Sunset: 6:16pm. Moon: Waxing gibbous. A high of 77 degrees because there’s no such thing as seasons anymore. During my morning meditation, my widget instructed me to select an object of focus, and I could not decide between a pattern on the carpet or the sensation of my hands in my lap. I spent the session dithering between the two, struggling to pick the best one. This seems like a metaphor for my life, evidence of a deeper issue. Perhaps it’s better to simply sit in silence and not listen to instructions.
What will be the rituals of tomorrow as the world speeds up and the fires, floods, and droughts increase? Maybe there will be more magical thinking, more people retreating into superstition. The first rituals began to make sure the sun would rise each morning, and I often wonder what the last ritual will be.
