Your life is not a neat and tidy little package. You are not just the basic facts they trot out in the printed insult of an obituary once you’ve left this world: born here, worked as a so-and-so, married twice or not at all, had children or didn’t, survived by three goldfish and a nephew who’s sad you’re gone but hopes to get his hands on your record collection.

No, underneath the surface distractions of health insurance and grocery lists and registration renewals and wondering how you’ll pay for everything, your life is vast, messy. Full of pain, crippling fears, secret longings. But your journey, whatever its length and nature, is something you can learn to honor. You could close your eyes and penetrate with clear vision right through your fingertips like an afterburner pulling yourself along in your own wake.

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