For something that has no name and no narrative. There is a ‘reason’ I am here that is eternally mute. To try and make it talk or explain itself, as I have on occasion, suffocates it. There isn’t a word, phrase, description, witty aphorism, or marvelous quote that touches it. It’s an urgent reach that has no referent object. Never the default, like sex and chocolate. Neither is it natural. Like, say, sex and chocolate. (Note to self: have sex and chocolate as soon as I get back to the US.)
But it is ever-insistent, and it makes me human. If I manage to make up a story for this drive, or cover it with a name that will be false no matter what, then I have forfeited an inheritance more precious than my pulse. And nothing said, no matter how articulate, would offer one grain of benefit to anybody.
It’s worth mentioning that, in four years of meetings with abbots, lamas, scholars, and monks of all stripes, not once have I been asked why I am here. If you need someone to ask or someone feels the need to do so, you probably won’t be back again. It’s a question that is answered before it is asked.