and on we go.

Some days feel like they're never ending. Some times I wonder if this day-in-day-out ritual is really all there is to adulthood: my hour-long commute each way to work; a nine-hour day spent sitting in a windowless office; walk the dog; make dinner, eat dinner, clean up after dinner; sort, wash, fold, and stow laundry; read three pages of a novel before falling asleep; sleep; wake up early.

Rinse. Repeat.

And then I remember the tiny slivers of joy that sneak through the cracks in this ritual life: the flop of my dog's tongue out the side of his maw when we walk the two miles to the coffee shop; the hour we spend nightly at the dinner table, just me and Joe, talking about the day...before we break the spell by rising to wash the dishes; the great blue herons flying like prehistoric monsters over the ship canal bridge as I drive home; the long, luxurious weekends filled with waffles and art shows and lazy afternoons.

And on we go.  One foot in front of the other. One day at a time.  When the student asked the monk what he should do, the monk replied, "Have you eaten?"  The student said that he had. "Then wash your bowl," replied the monk.

And on we go.