I will never fully understand the "why" of the universe, not in this lifetime, or whatever this stage could be called. My human brain doesn't have the tools. I've accepted that and put the non-understanding in a box called "temporary closure." It's a provisional box. The lid doesn't lock.

What I haven't accepted — what I suspect I'm not meant to accept — is the not trying. To halt any further exploration of "why," with the tools I do have. Maybe through this exploration I can catch a glimpse, a spare mistake like an eclipse or two people saying the same word simultaneously.

There's something moving through everything. Through an old friend's Facebook wall that became a memorial when she suddenly passed. Through the brakeless, broken down classic car pushed through Brooklyn winters by people who loved me. Through the physics teacher who paced the front of the classroom rubbing his hands together like he was about to tell us the best secret he'd ever heard. Energy, he said, may not be created nor destroyed. It can only change states. It can only transition.

I've been turning that over for forty years. Turning things over is most of what I do. A conversation, a street corner, a person who says something true without knowing they're saying something true. I stay with it. I write it down. Sometimes I paint it. The looking doesn't stop when the piece is finished — finishing is just how I mark that I was there, the way people leave rocks on cairns, the way glaciers place rocks in piles, too.

The title of all this is Currentcy. It means two things at once, which is the only way I trust a word. It means the energy moving through all things — the current underneath the surface of every system, every life, every era. And it means the value of being present in that current. Not fighting it. Not drowning in it. Reading it accurately enough to move.

Some of what is on here is true. Some is imagined. Some lives in the space between. I've kept the lanes separate so you know which contract you're entering.

Everything here asks the same question, one way or another: what is actually happening, underneath what appears to be happening? And maybe, briefly, I will know.

I don't have the answer. I have moments. I have forty years of looking.

Come on in.