The skeptical "I" . . . and merenda.

So last year I suddenly crave peppers.  Green, red, yellow peppers.  Before the age of 51, I abhorred them.  couldn't stand 'em.  Nope.  No peppers for Erika.  Erika, she doesn't eat peppers.  Suddenly I can't get enough.  The pepperiness of peppers hovers in my mouth waiting for another hit.  I am no longer "Erika who doesn't eat peppers."  at 52.  Which made me think . . . what of "Erika?"  Am I no longer "Erika" because at one time I so did not like peppers and now I so do?  Am I a differently defined Erika?  How will my brother (who died in 2002)  how will BOB recognize me since when he died I was still "Erika who did not like/eat peppers."  How are we and who is our "I?"  If "Erika" is so easily redefined by a food group, what about other changes?  What can happen from NOW ON?!  Who am "I" being? becoming?  am-ing?  Is there anything to hold on to?    . . . . I think not.  "I" think about the Buddhist monks who make drawings in the sand and then laugh when the wind destroys their painstaking labor.  "I" think about the monks, laughing, laughing, laughing, (like my brother Bob).  Then I carefully cut up green, red, and yellow peppers and have lunch.

Here is my handsome officer and gentleman!

Roger & Molly enter the 21st Century

ruff bow wow ruff arf. old doggies learning new tricks. Or, as Oscar Wilde said about dancing dogs: "It's not that they do it so well, it's that they do it at all." hmmm.