From a reader:

My inbox is so full of newsletters, information, etc. etc. that I am on a minimalist mission of unsubscribing, however, your daily sharing is a kind of balm for me. I can't adequately explain why I find your writing so affecting but I do know that you fall in the "friends" category as I continue to simplify my life.

Dear friend,

                  I can’t tell you what your words mean to me, how they echo in consciousness like a shout in a deep cave. I get almost teary with gratitude. This is the intimacy I dream of as I write. Popularity, yes, on occasion persuasion, but more than these, a sense of being together caringly, curiously, on our earthly stroll.

                  I write, I’m pretty sure, to reassure myself there’s a good reason to exist. I often return to Santayana’s understated defense of existence: “That life is worth living is the most necessary of assumptions, and, were it not assumed, it could not be proved.” I enjoy being but too often my vacillating temper wonders, “Why bother? To what end?” This question, having no good answer, conduces to gloom. Then I write. From a shapely phrase or two arises — like Aladdin’s genie — a vision of a reader reading – you, say – smiling – and I am happy again, to have gladdened another’s life, if only for a moment.

                  Being is hard work when taken seriously. If sensual satisfaction satisfies, life is not so hard. That’s dog-pal Henry’s outlook, best I can make out. Food, shelter, exertion, affection – “the sun in the morning and the moon at night” – what’s not to like! It’s the search for significance that sinks the spirit into the oft-cited “slough of despond.” We want our world bettered for our being here – but proof is scant. For parents of young people, importance is easier to perceive; the little ones would be worse off without us. But old, one becomes superfluous – welcome, with any luck, but inessential. And these days the world we’d hoped to improve seems to be collapsing. If the Nameless One is where my generation landed America, shame on us.

                  But if I can gladden another’s life, induce a smile, solace a sorrow, that’s an inarguable good. How to accomplish that with words I have no idea, but since others worked the trick on me, why not try? I lack the invention of a storyteller or the enchantment of a singer, but I can schmooze, listen, amiably care, maybe spark a thought or crack a lame joke, and if these efforts hearten, I’ll have added a fillip to my hour.

                  Tracking the statistics of these missives, I guess that’s occurring, but insecurity is every maker’s lot, and unless somebody tells me, I can’t know. If my product were explicitly helpful like an economist’s or historian’s or investigative journalist’s, I might congratulate myself on producing something patently worthwhile, “moving the needle,” as the saying goes. But another’s pleasure is my only deliverable. I’ve nothing to preach or teach – and yes, plenty to screech, but anguish gets wearisome. My aim is art’s – to engage, endear, befriend.

                  I too have been purging my inbox to make room for loved ones and secure my calm. Many the voice I might delight in I delete for want of time. Everybody wants a piece of me – just a tiny piece – and I wish them well – but oh, my mind’s a blur. That you spared me the great purgation – and took the time to tell me – makes me glow. Being together is the only good reason for being. I look forward to our strolls.