I don't really have much to say. I don't know how I feel. Yeah.
Brought this quote up in conversation over a great breakfast on Saturday (I love it when a competent waitress does a good job, although I was sparked to the quote while watching a very handy window washer - we were sitting outside):
If a man is called to be a streetsweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven played music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great streetsweeper who did his job well. – Martin Luther King, Jr.
And since we're letting better men speak, I think Steinbeck would best sum me up today. The first one I've always liked, and the second I've kept around for a few years in mild anticipation of the day I would really identify with it.
A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.
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Do you realize that I am twenty-six now? I don't. I don't feel twenty-six and I don't look that old, and I have done nothing to justify my years. Yet I don't regret the years. I have enjoyed them after a fashion. My sufferings have not been great nor have my pleasures been violent.
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