Sixty five years old. I feel about seven most of the time. Jesus have mercy on me.
I don't have enough courage to be a pacifist, enough humility to be a christian, or enough purity to be a yogi.
I get angry and harbor impure thoughts. I eat and drink unwholesome foods. I wander too wondrously among many gods. I study and study, yet seem to know less each day. Of dubious use to humanity, or even to my loved ones, I am mere baggage on this planet, and my carbon footprint is very heavy.
I am the very incarnation of incompetence. All I do is write poems and feed them to the wind, hoping somebody will find one, and they don't clutter the planet too much.
Yet for no apparent reason the universe has accepted me, and allowed me to dwell on the precious green earth, embraced by sunlight and air, enfolded in the miracle of mere Being. Something vast permits me to say, "I love, therefor I am." And this fills me with unspeakable gratitude.
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