It isn’t easy. To see humanity, in everyone, all of the time. I mean, to see that everyone is possessed of their own brand and flavour of intelligence, to forgive them what you might perceive as flaws, when in fact they are not flaws. They are the warp and weft of humanity, I suppose. The colours of the strings we are woven from. Nubbly, crusty grey wool, or fine red silk, or whatever. I’m probably blue-and-white bed sheet cotton. Fresh, dreamy, insubstantial, childish. Nothing to keep you warm on a cold winters’ eve.



Today is grey and gold, sunlight weak and chilly and shining wet on black-grey pavement. I want to skip and kick a gritty soccer ball across the melting earth, I want to shout to my distant friends, speak in schoolyard squeals of bright winter afternoon joy.



Tongue is different from hand. Tongue speaks and sets boundaries and sculpts. Sculpts emotion. The hand can reach, reach. Out, out to give, to take, to give. To quantify, to establish and make real. I can say I will give this to you, but only actions will prevail, or they won’t. Only hand can act.



In Japanese, there is one word for heart, mind and soul: kokoro. Stop dividing your spirit. Live whole. Feel, think, know, and do them all at once.