Chapter 7

I wish I was a squirrel.

All they do is run around gathering and eating their nuts. And they seem quite content to do so. Donald Trump is trying to subvert our demorcracy and a huge bunch of lunatics are supporting him? The squirrel don’t care, he just eat his nuts. Putin invades Ukraine and bombs innocent women, children, and men? The squirrel just eats his nuts. He too busy to worry bout that shit. Global warming? So long as his trees keep putting out food for him, the squirrel he happy. Or she. They just scurry around too busy to notice what’s going on elsewhere, happy in their own little world. We should all be so lucky as a squirrel.

I’ve always thought I was at least a little squirrelly; always busily distracted in my solitary pursuit of the wisdom of emotions. Now I realize how lucky I have been. It’s a blessing to have a heartfelt quest, even one so oblique.