There’s nothing particularly special about today, or my writing mind today. It’s just me, here, by myself in the increasingly strange world. There’s been some work, a few dreams (of forgotten rooms in my home that I didn’t realize existed). Perhaps a hint of possibility and opening, but really, nothing special. No incredible insights or critical ideas, no particular philosophy (though I am preparing for my new moon ceremony shortly).

I am aware, lately, of the great suffering that many individuals who are socially isolated experience, and I can relate with it directly, as this is something I am deeply personally familiar with. There has been some sense, for a few days, of the incredible poverty that is the daily life for so many people in our modern times, and the vast array of forms these impoverishments emerge through. It’s easy to have compassion for this, but it’s not merely a signal encouraging that. There’s something deeper to it, something very personal. A secret that’s hidden in plain sight.

But for now, it’s just me, today, writing a little bit. Nothing special. But I am thinking of those I have loved and lost, and those who I love now, and miss.