On being human

Like many of us, I’m really good at griping about my fellow human beings sometimes. Like many of us, I have days when it seems like everyone but me is an idiot–and days when it seems like everyone including me is an idiot.

But there’s another reaction I have now, sometimes, since Katherine’s death. Once in a while, in moments of grace, I’ll look at the very people I was feeling gripe-ish and snipe-ish about and think: well, at least they’re working on living. Imperfectly, loudly, awkwardly, gracelessly. But they’re working at the business of life, without even questioning that this is what they ought to be doing. And this is a wonderful and wondrous thing.

Being alive is loud and messy and imperfect. I’ve always known this. But now, well, maybe I know it a small bit more deeply.

And after all, Katherine’s inability to accept failings and imperfections was one of the things that got her in trouble–got her into an inflexible space she couldn’t think her way out of–in the first place.

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