The Philosopher’s Toothache

It is said that there was never a philosopher yet that could bear a toothache gracefully.  I’m going to add moving to that list.  My bookshelf has been abandoned.  All the books that make up an identity, both from what I’ve ingested and what I aspire to read but haven’t gotten around to, are in boxes.

I’m moving in with a friend and I suspect it is going to be chaotic for a good long while.  I also suspect that my philosophy is going to abandon me (or I abandon it) until my bed is made up in the new place, I know where my camera and my computer are, and I have a place for my odd collection of talismans that make a place mine.  The dog looks at me like Really Lady?  Again?

Yes.  Again.

The things I say to myself aren’t working.

Look, there is only so much you can control here.  Do what you can and let go of the rest.


There will be a time after this.  All you have to do is breathe until you get there.

You can’t fight this.  Let yourself go under it instead of trying to keep your head above the water.

Aye right.  The problem is rarely that we don’t know what to do, it’s our expectation of there being a how involved.   There’s no how in surrender.  Either you do or you don’t.

I haven’t surrendered yet, but I’d better get around to it quickly.

The Philosopher’s Toothache

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