When I do even a small task with success, I sometimes secretly salute myself for being so smart, so capable and clever, and it’s then that I wish someone would show me the sky around sunset. “Can you spread out the sky like this?” they might say, or “Can you carry ships on your back like the sea?” There’s nothing wrong with being happy to have the ability to get a few things done, but when I start slapping myself on the back and beaming with puffed-up self-importance, I need a friend to find me the right path again. I need someone to say, once again, that I am simply a breeze in the boundless wind of the universe, just a small shaft of light in the limitless light of all time. That doesn’t mean I’m not skillful -- just no more skillful than the smallest house wren or the sea that supports masses of ships. When I start thinking I’m something extra-special, a friend could find me a stone that’s been around for billions of years and say, “You’ve been here how long, Ham – 71 years? And you think you’re extra-special? This stone has survived dinosaurs and the Middle Ages and millions of mighty storms, and what have you done? Yes, you’re special, but so are all stones and blades of grass and drifting winds and lights in sunsets.” That would put me in my place – an extraordinary place, for sure, in a universe where all things have been extraordinary right from the start.