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Footprints in the Wind^sm # 2166

There are many mysteries of this thing called human: love—when do we?, why do we?, why does it surprise?; sex: we know it, we want it, we hold back, then we decide to go but it is a big jump when we do, and then it builds and builds and then. . .; big decisions: we study, we list for and against, we come to the edge, shrink back, then leap; love for all the people on this blue marble: we don’t know them, we cannot know them, and yet the tug when we hear of tragedies and needs; love for this blue marble itself and our place on it: just a hunk of rock spinning in the blackness, merely some collection of earth and water and family and memory, why are we so drawn?, is it more than emotion? One of the mysteries is conversation: why are we drawn to these people, often to any people?, why do we need to be heard?, why do our mother’s eyes, our father’s eyes, our lover’s eyes, bring us to life?

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