As a human being, I’m unique in the world. There is no other animal or creature like me; no other animal has the consciousness of being privileged to  live.

Once in a while, I remember that only the smallest portion of life on earth has the wakefulness of spirit that we call being human or humanity.

The human birth is unrepeatable, therefore precious.

No two human consciousnesses are alike.

For all our troubles and flaws, when I look out every morning at our dogs, our sheep, our donkeys, I feel blessed to be a human being alive in ways I often take for granted.

I can strive to be a better person. The animals outside must accept who they are. They can never consciously strive to be better.

I don’t believe I will ever get to be born again, and I don’t have many years left to live at all. So how can I make it worthwhile? Isn’t it worth trying?

On mornings when I am thinking about life, I ask myself what I will do today, how will I carry myself? What will I do with my mind? Am I living wisely? Am I leaving even the tiniest mark on the earth?

What does it mean to be this rare and unique species, a human being?

I keep coming back to the same thing. I am here to do good, nourish the vulnerable. I am not always or even often good; nobody will ever nominate me for sainthood.

I have been dishonest, fearful, angry, judgmental restless, and unkind.

But I am getting there. I’d rather fail and be fooled than not believe.

My purpose is taking shape, bit by bit, stumble by stumble, failure by failure. The question for me is never how can I never fail, but how do I deal with failure in a gracious way and take something from it?

We all fail and bleed.

There are many reasons to be kind, but the most persuasive is the spiritual fact that this is what we do; the thing we are the only species on earth that can do.

Sheep graze, dogs love, spiders weave—bees sting.

Human beings encourage one another, lift each other, soothe our wounds, we have the most powerful connection to one another, yet we rarely feel it, or acknowledge it.

If someone falls, we help them up. If someone breaks, we try to put the pieces together. If children cry, we try to soothe them. Sometimes this all works, sometimes it doesn’t. I get stung a lot. And I sting in return.

We are a schizophrenic species, split in half, just like our country. Some of us kill, bully, rob, and hate one another. If lifting each other is what we do, so is knocking one another down.

The great drama of being human is that we can do one other thing no animal can do – be evil. The saints stand out, they do only good. Human beings are capable of the greatest evil

We are divided within our own consciousness, one day Jekyll, one day Hyde.

People lift me up; they tear me down. I’m sure I do the same. But I don’t care to give up on being human, this week reminds me of that.

It’s the reaching out that matters, not the sting.

I’d rather be fooled than not believe.