In my thought I seem to stand on the bank of a river and watch the endless flow of the stream, floating objects of all shapes, colors and natures; nor can I much detain them as they pass, except by running beside them a little way along the bank. But whence they come or whither they go is not told me. Only I have a suspicion that, as geologists say every river makes its own valley, so does this mystic stream. It makes its valley, makes its banks and makes perhaps the observer too.
That which we value, we make. The love of ease, of gratification, chokes us with sufficiency. The Thing is more important than the means, and so we drown in ugliness, our souls crying for beauty. — It is more important to eat than to enjoy; to arrive than travel; to have than to . . . but there is nothing more important than to have, and to have more[1]. What is created by this sufficiency, and more than sufficiency[2]?
[1] The street boys in Mumbai know that the best pickings are in the wealthy neighborhoods; the rich throw away so much. Julian Crandall-Hollick, Life with India's Ragpickers, National Public Radio 2008 (no longer accessible).
[2] When, near the end of his life, John D. Rockefeller, whose wealth was estimated at 2% of the US GDP far surpassing any living billionaire, was asked "How much is enough?" he responded "Just a few dollars more."
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