Still there's that weird, unsettled-like feeling emanating from the solar plexus. A turbulent queasiness. Not an overwhelming feeling, just a slightly disturbing aura, kind of hovering within and without.
The radio tells me this morning that there is a generation of youngsters in Europe who call themselves "the precarious ones." Me thinks we are all really part of that club. The desire for security, the wads of money squirreled away, the social safety nets constructed to catch those who fall, are all ways to help tamp down that bubbling "precariousness."
But of course, all that is illusory. Our precarious situation comes from all quarters. There are the spiritual and physical pricks and kicks, and the waves of energy generated from the teeming, wanting, needing, grasping masses all colliding against each other.
It is such a turbulent soup of energy. So easy to lose your heart and head. Precarious is just part of the deal.
