Let us never forget that we're just bunches of awkward molecules colliding out here. There's rarely any order to it, no matter how much we try to convince ourselves that there might be, if we just look more closely, or harder. But there isn't. Everything's just a lovely collision - people streaming and grasping, people denying and confirming whatever arbitrary feelings, which might rest on their fragile parts that day. They ache and they toil away, only imagining that they're getting any nearer to the enlightenment and the surety that they crave. They want for their hands to not shake so much and they'd like the hands that touch them in the night to not shake with skepticism either. They'd like some kind of firm acknowledgement that there's more good out there than bad, that there are places of safe and reliable love - those who will be unconditional about it and really mean it, those who will never stray, no matter what.
What I'd like to think Erin McKeown would like us to do, to get over or around all of this junk or these conclusions, is to focus on stringing together a few days filled with great meals with our favorite people. It would be to squire away somewhere and take inventory. It would be to discard all of the uncomfortable dissections that we do and that are done to us every day. All of those cuts could be pardoned. All of our wobbly feelings could be put down. We deserve to just feel the soft heat of our bodies billow off of us -- sweetly. We deserve be hugged good and hard and for someone to whisper into our ear, "It's not ALL chaos. It's not ALL bad. We can be different."