Note to Self

When I was a child, all was mysterious. The line between fantasy and reality was not always clear. I was inquisitive about the ways of the world and full of questions. As I got older, I began to realize that not every question has an answer, or at least that I wasn't capable, yet, of finding all the answers. Maybe I got tired of waiting for wisdom, or distracted by more mundane matters. These days, I'm asking all sorts of questions again, but wondering where to start. Perhaps the way to begin is to simply pay more attention—to what can be read in the eyes of a loved one, for example, but also to the meaning I find in a tree, the sky, a piece of wood, a stone. In art. Until I learn to be attentive to these things, to live in the present and really see what's before me, I'll never know what lies behind them.