In the grand scheme of things, there are few things that deserve to be called “grand” – using the term “grand” to mean important, vast, worthy of attention.  Too many little things float by the rivers of our lives, flotsam and jetsam of the daily collisions we create with ourselves and with others, and too little and too late do we pay attention to the rapids, the waterfalls, or, on the positive side, the occasional vistas that draw our breath out of us in a merciful, appreciative sigh.

It’s all about perspective.  From the perspective of a ping-pong ball, life looks pretty fucking traumatic and unpredictable.  From the perspective of an oak tree, old and strong and silent, life looks pretty stable.  Can we choose?  Or rather, more properly, how do we choose?   What tools do we have at our disposal to turn our attention away from the microscopic, the transitional, the inconsequential, and toward the universal, the long-term, the truly important?

I don’t know.  Things like “bucket lists” and the Franklin-Covey planning system seem too naive, too simplistic.  Sometimes I think that the answer is to tilt the whole goddamned table the right way, and everything will miraculously roll into its correct place.  Of course that’s wishful thinking.

Sometimes we’re jolted awake.  Sad news arrives, and we’re taken out of ourselves, out of our own experience, and we realize how we look at ourselves.  It’s as if the mirror we use to observe ourselves is fogged over, shrouded in layers of habit and reaction and imprecise memories, rendering our reflection in distorted chiaroscuro.  We squint: do we recognize ourselves?  Who is that person staring back at me?

While we’re awake, we’re no longer floating below the surface of the water – we’re raised up, brought to the surface, and can understand and appreciate the world around us, in all its wonder and (yes) sadness.  But at these times we’re experiencing things as part of the world, and not as separate from it.  We’re connected, in whatever small way, to the world and those around us.

There’s a sort of circular argument approaching: to fully understand and connect to others in the world, we need to understand ourselves; yet to fully understand ourselves, we need to understand and connect to others.  Chicken, or egg?  Is this a false choice?  Can we work both in tandem?   Be good to yourself AND be good to others.  That seems doable.