I started writing this in the cemetery surrounding San Miniato. Thousands of mausoleums, statues, and grave stones are there for those living now to remember, although memories are never static, and often not enough. And then, there is a mysterious NOW of the dead person.
Every morning I give a euro to a man standing outside the café where I come to write. Today I notice that he came in and bought a coffee. Was it enough? I don’t know other than to believe that for him, as with any morning coffee lover, one coffee is better than none.
What is enough? There is no definitive answer to my question, but in asking it, I become more present to this moment, and that feels like enough. Regardless, enough is enough of a word to live with for the rest of the year.