Getting wisdom
Has been an obsession of mine

Though not like getting power
Or money is to some

More like beach combing
A collector of random impressions

From every point of view
But mine

A compulsion without reason
Other than perhaps
Reason itself

To believe that there always
Had to be an explanation

A why and a how
That would fit
All the other
Whys and hows

Call it a bias
Towards rationality
Debunking articles of faith
Demanding proof

The wisdom I found
Wasn’t what I was looking for
Which was predictable
I suppose

I had expected something precious
A treasure chest of hoarded knowledge
That I could claim for myself

Instead of the surprise

Of walking into a diorama
Of a bright, gray
Pacific Northwest beach

My child’s small hand
Around my finger
As we scanned the seamless horizon
For the gulls we could hear in the air

Gobsmacked at finding the ocean
On the third floor of the museum