dead of its own too-much

I write notes for myself. When I read something that references another idea that I think I'd like to know more about, I put it down on a sticky note, or a scrap of paper.



It is good to learn of kindred souls. It is good to know of another's thoughts that seem to pull out the essence of your being as if the other was a part of your being.



I don't dare consider myself worthy to stand upon the pantheon with Aldo Leopold; but when I read his words, I realize the feelings within my mind that I have not to this point been able to express. There are things of this world that are just beyond the realm of my understanding; as if I'm just out of reach of pulling myself up to that higher perch where I can see over that next hill.



When I find a writer, a teacher, who ties together for me the ideas around me, I feel a joy. And this feeling I cannot adequately express. It is an exhiliration and a relief: to work so hard to understand a myriad of ideas that I somehow intuit are related, and then like a game-winning drive in the final seconds, it is true; the final thread is sewn between the ideas, and they are one. A new understanding, that will become a foundation for the future me, as I set out on my ascent of the next mountain.