I fell asleep yet again on the floor of the children's room last night. That's three times in a week, all resulting in a broken streak. Oh well.
Yesterday on my semi-regular afternoon walk to Starbucks I was overwhelmed with sonder. (Ha.) There were so many people in there working furiously or talking seriously about their work and lives. And there were people back in my office doing the same. Our own narratives are so important. They give us meaning. And without meaning, what are we? I used to call particularly vapid narratives, "personal bullshit narratives," but they're all a kind of bullshit. The other day I heard someone say, "We're all just amoebas [relative to the universe]," and immediately thought: it's worse than that, we're all just atoms relative to the universe. Although we're alive, so maybe amoeba is the right metaphor.
Point being, our lives are insignificant when viewed through almost any lens. An exception might be the lens of relationships. Nothing gives my life as much meaning as my relationships with my wife, my children, my friends, the Other, the Wholly Other. And yet I fail to prioritize these relationships. I prioritize my emotional needs, financial matters, creative work; I'm overwhelmed by my todo lists, email, snail mail, all the demands of others. Of course, providing for my family is part of my relationship with them. It's a balance, and it's hard to get right.