If I don’t fully understand the question, then what good will my answer be? Yet I think I understand, and answer with confidence, even when I’m as wrong as a chunk of wood in a fancy cocktail, or a rusty cucumber in a bag of nails. Even worse, I believe myself, and make an art of my haste and ignorance.
Many times over the years, I’ve read, and heard it said, that every question contains its own answer. But if I’m not willing first to live with the question, and then live with the answer, both are lost on me. At that point I become a well-meaning fraud, a dupe to a long list of convenient assumptions, host and carrier of second hand thoughts.
The robins aren’t singing these days. All of their vocalizations seem to be directed at their children, which flap clumsily about as they get tangled in tree branches and bump into walls. We just saw a small speckled one in the apricot tree, perched a few inches away from an apricot, staring at us, looking for all the world like an owl.
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Categories: A Few More Scratches