As we drip bloodily into the meaty innards of this life, it becomes apparent that without spending enough time on the grill of reflection, we risk the danger of living raw, directionless, indigestible lives. Personally I feel, from time to time, like a half-cooked patty flying through the air, tossed upward by the spatula of routine, not knowing which way is up or forgetting why I'm being cooked in the first place. But then there comes a precious moment–tssssss–when I smack back on the iron rack over the coals, and steam new mists of creation back into the universe, and I remember some semblance of who I am, as incomplete as my flame-broiled journey of becoming may be, and what I really should be doing. And I know that as long as I keep creating, my fire fueled by the sweet kerosene of friendship, someday I'll find myself warmly embraced by that soft puffy bun that we call self-realization.
It's about finding that groove, Beb.
