We are forever longing for something else and something more. The idea of satisfaction is admittedly just that, an idea, an ephemeron leading us on a chase, a sneaking specter seducing us to search for a prize that does not exist. We are never satisfied, not for long. But to know there is no fulfillment (just relief) and no lasting happiness (only sweet moments of reverie) is to find within ourselves freedom to forsake the continual quest for contentment in exchange for a grand celebration of our imperfections. The search for a remedy to our discontents whether in piety or purchases or whatever other forms is doomed from the beginning. There is no panacea. More than that, our dissatisfactions define us, exquisitely, like a kaleidoscope of colors in a mosaic reflecting beauty to the world only because of the broken pieces that shape it. Those shards and blemishes of experience we would so quickly do away with are essential to character, as much as any of the virtues more commonly acclaimed. It takes maturity to see that, and humility to actually embrace it. Our restlessness is but a reminder of the self-transcending nature of existing, the flow of all things continually moving beyond themselves. Rather than trying to force this process of becoming, there is another path more helpful to the weary soul, one elegant and inscrutable in its simplicity: be. Becoming will take care of itself. There is a lovely, visceral release in allowing yourself to feel just as you feel, without judgment, and without expectation. Feeling sorrow without reason. Anger without remorse. Uncertainty without answers. Delight without inhibition. Knowing spirit unconstrained and being you unchained.