I am a recluse by nature or maybe I’ve been nurtured into it, but I like to try to balance that with expansive openness to the people around me. It’s an odd sensation to open up and to soften and to be a little vulnerable, but in some weird way, it feels right.
I feel like it would be easier in some ways to walk many roads alone. I feel like Thoreau was on to something when he went off to Walden Pond. I can barely read his book because I so envy the life that he lived there.
But something tells me that that isn’t full living. At least it isn’t what I am meant to live.
And then Thoreau says something like this:
‘How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.’ And during this time I began to wonder, was I truly living?
And I emerge from my forward fold and get clumsily back up into the world and smile, til next time. And then I do it again.
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