Briefly: Pleasant afternoon here, with the Sangre de Cristo mountain range rising up across the street. I’m taking a moment to catch up on some reading, and I landed on a piece in the New Yorker about writing, about “the middle” of things as opposed to the beginning or end of things.
The writer quotes Rainer Maria Rilke: “Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms, or books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”
I wrote recently that this trip is about finding my place in my own life. I’m not here to resolve any problems like I may have been attempting in New York City in January. I’m here to relax and to love the questions. I’m drifting across New Mexico — 53 hours in at this point — and I’m totally lost in the most uplifting, ontological sense of the word.