There is a swell in my heart that makes me feel alive.

Whether it’s the result of a good night’s sleep, a fall-like spring, or the purchase of a bra without underwire, we will never know.

Satisfaction and contentment emerge out of nowhere as a sign of nothing, but pleasurable nonetheless.

We don’t dig into these moments because they are the way we are “supposed” to fee.

To be.

But so often we don’t. And then we do.

It is like having the proverbial toothache that you are only thankful for not having when you have it.

We are fickle creatures.

We want what we want and we don’t want to be uncomfortable and we don’t want to be inconvenienced.

We are like grown-up children with aches and pains and problems that emerge solely from the backs of our minds.

We are both pitiful and pleasant.

Proud and ashamed.

Liked and disliked.

But mostly we are confused.

Confused about what would make us happy or what matters or who cares.

We wander aimlessly, lusting after all kinds of things that can find no real space in our lives, no purpose or potential.

We walk the aisles of stores like soldiers thinking that what we choose matters and it will bring us joy no matter how fleeting or how foreboding it is for our pocketbooks.

We know nothing.

Not really.

Because what are the things we should know?

We should know about another’s suffering and try to ease as we would our own.

We should know about what goes on in the world and how to make it better.

We should know about all the good that others do because they care about a world that cares for itself and a world in which people care for another.

We don’t have to be saints, nuns, or politicians.

We need to be real with ourselves and others so that we can break through the bullshit of life.

The lack of authenticity that chokes us to our very core.

The things that make me think I am different from you when no such possibility exists.

You are not alone in wishing you were some kind of perfect even though we all know that perfection doesn’t exist.

You are not alone in hating this or that or being fueled by resentment for losing what you thought was yours.

But you are also not alone in being a fragile speck upon the earth, floating in a universe the size of which you cannot comprehend, and only wishing for some kind of meaning.

Meaning isn’t made on store shelves or in the quest for a perfect you.

Meaning is only made when hearts break and find each other so that the real work of healing and finding one’s true path can begin.