismiss this as pettiness. But the zip took nothing away from the earthquake. It made its claim on you in a different way, closer and coarser. If you had to test every thing for its importance before you were allowed to notice it, there wouldn't be much of your day left.
That doesn't settle the embarrassment, though. It has its own reason: you want great things to occupy you greatly as well, and you notice that this wish can't simply be fulfilled.
The next morning the zip sticks again. This time you pull more slowly, and the news is still lying unread on the table.
