On and on we go. Writing and writing. Talking and talking. Texting and texting. There are so many people saying so many things, posting them, editing them, reading and re-reading them.
It's a virtual world.
Blah, blah, blah. Another one writing.
You know who doesn't? You know who lives Zen rather than writing it? My children. And because of this, they make me crazy. Crazy with impatience, primarily, but also crazy with annoyance, crazy with frustration. Why do we have to walk so s-l-o-w-l-y to the car? Why do we need to stop and watch the airplane? I see it; let's move on. Do we need to play with our food? Let's just eat and go on to the next thing! Come on, already!
Meanwhile, they notice everything. They have everything anyone could want. They have what all the facebookers long for. They don't need followers to their blog; the whole world affirms them at every breath.
After friends left, the other day, my son took out his crayons. "This blue," he said, holding up a musky, grey-blue. "This is the color of D's Mama's eyes." He had seen and remembered the color of his friend's mother's eyes. I had no idea.
So, blah, blah, blah. On and on we go. And the little people know all there is to know. They see us. They are paying attention. They love without counting and live without timing. They are teaching me everything I used to know before I grew up. Writing is nice. Blogging is nice. But life? Life! Life is what we are here for.