The only thing I can think of that humans can do that might outlive our tiny speck of a speck of a speck of existence here, that may be what touches other civilizations, should they find us, is our stories. 

No matter if a good story, bad story, we are life artists.  We make up stories from those told to us at birth, before birth, percolating beneath our mom’s hearts.  Family stories, culture stories, faith stories, hardship stories,  and miracles. 

I remember my mom used to say: I don’t believe in leprechauns, but I know they’re there.  Her belief in miracles made life special.  From an easy ride with all green lights, to chance meetings of old friends, the hand of the mystical mysterious fairy-tale life just seemed so much more fun than drudge, dread, life is shit and then you die stories.

So I decided to believe in miracles, rainbows, delight in the rain, warmth in the dark, riches from stumbles, and treasures from the worst times in my life.  Each instance where I turned a horrific corner and saw something only visible from that low point, it would make the twisted path so valuable.

Today as I move through grief, cry when the tears burst forth, sigh in the middle of the room, and fall into nihilistic inertia I can lean into the Path, and it meets my feet with gentle patience.