We seek answers in everything, and the answers are in us and all around us. As a result, I’m willing to have a good-natured laugh at the drop of a hat over just about anything I say about having an answer.
When I write words there is something in me which watches with detached amusement as I do this silly thing, trying to recreate that which is already perfect and perfectly created. My recreations are clumsy drawings, and this thing in me watches with the amusement of an indulgent parent who loves me and my primitive, childish expressions.
I’m conscious of this amused presence. After all, it is in me. It is me. It observes my activity as a clumsy dance or childish scrawl, and is not appalled or struck with how infantile it is – it’s just amused. What I am doing is what I am doing. It just is what it is.
In that consciousness of how silly it is to attempt to make what is already made, that amusement often breaks through into what I am writing. I wander into laughing and silliness, amused by my own foolishness. When this happens I hope it finds another conscious person and we can laugh together about it. If not, I hope it plants a seed of insight into the emptiness of our vanity as we wander around lost inside the being we spend so much time so very earnestly seeking.