Unreliable

We’re unreliable narrators of our own lives, based on narrow experiences and inherent ignorance. It’s not our fault, and we’re doing the best we can with what we’ve got. We don’t know what we don’t know. How do we hold compassion for the momentary ridiculousness of enormously preoccupying, ultimately petty concerns? And how, instead, to remember to look at the stars, or the beauty of lichen or a tiny flower and take in the awe of the night sky or exquisite detail?  Even though I know this, I spend too much time preoccupied with the first and not enough on the second.