I am written out for the moment. I was afraid for a moment I had lost the post.
Now it’s August 4, 2019. I remember when I was in my teens and I had realized that my parents had been born in 03 and 07, that those years seemed so distant, and here I am over a century later already past my own zero years. The basic mystery remains though: why am I me, this interior, born to those parents in that particular year. It seems to me there is nothing there for pride, only for gratitude. And this is the only interior I will ever know. I guess, for the most part, I sense that I was specifically and specially made and known in my mother’s womb, as the psalmist says somewhere, and St. Paul. Well, that is enough mystery for a Sunday evening in August.
