I’ve been complaining to my therapist for years about how bad I am at communicating: pickling up a phone or writing a text or answering an email, and how miserable it makes me feel. I just realized that I was wrong. I spend most of my time mentally talking to someone dear. This morning I was talking to you, dear Rosie. My stream of consciousness consists entirely of a dialogue with loved ones, some of whom I haven’t seen in years. And while my immediate physical circle is depressingly small, my spiritual circle is astonishingly wide and sustaining. So no, I am not bad at communicating. It’s just that I lack the proper means. If one day we discover telepathy, you’ll be amazed. Which also makes me think that if… when… we discover the ability to read each other’s thoughts, how many wonderful things we will learn from the animals, plants, rivers and others. It is foolish not to presume that everyone has a rich inner life, that everyone remembers and listens. The only dead things on this planet may be the billionaires.