Beginnings are for the birds...

...so I hope the birds like beginnings.

And I bet they do, first flights and whatnot:

Spreading wings, topping steeples, crapping on church bells; the beginning of bird-dom would seem exhilerating. But I'd venture to say it's difficult for them too. Taking that first chickish step outside the nest and hoping your wings are strong enough to keep you afloat or at least that the branches are soft enough to break your fall. Of course... this is just a blog. Just...a blog. "Just" in the way that anything is just anything else. But also "just" in the way that it's just not that simple, even...when you use the word "just" to make it seem so.

But! Pushing past fits and starts now (and further defering my own writing, I know). Here's the eloquent Ranier Maria Rilke, whom I'm using to validate my own leerishness in starting all of this off.

And it goes...

"It is a tremendous act of violence to begin anything. I am not able to begin. I simply skip what should be the beginning."

Hmm. Dead men always seem to be the smartest. But what would it be like to honor the wisdom in the living?

And not even the loudest of the living, but the quietest, the smallest, the most unnoticeable livers of all? What if we knew the stories of the people we didn't know? And what if in knowing those stories, we knew ourselves more?

What if in knowing ourselves more, we loved ourselves more? And what if in loving ourselves more we loved life more? How would we act then? If living was an act of love? If we really lived for LOVE?

What if the people that had the most to offer, were the people that thought they didn't have anything to offer at all? And what if you knew, that all of this living was just singing eachother's breath?