If life were in the thinking, you gotta know someone would’ve figured it out by now and, in a capitalist world, cashed in on it.
Thinking about thinking about thinking about thinking . . . thinking wraps us around the spinning axle of thinking.
Seriously and playfully: Can we not bear the attempt to take a lingering, compassionate look at ourselves and acknowledge that life in general, and our very own life in particular, is way the heck bigger than whatever it was we thought at first and gets bigger than anything we could think of if and when we try to look at it?
Here’s a truth I’ve been shown: I will not experience much of the fullness of life when I reduce it to the basis of my thinking. It—my life—when directed by my thinking was busy but dry, predictable but stale, humorless except for slapstick, sarcasm, and cynicism, and seemingly controllable up until the moment it collapses under the weight of its own contradictions.
It’s a life.
Don’t misunderstand me.
I’m neither implying nor telling anyone it’s wrong.
I’m simply and definitely saying:
There is so much more
For all of us