Sometimes I think the hesitation to write comes from the respect of the crisp, whiteness of the page. It is as though I don’t want to ruin it with my thoughts. Fill it with all the thoughts that bounce around in my mind. Yet fill it, I must. Releasing all those thoughts is therapy. It is freeing. To simply let go of all that clutters in the mind. And it is soothing to form in on the page. Watch the thoughts take form.

If I was ever in the need of a Zen Buddhist monk, today would be that day. I like to imagine the monk lulling my poor, battered mind into some peaceful trance. A safe place, where I become one with the world and all becomes clear. I see the answers to my questions. And I leave the monk feeling renewed, inspired, refreshed, calm, cool, and collected. But I don’t know of any Zen Buddhist monks, and really I wonder if they truly have all the answers. Their life is spent in meditation. I’m sure if I could meditate all day long, I would experience nirvana. But no, I work in corporate America with the most diverse group of individuals. So my Zen Buddhist monk became the bookstore today, but really it just left me with more questions than answers.

Sometimes I feel as though I am one of the few people in the world that ponders the meaning of life, that raises questions, and yet still tries to find solutions to those questions. Majority of the time, it’s an enlightening experience. But then there are weeks like this one, where you feel lonely, frustrated, at lost at what to do.