And that truth is a simple one for me.
I don't know who I am.
I don't know how to be happy.
I don't know whether it matters to ask.
And so I struggle daily with the grayness of the grey.
Wrestling with so many seemingly mundane decisions.
Sometimes wondering why joy seems so simple and easy for others.
But I show up anyway, moment by moment.
Embracing the is-ness of my be-ing, in the here.
That cradles sorrow in equanimity with joy, anger with gratitude, wisdom with vulnerability.
And it's ok.
This constant questioning.
Of the terrain that is at once so intimate and foreign.
I already am.
So what is there to negate?
Why Do I Write?