Just reading some of Nicole’s latest adventures in New York, and this sentence stopped me:

A place isn’t really a place anymore once you wake up in it.

Maybe, I’m just expanding on this idea or just off in the weeds of my own dementia, but I’m thinking that “home” is the only place that is not a place. That is, it isn’t objective or distinct from your “self.” Or at least, that perceptive we like to call “self.”

Today, while reworking part of our “yard” into a “garden,” my wife and I got into a bit of a “disagreement” about where certain plants should go, and how they should be planted, and where to put my Buddha, and …

Why is it, the people we cherish so much that we want to live with them, are precisely the people we sometimes treat like shit. We’ve all been in one of those foul moods that in the midst of shoveling it out for our loved ones to endure, the telephone rings, and we pick it up with a cheerful hello… What’s with that?

I see a neighbor getting all fixed up every morning on her way to work, and yet the side of her house is filled with garbage, and I can only imagine how things look on the inside.

Nicole’s initial thoughts had a certain “objective distance becomes indifference” theme, but the opposite is often true as well.