Three folk I admire ought to write books but they don’t. In common they are known to me but not to each other. In common they are superior human beings if you measure such by generosity of spirit, ability to inspire others and possessed of wicked senses of humor, which are the measures I go by. In common all have significant things to say.

It isn’t that I haven’t tried to coax these three to the page. Let’s say I have encouraged, cajoled, suggested they share who they are, in words, with the rest of us. Okay, let’s say I badgered them, relentlessly with a certain unattractive intensity.

Lately I’ve got to thinking maybe they should NOT write books. Maybe it is their gift to simply BE. They ARE books, in the way that books move us, reflect us at our best, fill us up with something I guess you’d call our connectedness.

I just sure wish they would write about it.