The story is beautiful, fascinating and meaningless. It seems very meaningful indeed sometimes. I observed my children supporting each other through their day-to-day trials and I thought: I've gotten something right with them. But in the story, even the warmest feeling, the deepest fulfilment, is but a whisper of a greater possibility. A feeble reflection of its source. A lovely reminder to drop "me" and rather than coming home, see that this is home.
The idea that life can be improved is just an idea. Nothing can improve upon perfection. The story may be unfolding that goals become evident, dreams are achievable, security is shattered, or comfort is lost. The story may be so many things. The shattered life, lost house, injured child may be the opening to a greater and more fulfilling life path. But it matters not in the least. It is all meaningless and purposeless, there is nowhere to go, and no one to get there. The beauty and wonder of it all is in it's mere existence. Complete fulfillment encompasses you, it cherishes you, it is you and you are it. The only thing in the way of it is the dream that you are not it. You are.
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