So we have arrived at Sunday again. Outside my window the grey day drizzles with rain.

I could spend the day watching DVDs or reading stories, but that would be unsatisfying. So today will be about reading meditative things, and writing down impressions. Hopefully this process will reveal some grains of truth about my life's purpose.

When my brother and I are in our seventies, and looking back, what will we see? Two lives comfortably lived? He will have a wife and children and grandchildren; I will not. Two lives comfortably lived--is that enough? If every day I do some kindness or generous act or create some noble work, that would be a good life.

"As a poet, I am used to saying what I don't thoroughly comprehend." --Kathleen Norris

I'm resting my back uncomfortably on the slding glass door. The frigid air and the stream of robin and sparrow calls flow into the carpeted floors of the dining room and the mechanical whirring of the refrigerator. It is the border between the verdant, dew-covered outside and the hushed, suspended inside.

Buddha the cat comes and visits, but is frightened away by a sneeze. He has a soft, thick coat and doesn't mind petting.