DAY TWENTY-EIGHT (2015-5-6)
Frankl leaves me with a cup of tea, made sweet and black with the idea
that I find in myself my unique destiny to navigate the burden of suffering,
that in this battered rowboat I chart my course to character. Adrift,
we must all learn to be nourished by our passions and despairs:
we turn them in our hands, make bread of them, wind them into braids
of flour, eggs, and regret: those keys that turn us from the basest of ingredients
into sustenance, provisions, objects with which to be weathered and thus weather
our journeys, this salt air, this harshest of seas and gentlest of winds.
I rock in the known, cradled by the unforeseen.